Time; Don't Let It Slip Away

What Really Kills? The Gun, Or The Thought That Pulls The Trigger?

I opened my eyes, as the harsh, burning, light streamed in through the open balcony doors of the master bedroom, in our L.A home. 

The hot early air of September 5th, floated through the room, swirling around me and enticing me to get out of bed, though I couldn't bring myself to do it… Even if the clock read 12:30 p.m and I should've been up hours ago. 

Lately it's been harder and harder to wake up.

It's been harder to walk around pretending I'm happy. 

Lately, it's been getting easier to realise why Kurt Cobain left a life that seemed so perfect. 

It's been getting easier to understand his pain. 

Quickly, I snapped my mind away from those thoughts.

I've got a child to look after, and a husband who loves me. 

I mean… So did Kurt, though. 

He had a wife, and a gorgeous baby girl, and that still wasn't enough for him to block out the pain. 

I don't know who would be more selfish; Me for leaving behind a grieving family, or those around me begging me to live and deal with the nagging pain that fills the cavity in my chest. 

It's like asking that daunting question…

What's really the killer? The gun? Or the thought one has, forcing one to pull the trigger?

It seems rather silly, I know, but when you have depression it seems well… Even more silly.

Which is exactly why people with depression are so hard on themselves. We see ourselves as weak. As pointless souls occupying a body that doesn't fit us as we walk around aimlessly, searching for a purpose. 

I want to talk to Steven about this… I want to get help before things get out of control.

I just don't know how to bring it up.

I feel like if he were to just ask, maybe I could ju-

"Hey sleepy head." 

Speaking of the devil…

Steven sat down beside me on the bed, in all his illustrious glory, with his thick brown curls and his plush pink lips pulled in a wide grin.

He had a tray of strawberries and cream resting beside him, and I knew he brought me breakfast… well, lunch… in bed.

"Whatcha thinkin' about?"

"Ohh, nothing." I cracked a small smile, as I watched the light dance around in his eyes. "Just about the tour I guess."

He knew I was lying… I could feel it in my bones.

Goddamn it, Mia. Why don't you just say something?

Just scream it to the heavens, that you're a fucked up individual, and you need help. 

"Yeah, it was fun wasn't it?" His smile fell only slightly, showing off his knowledge of my lie. "I'm excited for the South American tour, aren't you?"

"Yeah! Definitely." I smiled, as he leaned in to kiss me. I met his plush lips with my own. 

"I brought you some strawberries and whipped cream." He breathed in between kisses. "Just like the morning after our wedding…"

"You're perfect." A full on grin was now plastered across my face, as my cheeks heated up, and the stain of a blush appeared from the boiling blood beneathe my skin. 

These little gestures were enough to pull me out of whatever sadness I was feeling… Even if it was only for a moment. 

He grinned and picked up a strawberry with a dollop of whipped cream, and fed it to me, being careful to not get any of it on the spotless white comforter that was resting on the bed.