I want more than this. I want to feel less, I wish I didn’t hurt so much.
The people like to whisper. I shoot them glares. They think I don’t know what they’ve said about me, but I have my spies.
I stopped going out, except when I have to. I avoid the people I used to know, because now they are in the past and when I think of the past I feel stabbed.
The future, I don’t think about that either. I don’t feel like I have one. The writer? God, she’s so angry, all her poetry and stories are full of pain. People like feel-good fiction, mine is now so truthful, I get uncomfortable. The traveler? She realized money is hard to come by. The independent woman? She seems shallow and frivolous. And the last plan? The woman who got married and had a family? She realizes no one can love her as she is.
Some time ago, someone told me ‘carpe diem,’ to live in the moment. I don’t think this is what he meant.
The scariest thing about being depressed…is that you can’t beat the hopelessness. You can talk to your friends, listen to music, color, or watch T.V. It succumbs the pain to a small throb, but every night it comes back. Sometimes, it doesn’t even help at all.
Just get over it. People have told me. If it was switch, I’d have turned it off a long time ago.
Why don’t people understand that?