Me, Melany. The Monster

Days out with friends are meant to be fun, right? Unfortunately, one size doesn’t fit all. For the mentally ill of us, days out are often, to be dreaded. Basically, I don’t like people. Even though I love all my friends dearly, I don’t like a single one of them. This is precisely why I avoid meeting up with them like the plague, only on occasions I meet with them, to avoid looking like a spoilsport. It’s a strange concept. I mean, I have nothing against them particularly. I guess I just love my own company. But sure, I still have fun with my friends on the days that I can be bothered to rise that extra hour earlier and put on a bit of slap.

But today wasn’t one of those days. Unfortunately, this meant ringing up one of my closest friends to cancel. Unfortunately, she wouldn’t accept my absence without a forged excuse from me. I thought about what to say, as I rang her up. I couldn't just cough down the phone and say that I was sick, I had used that too many times, and anyway, it featured in Mean Girls.

"Hello?" She answered. Her name was Tracy, and she was, what anyone else would call 'my best friend'.
"I can't come. I've got something planned.' I lied through my teeth.
"That's a load of shit, Mel. You know that." She says, with a voice like lithium.
"No really, I have"
"Fine then. What are you doing that's so much more important than us?"
Oh God, what do I say now?
"Stuff."
Tracy sighed down the phone.
"God, what's got into you lately? I know it's winter and all, but jeez, you could try and be a bit happier!" She expresses, angrily down the phone.
I took a deep breath.
"I went mad, Trace. That's what fucking happened. That's what it does to you."

I slam the phone down, my cheeks flaring. I take a look at myself. I've lost myself really, and I've got no life. My sense of humour's gone, if I ever had any before.
Although I told myself that being sad would make me creative, I haven't even got any energy to write or draw.

My life is the same nowadays.
After scrambling out of bed, I make a failed attempt to work at school, but come home miserable and tired.
My home is cold and my extremeties nearly numb while I laze in front of the television.
I wear two blankets and a jumper to keep me warm while I watch lame american chat shows.
The evening draws closer, and at half four I am disheartened by the dark outside. I worry about what to eat.
My mother arrives home. I worry about eating all the more and she suggests white pasta for tea.
I shake my head and decide on some seven calorie soup.
Seven O'clock comes too quickly and my seven calories are not enough.
Eight O'clock comes, and before I know it I'm down those stairs and at the sugar bowl, chomping. I promised myself it would be just the one teaspoon but inevitably, its more than that.
Ten minutes later, and the cupboard doors hang open as if burgled by a greedy pig. My guilty bloated stomach shows off.
Full of jam, biscuits and sugar, but more of shame now, I crawl upstairs and vomit it up. My throat aches and my hands are scratched.
Laying in the dark I listen to memoirs of the past.
Sad songs, is the name of the playlist. REM. The Police. Eric Clapton.
Takes me back to those long summer concert days. Days where I loved.
Then I move onto my new life's melancholy warbling and realise how ugly the present is.