I am as allergic to my sad thoughts as some kid in third grade was allergic to peanuts. But instead of calling it “anaphylactic shock”, I call it “depression”.
Just like the kid biting into a cookie with peanut butter in it unknowingly, something so sweet but suddenly dangerous, is a mirror to when I open my mouth to a crowd with words ready to strike behind their tongues.
I see the sweet cookie and I eat it. Suddenly I am laying in bed thinking, “what did I do?” while the strewn, vocal bullets replay in my head, tearing further and further into the depths of my mind.
My EpiPen is not giving a f***. My salvation is learning my own self worth. And to the kid still without treatment, I am sorry.
We all have an unspoken allergy to words with a crippling reaction of depression. We all have stood there with our throats closing up and our eyes glazing over when we don’t even have a peanut allergy, but yet an allergy to crushed spirits.