Don't Keep Your Door Closed
DON’T KEEP YOUR DOOR CLOSED
Don’t keep your door closed” my mother yells and her voice feels like a faint memory from the past. Like an intruder in my own house, I close my mouth with my hands for I fear that the sound of me choking on my tears is enough to ruin their sleep…forever.
Panic. Anxiety. Stress.
It’s is almost like you are drowning but you can’t for the life of god figure out what you’re drowning in. I need a plan. I try to draw plans with sharp objects against my soft skin. I dig into my skin with fear and believe that for some people, fate is written in scratches and cuts.
And then I float, not float. Pardon my vocabulary that seems to oscillate more than my moods. And then I don’t float into depression. Nobody floats into depression. I am forcibly dragged by my neck into depression.
Like an abusive boyfriend who I keep going back to because there is a strange sense of comfort when being strangled by familiar arms, I sink back into the depression I’ve known for this long.
** **“Go see a therapist” a voice booms still not loud enough to silence the voices in my head. I walk into a clinic and I take a seat in the big couch.
“He’s not going to help me” I murmur under my breath while silently pleading “Please help me.” I notice a box of tissues aesthetically placed on the side table that almost makes it look like it is acceptable to cry in front of a stranger.
Not that it’s a hard thing for me to break into tears. I control my thoughts and focus.
How do I tell a complete stranger that I light up a cigarette in my room not because I’m an addict but because that is the only familiar scent from the boy who left me?
“Tell me how you feel” the words almost escape my ears because I don’t remember the last time someone asked me that.
Guilty. Ashamed. Angry. Furious. Sad.
And if emotions were colours, I would paint the canvas with every shade from the every palette in this world and still not decipher how I feel.
I feel dead and if you were me, what colour would you choose to paint that with? Not black. Please. For I might be depressed, but I don’t lack imagination…
I push all these thoughts away and get through an hour of going back and forth as a stranger introduces me to myself.
Perhaps you didn’t love him. Maybe he never had feelings for you. Are you doing this to compensate for something? And how old were you when that happened? Was it someone you knew?
He hands me a slip, and I am slightly disappointed that this doctor didn’t warn me that that the punishment for seeking death is pills that make you feel lifeless.
I walk out and weigh the options. Prozac with a dose of fatigue, nausea and mood swings or slipping right back into that pit. Without a second thought, I reach out for the bottle of pills that do nothing to cure my addiction except for replacing it.
Despite my fight, there are days.
Like the one when my sister heard my loud wails that said “It hurts”. She asked me “Where does it hurt?”
When I kept screaming the same thing “It hurts” over and over again.
She lost her patience and said “where” a little louder and unkind this time, and I said
“I don’t know where it hurts”
And yet you so easily look at me, a smirk in your face and tell me “It’s all in your head”