I’m not depressed they say. I’m a gloomy person they say. I just need to find my feet they said, but what if they’re wrong? No. They can’t be wrong, they’re doctors, but they’re also only human. Head hung low, shoulders hunched, I’m the living ghost of a dead soul. I’m walking this earth, one rugged painful step at a time. It takes baby steps they say, to get better, and live a normal healthy life, but what if they’re wrong?
As dawn fades to dusk in this permanent misery, every obstacle becomes a potential suicide spot. The car park, would I die or become disabled? That tree, is the branch high enough, can I climb that high? The railway, every freakin time a train goes by taking happy people out to see the joys of the world, it flashes past me as if I don’t exist. Do I even exist? Am I even real?
Things move and change, the shape of peoples’ heads grow closer and farther. My limbs feels numb so that when I cut them, they feel like plastic prosthetics. Am I a doll or a human? Did I even ever exist or am I genuinely a ghost of someone’s fervent imagination?
The shops, I’ll wonder around the shops. People talk, go on, never shut up even, about retail therapy. I’ve had plenty of therapy, but not the shopping kind, the sat in a chair talking about shit you don’t want to talk about, stuff you wish didn’t exist, and holding back. I mustn’t tell. I mustn’t let anyone know what really goes on, or the has beens of the workings inside my mind. It’s private. It’s not for anyone else to know. Secrets, shaming secrets keep me locked in this cage of dust, an imaginary, weak, crumbling reality. Somehow though, I’m locked in.
“You’re keeping yourself there”, “you’re not trying”, “do you think that subconsciously you don’t want to get better?” They’re stupid. Imbeciles with pieces of paper declaring their so called intelligence. “You just need to get on with it” as if I haven’t been trying that already. I just love being kept behind my own inner bars of oppression. I love dark secrets, and the numbing pain they bring. I love the tears shed in the morning and the anger outbursts in the evening. “It’s because you’re drinking” they say. So I stop. I stop my drinking to see if these professors are even an ounce right. No. Of course they’re not, because they don’t listen. They hear, but even then, they sometimes choose to ignore. Are the choosing to ignore me, or am I actually a figment of my own imagination. I’m not even sure how real any of this is. Blurred lines pave the way into my future, blurred visions wavering what I see and what I know is, or is not. Blurred lines between myself, and reality.