The people in my life have always asked the same questions, “What’s wrong with you?” “Why are you always so depressed?” But the question I want to ask without seeming crazy is why aren’t you? Living the human experience is enough justification to be exhausted from reality. Especially if you weren’t lucky enough to be born a rich white man. There are blessings though, having a roof over my head, a sister who’s always there for me, having access to food and clothing. Even being a black girl is a blessing, I wouldn’t choose to be anyone else in any other lifetime.

But being a depressed black girl comes with the stench of judgement, there are absolutely no room for fuck-ups. So, perfection is all I strive for, if I’m not performing to the best of my ability, I feel that my worth will be diminished by others-including myself. But there’s something that shields me from the inevitable pain life brings, something that soothes my spirit, my bed. It places a blanket on the pain that the world inflicts upon me, wrapping it up in satin sheets. My mascara from the day stains my pillowcase from the tears I’ve held back so that I don’t seem weak or too emotional.

After everyone leaves, after your own mother confirms you’re not good enough, after your 9-5 creates emotional and physical exhaustion, not having a lover you adore to come home to. Instead of human connection, you have your pillows and stuffed animals to squeeze tightly to pretend that they’re giving you the love and attention you’ve craved your entire life. My bed is always there, I no longer have to perform for society; I become who I would be if the world’s perceptions did not matter to me. My hair once slick and perfect, not a hair out of place, finally becomes a frizzy mess as I tug my scrunchie out of my hair. The clothes on my back used as a cover up for all my insecurities are stripped off and I can finally let my body breathe.

 I become who I truly am, and I never have to worry about the judgemental looks once the scars are exposed and the mask is off. It’s an object of course it wouldn’t judge me, but it lifts all the weight off my shoulders. People’s perception cannot reach me or affect me, it’s like there’s a barrier protecting me from the world for just a few hours. I finally feel carefree.

Between the hours of 12-5AM when the world is quietest, my head is not. A million thoughts evoke every emotion possible within me. When the music in my headphones isn’t drowning them out, the substances aren’t kicking in hard enough, and my chest is in so much pain from my thoughts spiraling that it could pop open, I exhale sharply and I give it to God. I sit up on my knees and talk to my maker; reciting Psalms 13 as tears swell in my eyes and fall onto my comforter begging, pleading, and questioning God. King David asks God how long he will forget him, how long will he wrestle with his sorrowful thoughts. How long will his enemies triumph over him?

 I find myself feeling the same way every single day, an endless loop of suffering without end.

                 My bed is not just where I rest my head, it’s where I rest my soul.