The Melancholy life of Deirdre Rose.

My name is Deirdre Rose, and I suffer from an illness, a depression, called Melancholia.
My therapist, she says its because of him.
The doctors, they thought it was depression. I wanted to get better, so I overdosed on anti-depressants. Ever since then they've looked deeper. Deeper.
I was diagnosed with Melancholia over a month ago. They're going to let me leave and go home. I don't have to go to school,yet. But that's okay. Because I don't plan on staying here much longer.

-&-

"Jack? Go get your sisters bag from the car. Bring it up to her room, alright?" told my mother, Penelope, to my older brother Jack, sternly.

"Sure, whatever.." he mumbled, then slumped out of the kitchen towards the front door. Jack wasn't interested that I was just back from the hospital. Actually, Jack couldn't care less.

"Deirdre, honey, why don't you sit down at the kitchen table instead? Come in from that cold sitting room! Dinners in 10!" yelled my mother, even though I was only a few feet away in the opposite room.

I didn't even try to get up, I didn't want to move. It hurt my joints anyway, not that I really cared.

I didn't respond to her, I just sat there on the modern couch in silence. I could feel I was sitting on something, but I didn't move to get it from under me.

What was the point?
-
"Here's your dinner" said my mother, handing me a plate of pasta. She sat down beside me on the couch.

"I'm so glad your home, darling. I missed you so much! We're going to have so much fun. I have a day at the spa organised for us, and some shopping! I'm so excited!" continued my mother, after I ate a few bites of my pasta in silence.

I didn't want to go shopping. Or to a spa. It was boring and stupid, and I don't want to waste my time at such dumb places. What was the point?

I sat on the couch for a few moments longer until my mother realised I wasn't eating anymore.

"Is their something wrong with the food?" she asked, almost miserable.

"I'm not hungry." These were the first words I had spoken since last week, when I was forced to go see my phsycologist.

Almost shocked, my mother responded. "Oh, um, well, let me take that and how about you watch some TV!" , still smiling.

When I didn't reply, her smile faltered, but she put a bigger one back on.

"Or, you could just go to your room, of course. Jack! Come down and help your sister up to her room!" she shouted up the stairs to my brother.

I accepted her help to get up off the couch, and proceeded to go up the thirteen stairs and approximitely 5 step to my bedroom.

This was going to be a long day.

-&-

Lying down in my uncomfortable bed, I pulled down the duvet away from my stomach. I sucked it it, but it wouldn't move. I didn't care, there was no one to show off to how much weight I had lost over the last month. It wasn't why, it was because of 'him'.

I hate him. He hated me too.

He's winning though, but it's too late. I can't turn around and pick a different journey, this doors already been entered and locked by me.

Why does he always win? It kills me. It's not fair.

I'm damned.

I tried to win, but theres no easy way- and those words just make my muscles ache. 'No easy way'.

-&-

"Deirdre, wake up! It's already 12 o'clock!" shouted my mother while opening my blinds, to reveal yet another gloomy day. The clouds stretched over the sky like a grey blanket that was going to swallow the world whole, while rain splattered from the blanket onto the puddles covering the muddy ground below. Just like that I went from content to morosed. I hated the weather in Ireland.

"No" I replied, sick at the thought of getting up and doing something today. Besides, it was early.

"Come on, it's not healthy to stay in bed! We can do whatever you want.." she trailed off, knowing that I wasn't going to respond.

She stood there for another few minutes, but I was motionless.

I didn't move an inch, breathe a breath.

I didn't dream last night. Just a world of wallowing ebony, sucking me further and further into a reckless sleep. I didn't even toss and turn anymore. It took too much energy.

Once my mother left the room, my eyes shot open. Automatically, tears stained my cheeks.

I didn't know why, and I didn't question it.

Turning on my side, I closed my eyes, hoping to get more sleep.

But it was pointless, I never did. I wasn't going to get up though, no way.

-&-

"Deirdre! You've spent all day in bed! It's almost 8 in the evening!"- my mother shouted.

"So?" I replied, not finding this argument amusing.

"It's time you get up and eat something, get a shower."

I wanted to laugh, but this wasn't amusing and I wasn't at all eager to show any signs of using energy. She would take advantage of that.

They all did. I hated them. Is it wrong to say I hated my own mother?

I don't care.

I hate them. Hate them.

They just want to hurt me, well too bad, you already have.

Just wait, I'll get you all back. I will.

"Here's your pills" my mother handed my a glass of water and a few rounded pills which I assumed where my anti-depressants. I sipped a bit of the water and swallowed them all at one time. I could feel them burning down my throat, the memory of pushing so many of those pills down at once almost gave me a smug look of satisfaction.

Once she left, I looked over to my dresser in the corner of the room. There was nothing on it, except one thing. A photograph. Of him.

My father.

He did it the painless way. Well, that's what they said. The doctors.

I was doing it the long, painful way.

But not as long as they thought. No, it was coming. Soon.