Here I am. Some fucked up twenty-something. Living on prescription pills to get by. Sleeping odd hours. Never wanting to get up. Sleeping too much, or not at all. Still not wanting to get up. Or move.
And yet, when you see me, more often than not I’m the “life of the party” (WHAT THE FUCK?). But it makes sense the more I think about it. I drink my Starbucks with 3 shots of espresso and talk about sex and drugs and music and gaming to boys and girls who think they know me. I throw my legs over the laps of men and drink my pink vodka and play Cards Against Humanity or any other roleplaying pastime with such cringeworthy lewdness one can’t help but laugh and think I’m a confident woman.
I guess I’m a great actress.
But I hate to act.
I’m a morose overweight willow tree that only finds solace in the bitter taste of broken narcotic capsules and the smell of those orange translucent pill bottles, licking the powder inside to forget the memories of boys and days and other things that still cause me pain even though they happened so long ago.
I’m as dramatic as those emo kids you met in high school that wore a lot of eyeliner and cut their skin and licked their dripping blood to fit in. I was one of them and just grew up and now have real fucking problems. Or, worse problems. More problems. I still wear the eyeliner. And, yeah. Funny.
And they’re like, really?
I was trying to open up earlier because I was at a breaking point (still am) to these two kids about my depression (which is dangerously out of control) and they were quite surprised. Writing about it to them, I was surprised they didn’t know. I forget they only see the pretty side of me. The blue haired, pink lipped, big tits, talkative smiling facade I present. They didn’t know. I still don’t think they know. Or, at least understand. Understand the gravity of it. The pain that depression causes me.
Depression is fucking painful. Today was a day I felt lifeless. But then I felt pain. And I don’t think the dead feel pain, so it made no sense. I make no sense. Anyway, I was in bed. Feeling as lifeless as one could be while still alive, in illogical pain from my depression, and too weak to open my eyes. I needed help getting dressed to go to a doctor. I didn’t smile. Passionless. Low. Below. Below everyone else. Below the radiance of others. A faint shadow. Dead people still have shadows. That at least makes sense.
My anti-depressant clearly sucks.
Featured image by Eyedoos.