How then, from all this, can a life be reclaimed?

Been suffering for the last 18 years with depression. Things have gotten worse and I have isolated myself which in turn has meant, I've lost my job, the bills are piling up and I've lost the motivation to believe in any help. I have  been writting as I find it helps, a little and if it's ok I'd like to share some with you. There is a question though which is this: How then, from all this, can a life be reclaimed?

Hope it's ok to share, I've almost posted but didn't see the point at the time. Looking back over the last 18 years, all the points of recovery and relapse, I kinda feel enough is enough. Bit heavy I know

How then, from all this, can a life be reclaimed?

Demons descending from the depths of the darkness, like hail from winter storm clouds.

Swirling, swishing through the shapeless shadows that lurk in every corner of the night filled room.

Faces, twisted, tormented, tortured, wilfully whispering away the chance of any new dreams. Can they be of a malevolent mind when they are on the outside?

Insipid insight fading fast, just as the sun does at the onset of evening. And among it all a self once lived in.

Unnoticed were the subtle changes from suspicion to fact. Those positive points of reference now banished beyond the point of which there is no going back.

Clinging to the slippery, silky, slender threads of reality. Clutching, holding on for life and limb knowing only too well that the tenuous ties had long been withered.

Memories of motivational quotes are now nothing but footprints, left, imprinted in the devastation and destruction. Thoughts of 'It will be ok' echo endlessly in the distance as each finger releases it's fragile grip. The last hope flying loose, like an untethered kite climbing on the soaring spirit of the stormy wind.

The only option, to let go and allow the tempest to toss this festering life aside. Descent into the calm, calculating, eye of the ensuing storm, the only sure chance of respite from the invasion of this lifeless living.

The beleaguered battlements have been brought crashing to the ground. Empty and barren are the armouries that once fought this dreaded deadly foe. The only thing left is the resonating realisation that some times, from the smouldering cinders, there comes nothing but the wind blown ash of a self that once was.

How then, from all this, can a life be reclaimed?