The Color of Misery

Chapter 1

Darkness. That's all life is anymore. A looming pit of nothingness, surrounding me every which way. I feel myself falling deeper, and deeper, knowing I won't be able to catch myself. That is, if there's a chance the falling will ever stop. The endless sinking, being swallowed by blackness. It's never ending. There's no way to catch your breath because of the huge weight on your chest. It's like an anvil is pressing against your torso, crushing your ribs and making it harder to breathe.

That is the definition of depression. Desolation. Sorrow.

When you're so deep in your own sadness that you can't even pretend to be happy anymore; when faking a smile is a chore; when getting out of bed seems like a task so impossible there isn't even a point in trying.

Then, there's the endless amounts of drugs. The prescription pills that they feed you one by one, every day, until they think you're "stable" enough to "enter society."

As if that isn't the thing that brings you down to begin with.

The cruel, sad world filled with nothing but hate and dejection. Wars, starvation, murder. Villages ravaged by disease and death. People being raped and abused on a daily basis. Of course this Godforsaken planet is the one that we are stuck living on, the one that throws us into the deepest pits of our own personal hells, telling us we are nothing but crazy, that pills and hospital visits can "cure" us.

No. That's not how things are at all.

We are meant to live day by day acting like nothing is wrong, dupe ourselves into thinking that everything is okay, that at the end of the day, we're going to be fine.

But that really isn't what life is.

Life is how we live it. It's literally what we make of it. But that's another thing we have no idea what to do with, how to make it our own.

We're basically screwed from the get go.

Now I lay here, staring up at the speckled ceiling of my bedroom, contemplating the meaning of death, telling myself that it can't be as awful as people make it out to be. In fact, death is a beautiful thing. Death is the one escape we will all receive in our lifetime, the one thing that will purge us of this madness.

"Zahra." My mother says, her voice bleak. "You haven't left your room at all today. It's nearly four. Why is it so dark in here?"

She flips my light switch on, and I hiss at her, pulling my pillow over my face. "It's dark because I like the dark. And I haven't left yet because I don't feel like it. Is that a problem?"

I know she can understand my muffled words because she huffs loudly, and I feel her sit down on my bed. My mom's always been supportive, especially when I was diagnosed with my depression and my anxiety disorder. It was bad in the beginning, constant panic attacks, nothing but a dark abyss. She tried her best to pull me out of it...

Then she gave up.

My beautiful mother, with her silky caramel locks, radiant hazel eyes, and lovely olive skin gave up on me. After the constant nights just staying awake to hold me as I cried, the long days of trying to get me to eat... She just gave up.