I Was Just Looking For A Way Out...
Chapter 31
I’ve got a stash of whatever hidden under my mattress. The therapist didn’t tell me what I was prescribed, and the guy that hands out the little paper cups didn’t either. So whatever they are, they’re under my bed. Who knows, it might even be a placebo, to see if I miraculously improve from a corn starch pill. As if my just being here wasn’t proof enough of my insanity. If it isn’t, then my completely irrational refusal of doctor prescribed medication should be. I can’t even say I’m afraid of a pharmaceutical mistake that ends up with me popping roofies or something, I’m afraid of the best case scenario.
I’m afraid that everything will go perfectly because once I’m cured, I won’t be anything. I’m enthralled into this depression, it dictates what I say, what I think, how I dress, how I eat, it’s driving and I’m riding shotgun. I mean, what isn’t directly controlled by it is still so heavily influenced by it that arguing against control would be beyond anal retentive. I decided that I was ashamed of the way I feel, and suddenly a third of my life became devoted to covering the depression up. Fake smiles and too many attempts at being funny, acting stupider then I actually am, because stupid is happy. Stupid is not over thinking every tiny detail of every second of every minute of every hour of your life. Stupid is content, stupid is as stupid does. Instead of me, I am what I think of doing, of not doing, I’m hate and anger and misinterpreted intentions. I am a failed attempt.
The depression affects everything; it’s why I’m sitting here even though a nurse told me my family was in the waiting room half an hour ago. It’s the reason why I spend 5 minutes every morning wondering if it’s really worth getting up. It’s the reason I lay down the minute I get home and stare at the wall. It’s the reason I need 4 energy drinks a day to make it through a day, and it’s the reason that after 4 energy drinks I’m asleep by 8 PM.
One of the nurses walks in, “Your family is waiting for you.” He says. It’s the same nurse from before.
“Tell them I’m in therapy or taking a dump or something. Just make them go away.” I say and fall back on my bed, “Please?” I ask looking at him desperately. He gives a tired nod and turns toward the door, I roll so I’m facing the wall.
This shouldn’t be so hard; I shouldn’t have to feel like this. It shouldn’t feel like my chest is collapsing in on itself every time I lay on my back and I shouldn’t have to avoid my friends and family.
But the sad bitter truth is, it feels like I do. I have to, every fucking day is exactly the same and I have to. The same way I have to lay here and wonder why I have to breathe.
I’m afraid that everything will go perfectly because once I’m cured, I won’t be anything. I’m enthralled into this depression, it dictates what I say, what I think, how I dress, how I eat, it’s driving and I’m riding shotgun. I mean, what isn’t directly controlled by it is still so heavily influenced by it that arguing against control would be beyond anal retentive. I decided that I was ashamed of the way I feel, and suddenly a third of my life became devoted to covering the depression up. Fake smiles and too many attempts at being funny, acting stupider then I actually am, because stupid is happy. Stupid is not over thinking every tiny detail of every second of every minute of every hour of your life. Stupid is content, stupid is as stupid does. Instead of me, I am what I think of doing, of not doing, I’m hate and anger and misinterpreted intentions. I am a failed attempt.
The depression affects everything; it’s why I’m sitting here even though a nurse told me my family was in the waiting room half an hour ago. It’s the reason why I spend 5 minutes every morning wondering if it’s really worth getting up. It’s the reason I lay down the minute I get home and stare at the wall. It’s the reason I need 4 energy drinks a day to make it through a day, and it’s the reason that after 4 energy drinks I’m asleep by 8 PM.
One of the nurses walks in, “Your family is waiting for you.” He says. It’s the same nurse from before.
“Tell them I’m in therapy or taking a dump or something. Just make them go away.” I say and fall back on my bed, “Please?” I ask looking at him desperately. He gives a tired nod and turns toward the door, I roll so I’m facing the wall.
This shouldn’t be so hard; I shouldn’t have to feel like this. It shouldn’t feel like my chest is collapsing in on itself every time I lay on my back and I shouldn’t have to avoid my friends and family.
But the sad bitter truth is, it feels like I do. I have to, every fucking day is exactly the same and I have to. The same way I have to lay here and wonder why I have to breathe.