the totality of incompletion

There’s a lot to be said about anxiety. I like to believe that we’re better than this, that we, collectively, have tricked ourselves into believing that various psychological maladies are simply disabilities, unavoidable companions from whom we can never separate, only manage.

We are broken and we remain broken.

Depression has been a constant bedfellow of mine since the age of twelve, by and far the most intimate one. I manage my depression; my depression tries to destroy me.

It’s not a particularly fair fight, especially since one side is hellbent on destruction and the other simply wants a moment’s peace.

Still, I fight. I have methods. Ways. I still feel like a world where anxiety and depression are handled, like well and truly handled, are not out of reach.

We don’t need to medicate ourselves forever. We don’t need to stop working on ourselves because we have a mental health illness and that’s it, shrug. It’s a condition; not a defining trait.

Like this is the style you’re drawn to and stepping too far out of that feels like you’re trying too hard, but also, wearing the same clothes constantly makes you look homeless and manic.

It’s the naked being underneath we have to deal with.

It’s insidious. Make us think we’re broken and we cannot change, while simultaneously acknowledging we have a problem and that it’s real and needs to be managed. These are both true things.

We are not broken, only incomplete. We are broken and we need repair.

There is no completion. There are only shadows moving in the trees and a stumbling stride forward.

It is the best we can do, and the best we can do is enough.

Sometimes, it is enough and that’s fine. We are fine.

We are broken.

We are incomplete.

And that is fine. Imperfection gives us somewhere to go. Perfection is static and unattainable.

May we never be perfect. May we remain forever in need of completion.

Target: 100 words
Written: 845 words, short story: The Ineffable Hat

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