At the time, it was becoming harder not to feel lonely. It was becoming harder not to lie down in my bed at night and not spend hours staring at the ceiling. Usually this wouldn’t be such a bad thing, usually, this would be quite refreshing to sit and think – but what about when your thoughts no longer occupy your mind, what about when your dreams no longer excite you enough to close your eyes?
You’re entering a state of mind where you’re finding yourself shrugging at everything in a half-hearted manner, shrugging at everyone around you – shrugging at life. You’re unable to drag your feet out of bed in the morning, because sleep seems more appealing. Unable to stare at the mass of photos pinned to your bedroom wall like you once used to, because you know you can’t really speak to any of the faces staring back at you anymore.
I was nineteen years old and had ‘depressed’ hanging over me like a cloud
It angered me that it came to this, the fact that I was nineteen years old and had ‘depressed’ hanging over me like a cloud. In my head I hated myself more than anyone but I hated everyone else too. I was constantly back and forth. I couldn’t understand why I had to take tablets to make myself feel better; surely that wasn’t how this was supposed to work. Surely, happiness was having friends and a family that loved me? Why wasn’t that enough?
I kidded myself into that being the answer, how could anybody love me? I was a mess. So I blamed them, those so called people I call my friends, the fact they wouldn’t ask me when I was sad the real reason behind it. It’s was as though I could feel a wall physically going up around my heart and around my brain, I could feel myself slowly backing off from everyone and becoming simply unapproachable.
I blurted out snippets of information, cries for help
I did try, though, sometimes. I blurted out snippets of information, cries for help, until I realised no one was listening – that they’d heard it all before. Or they assumed the rest of the story for me. I almost yearned for those drunken nights where I could say anything and blame it on the alcohol, those nights where my best mate finally cradled me in her arms and stuttered out an apology. Yet, I always knew no matter how many times she did it, it was never really an apology to me, more so an apology to herself about not having the guts to say anything sober and how guilty she felt.
They didn’t understand that my frame of mind looked at them like they owed me more than that and I eloped with my selfish, depreciative bubble: the one that no one else was invited to, the one where no one knows the full story, my story. The story I only trusted myself with.
The anger began to eat away at the sadness; I became convinced people weren’t worth trusting. There’d always be something said in spite, something personal used against me. I immersed myself in my mind, forgetting about my heart. I became part of the furniture, just something and someone that sat in silence.
I couldn’t say anything to make them understand, and I couldn’t help feeling like the disappointment – not only to my friends, but to my family.