It's like your entire being is trying to kill you. Like someone has flicked your self-destruct button. One day, everything suddenly decides to stop working, your mind, your limbs, your eyes... Until just the simple act of getting out of bed feels like a quest, a climb up the rocky mountains of the East.
And then, nothing in your mind makes sense to anyone but you. You can explain all you like, but no one will understand you, no matter how logical, how simple your thoughts may appear in your broken mind.
Eventually the voices get louder. They tell you to do it, to jump off that balcony, to throw yourself in front of that bus, to cut a little deeper for once and for goodness' sake stop being such a scaredy-cat!
And it's funny, because no matter how many warning signs you give, no one really notices, or if they do then they don't care.
Your whole body is working against you, slowly shutting down until you are a zombie, just like the ones in the movies. You could hurt yourself so easily, and I'm sure you could hurt others without a blink of the eye.
Eventually, you find it hard to smile, and when you do smile, you feel disgusted at yourself, because you're lying, you're just a facade that is covering a waterfall of emotions, and soon the water will over flow. And when it does, well, who knows what could happen!
There's always that strange feeling that I get in the middle of the night, when the whole world is asleep, basked in darkness and silence. I can't explain it, all I can say is that it feels like a terrifying emptiness, one that you never realised was there before. Of course, the natural human reaction is to fill it with dreams, whether they be fantasies or hopes for the future. But when you have no fantasies, no dreams, then I'm afraid you're rather stuck. Who's to say what will fill your thus empty night? Fears? Some deep, hidden nightmare that only dares show itself under that vast shield of night time?
At night is when the voices are finally liberated, after a long day of being locked behind everyday tasks and thoughts. Once those are all over, the voices finally roam free, and once you hear them, there is no escaping the madness, the utter oblivion that fills your entire being.
I sit on my bed, surrounded by the night time void. I don't need to look at the clock to know what time it is, for I have been here before, in the exact same position just the previous night. And the night before that. And the night before that. Until all my nights become mangled into one, forming just a single word in my mind: Awake.
They say artistic people suffer the most, and tha lakes me laugh. I think about all the famous people who were known to be crazy: Shakespeare, Van Gogh, Emily Dickinson... The list goes on.
I use the word "crazy" in the lightest of tones, of course, for, in the end, aren't we all crazy? Some just seem to cope with it better, clinging on with all their dear might to that tiny shred of sanity left in the world.
Oh, if only I could find the source! I would consume its very being, enter into its core until I became one with it!
Until I became... sane.
And then what? What would I find on that distant shore of the land I can not even remember? What lies beyond the voices that come out at night, and the silence that fills the day? A sense of hope? Or maybe that indefinable thing known to man as "happiness"? What lies beyond the impenetrable darkness of depression?
Apparently mental illnesses don't exist. Apparently this is normal, something that everyone is supposed to feel, but some just more intensely. Apparently it is OK that I want to hurt myself, and that my thighs are sore from my nightly routine of slashing. Apparently it is normal that some people want to end their lives, want to cease existing.
That is a load of crap.
I have never heard such falsehoods, such poorly constructed lies that fill the air like weighted balloons, barely able to stay afloat.
The young girl cries herself to sleep at night, but it is OK because Hollywood or some author has assured her that her knight in shining armour will arrive soon to sweep her off her feet, and to fight the dark dragons of her mind.
Lies.
Because in the end, there is no knight in shining armour. In the end, there is just me and my oldest, closest friend, Depression.
