"You should get out there." Carrie had laughed. I had laughed back. We all laughed.
I stare at my reflection in my bathroom mirror as I brush my teeth. I'm 30. I have chronic depression. I look average, faint red blotches visible on my face. I'm easily annoyed and aloof. Above all, I'm crippling lonely. I lower my toothbrush, looking into my own eyes. I accepted it, years ago, that thing would end up this way. I may have escaped from my house and past, but I left a bit of me there. This realization doesn't help me. I drown myself in whichever medium makes the emotions stop.
"You're so beautiful." A man lies. I don't believe him.
I put my toothbrush away and get into bed alone. I've developed a habit of staying up late so that the insomnia is more bearable, so I'm so tired I have to sleep. I hate laying in bed, just existing. For hours. It makes me wonder if living is really worth it at all. But that's normal for me, I stopped considering myself suicidal once I realized I would never have the courage to do it. It's shameful, but fear kept me alive.
"I can't believe you had to go through that." Someone says. They sound concerned. But by now, all this is normal for me. The constant intrusive thought, loneliness, urge to harm myself. I shrug to them. I can bare it. The only hard part is when I start to wonder why I bother at all.
As I lay in bed, the thoughts get more intense. But that's normal. This happens every night. People really don't understand, when I shrug and tell them feeling horrible is just what life is like for me. That's just how it is. I can't change it, no amount of medicine or therapy will help.
"There's nothing I can really do for you. Your depression is situational." I nod. I knew that already.
It's normal. It upsets me, sure. But what am I going to do? Get out there? I don't even know how to get out of my own head. My life is average, really. I'm pretty average. So, it all really doesn't matter.
I dont not want to sleep. I know that the tired metaphors will only circle through my head, and that the waves of nostalgia will suck the breath from my lungs. I stare a black ceiling, waiting, waiting... waiting is the worst part of it all.