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Depression by Chemical
I felt a hole inside me. It couldn't be filled. It was a black-hole, just waiting to suck in all that was me. Just waiting for it's chance, to take over my body. It was sitting right in my chest, sucking in my heart, my lungs, the things that kept me going. At least, it felt like that.
They look at me, and see happiness and joy. Nothing at all is wrong with me, nothing at all seems out of the blue. It isn't as if a massive hole inside me, is destroying my very being. No, no, they look at me, and see what everyone wants to see; Nothing wrong.
I stare back at them, finding their problems. They let it out, for the whole world to see. They act mad when people bring it up, as if it isn't any fault of their own. They snarl and snap at me, like wild animals. I see their problems, but some of us are much better actors than others.
It is the true actor, who can look at someone, and become them. Their speech, facial expressions, and feelings. I do it every day. I look at my TV, find a pretty girl who seems to have no regrets or problems, and try to become them. But that's just part of it. The icing on this cake of lies, is that no one sees through it. I'm a wall of impenetrable emotion.
And then one day, I snapped. My guard was down, and I let them in. Those snarling beasts who call themselves “friend”. Those gossiping, rude, scandalous people, who call themselves “friend”. I let them in, and they destroyed me. They found my black-hole, and got sucked in. Left me for dead.
I pretend nothing's wrong, and they start to believe it again. They tell me their secrets, they pretend they didn't desert me, and then, they call themselves “friend”. But they are liars, and fakers, and no one should trust them. Hypocritical me, with nothing wrong, has everything wrong. Life turned to hell, hole eating her up, and a horde of people who secretly don't trust you.
They call me the “talented actress”, to stupid to see how I charm them into believing lies. But then again, they believe what they want.
A fatal mistake, from the girl with nothing wrong. A simple text message... Something along the lines of a confession. Something along the lines of explaining myself, and letting out my heart and soul. But I don't have one, do I? Haven't they been sucked up? Or have I been fooling myself?
It's too late. The text was sent. I never meant to send it. Never meant to say “Everyday, I feel like I'm dying. Like a massive hole is in my chest, pushing me down. Like I'm an empty shell of my former self. Like I want to kill myself.”
They look at my face the next day. They salivate at my weakness. “Anything wrong?” They ask with innocence. “No.” Would be the reasonable response, but I screw it up again. “Yes.” I would reply. They don't expect it, and are stunned as I walk away.
Then the text gets out. My mother has it sent to her. Reads it slowly, and goes to my room.
“Come in,” I respond.
“We're going to see a doctor, I know what your going through.” She tells me, waving her phone in my face. If I didn't love her, I'd think she is another beast. Another vulture waiting to attack my corpse.
“No...” I whisper as she walks out the door, but it's too late. One fatal mistake...
I sit in those hard-backed deathtraps they call “chairs” in the doctor's office. I watch their kids program on the television. I play with the small intertwined wires, with beads on them. I try to think myself out of a situation where I have to open up.
Does anyone want to open up? I didn't think so. I watch the others walk in, walk out. Blurry tears on sharp faces, anger on some, and the occasional smile. I hold in my emotion. I don't have to be like this. I don't have to be poked, prodded, pinched, and pained. No. I don't.
I stand up, when I firm hand is on my arm, pushing me back down. “Sit,” mom hisses. I do as she says, no reason to start a fight. I sigh and watch the clock. It's only been 10minutes, and it feels like an hour.
Then they call me in. “Annie?” I walk slowly over to her. She's petite, with red hair, and a cream sweater with jeans. She looks nice, but I don't want to trust her. I don't want to even be here! I just nod at her, and she leads me down a hall.
Plants line the dark gray walls we walk by. “This is the room!” She says, pointing me in. No fancy number on the door, just a small desk, with a chair, and a chair opposite it. She takes out a notepad and pen. This is it. The fruit of my mistake.
“Tell me about yourself.” She says. I do. I tell her about how my dog died. My cat died. How we have a new dog and cat. How my dad gets so angry...so, so angry. About how my heart feels like its not even there. About the colors I like....about how I get so...lonely, and go sit in a corner in my room, and let the sun hit my face, while tears run down it. She writes it all down.
I get mad. I'm not her little book report! My feelings shouldn't be written. She stares at me when I stop. “What?” She questions.
“I'm not a lab test. I'm not something to be studied. I don't even know why I'm here.” I growl, crossing my arms to look away. To watch the clouds drift lazily in the afternoon heat.
“Your here because you have chemical depression. You can't help it either. Your body can't make enough of the right enzyme to give you the happiness you deserve.” She tells me, giving me a look of pity.
I don't need her pity. I stand up and throw her pen out the window. “I'm not a lab test.” I state quietly. And walk out the door. My mother comes over, a smile plastered on her face. Until she sees the doctor's hair.
We go to the pharmacy, a prescription in hand. The doctor gave it to my mom, and told her I needed it. I never want it, but I take it...
The black-hole starts spitting up parts of me. Starts to shrink softly. I start actually being happy. I forget the spite those beasts called “friends” hold, and relax. I let myself feel. And soon, the black-hole is gone.
I did apologize to the doctor, whose name I feel I shouldn't tell. She's actually very nice. I have chemical depression, and at first it was very hard to deal with, but now I feel happy, and not like I need to fake it.