So, I was in a bad slump, so I wrote this to get over it, and it worked.

I wish my depression was a person.

I wish very much that my doubts and fears and self loathing would take on a flesh and blood form, one of attractive form and dulcet voice.

I wish that my perpetually returning unwelcome companion who whispers to me that I am unworthy with perfect sense and rationality was just as tangible as the palpable distress I experience in its presence.

I wish this deeply.

So that I can murder it.

The kind of murder that turns into true crime novels that win awards. The kind of murder that inspires actors when playing master villains. The kind of murder that leaves the world shocked and appalled and frightened and begging for the details with the popcorn popping and the children sent to bed.

I want to leave the home of my depression so soaked in its blood and so strewn with its entrails that real estate agencies opt to burn it to the ground rather than try to put it on the market.

I want my depression to know true fear and see that fear in its own eyes reflected in my axe.

I want my depression to know mortality and see its breath fade off the knife as I slice into its throat.

I want my depression to feel the loving and contented caress of my fingers on the back of its shoulder while the cleaver rends its groping, cruel hands from its body.

I want to decorate the walls with my depression’s innards, bathe in my depression’s blood, bind journals with my depression’s skin and fashion dice with my depression’s bones.

I want invite journalists to watch as I make my depression’s last moments a mere fraction of the agony it made my life into. I want them to broadcast it, tweet it, Facebook it, blog it, say it, write it, sing it.

I want the whole world to witness what I did to my depression.

So that your depression will learn to fear me.

So that when I go after your depression I can feel it shiver when it hears my name, and I can hear it shriek when I enter it’s home.

So that when I destroy your depression, it has had time to understand what it did.

I wish your depression was a person.