If I had a therapist, I'd show him this

Depression centers me.
It feels good to feel low, for a while, before the seed of it overgrows me.
Like a moldy cover that sticks to my skin, and doesn't let me get up.
It compliments my anxieties, at first. The pressure of doing something perfectly is met by a will to be invisible, and not having a single ambitious thought, so I end up somewhere in the middle, very average, and goddamn safe.
The hurtful brightness of my woeful apprehensiveness is washed out by the most beautiful, silent greys.
Thank you for being mean.