Even in depression I search for something to alleviate the pain. I can’t tolerate suffering. The only one who can ease the torture is me. The affection of others pierces no holes in the black shroud around my shoulders, their embraces don’t register along my skin, their words hit the four titanium walls surrounding me, their smiles only evoke a reflexive grin, one that knows it’s only purpose in life is to convince others I’m okay.
I know this will be over soon.
I try and think of pleasurable things to lift my mood for a split second. I think about the paid internship opportunity in biochemistry I have this summer. I try not to think of the one reference I need to list on the application of which I don’t have. I think about the coming weekend, I think about food, I think about how nice it will feel to lay my head on my pillow and erase the last few days from my mind. At least, until my eyes open again.
I sit on this computer and I play those video games until my eyes are watering and my brain is slightly damaged. Anything to keep me from pondering how much I crave release from this nightmare. I try surfing the web: can’t; ads on websites make me tear up, commercials meant to bring about smiles on faces urge streams of water down my cheeks.
And yet I feel nothing. How can this be? How can such a sensitivity sit, eager, at the very edge of my tear ducts, willing to spray Niagara Falls down my face and send chills up my spine when I know my voice, my expressions, are nothing more than monotonous unless forced?
I’m hanging by a thread.
I feel I’ve been fighting for a million years under the ruse of a pacifist.
Here, I’m trapped between whether or not I believe these symptoms to be true. They’ve been worsening for a year and it’s only recently I’ve become aware of their effect on my life. But how do I know I’m not faking? How do I know any of this is real? Are they severe enough for someone to take seriously? No one takes my anxiety seriously, who’s to say this is any different? I need to be open about them, tomorrow. I only get a session once every two weeks. At 125 dollars a pop, I don’t know how we’re affording this. I hate having people support me, I hate it. I’m more of a financial burden than the alcoholic of the house. I’m addicted to being a fucking failure.
P.S: I didn’t know 25,000 dollars a year was a lot of money. Did you know the government considers it as such? My mother is reaping these last few years of my early twenties to claim me on her taxes (I’m her only child) and because of it, I can’t get the “free” health care services Covered California offers. She makes too much money. I can’t hold a job because I’m a loser. My father’s health is poor and can’t work. She works three jobs. They want to charge us 800 dollars a month for insurance.
Fuck your insurance. If I have an emergency and I go in the hospital, you’ll fucking treat it. And you know what? Bill me when I get out. Take the five dollars out of my bank account, I really don’t give a shit. You think I’m just going to start paying you because you threaten me with a thirteen, fourteen, fifteen thousand dollar bill? No. I got my services. You can take the tree you fucking wasted on printing that shit and shove it up your ass right next to that fat stick of greed. And I dare you to haunt me with debt. You think I give a flying fuck? I’m a college student. I LIVE, BREATHE, EAT, and SHIT DEBT, FUCKER.
I’m not mad because I’m poor financially, I’m mad because I hate stupidity. And the very nature of the government in terms of handling their lower class is pure ignorance.
I don’t give a shit if the NSA put me on a black list for saying that. Do it. Scan my emails while you’re at it. Scan my text messages, my voicemails, do whatever you want. And I hope you sleep well at night on your satin fucking pillows in your fucking mansion with your fake wife who’s probably been sleeping behind your back with that one tall, clean shaven black dude who cleans your pool.