I write stories to cope with depression and suicidal feelings (see my post “dream”). Here’s one of them.
Some days it’s bleak. It’s hopeless, and hurting, and she can’t erase that numbing, painful, hard-to-swallow ache in her chest. And on other days she’s bright and shining and happy.
No one believes her.
Sometimes she doesn’t even believe herself.
“How can she be depressed,” people say, “when she’s so happy all the time?”
How can she be suicidal when she wears her beautifully crafted mask?
She remembered how people reacted when she was first admitted for a psych consult. There had been outrage from her family, who didn’t believe it for a second. that their perfect, golden daughter had severe depression. But most of all, they didn’t understand.
Her friends drifted away from her slowly just as she’d drifted away from them. Of course, somehow, there was no bullying or insults. But things just grew … quieter.
She takes pills every day. Pink pills, blue pills. Small grey pills. The doctors only give her that much each day, to keep her from taking them all at once. She lines them up, sets them on her windowsill every night. In the morning, as she looks outside at the pale grey sky, she takes each one. They do taste of bitterness.
And as the slow hum of quietness fills her from the chemicals and she settles back on the bed, the darkness fills her room. But it holds her safe, protects her in a way no one can, understands her in a way none have.
She’ll be okay.