The Thing About Believing

One month ago, everything changed.

One month ago, before everything, I was normal. I was the normal Charlie McLean. I stood at five feet and three inches, but had more ambition than the next person. So much hope filled such a small body. But I've lost my touch. I guess I've just lost it all.

I'm just dull. That's all I can use to describe myself now. I've lost the meaning behind my name and my eyes no longer sparkle. I've lost at least twenty pounds, leaving me with just skin and bones. Every move I make will show the outline of my bones, making me look like a hollowed skeleton. My lips are dry and chapped, my skin pale, and my mouth no longer turns upwards, or else my lips bleed. No matter the expression I show, my face is empty and blank. I know, it sounds depressing.

But that's what I am.

"Depressed".

That what my therapist says. She referred me to a doctor who said the same thing. Then that doctor prescribed me some pills and basically told me to "get over it". If only I could.

The stretch between happiness and sadness is a long one, making time painfully slow. I can almost hear clocks ticking wherever I stand, which isn't much to say because I almost never leave my room. I know that time is waiting for me. I know it's slowing down. I know it will stop soon, and I hope it does. Life is a pointless, really. Well, it wasn't. But now it is.

I can just imagine the hands of time slowing down, slowing down, slowing down. I can imagine the hands slowing to a stop, and once they stop, they'll lift me from here. The hands of time will take me elsewhere. Wherever they take me doesn't matter. Whether it's heaven or hell, or somewhere in between; as long as they take me elsewhere. Somewhere I don't have to push away the urges to make them stop myself. Somewhere where I can smile without feeling guilt press down on my body. Somewhere where I can look in the mirror and never see what made me this way. Somewhere. Anywhere but here.