depression

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Nervous eyes skip across the room. There is something he wants here, but he holds back. There is so much to say, and no way to say it. Incoherent thoughts form, unable to straighten out into proper words or phrases. Something hurts, but what is it? How can anyone understand what he can't understand himself? He clasps his hands and bites his lip, lowering his gaze. Pulling his hands apart, he clenches them into fists and lets his nails dig into his palms.

There are questions. Someone was . . . asking questions. That's right. He looks back up and the therapist's gentle gaze arouses some comfort. He lets some of the words that he had come up with spill out of his lips, without guarding their implications as he usually does. These phrases fall out uncomfortably, as if they were choked sobs. What else is there to say? That's all.

"That's all?" The words hadn't been explicitly stated, but the therapist kept pushing for more. But what else is there to say?

So many people love him, yes. But what did these people want? What did they expect? And how much of that could he fulfill? He loves what he does, but there's no way to disconnect it from all that comes with it. It is difficult. It is strenuous. He is tired. Yet, he cannot stop. The happiness he chases always seem to require a little more suffering. And even if he hadn't achieved his own happiness, the product of his suffering is enjoyed by so many. The products are wrapped so nicely that they appear separate from the darkness of their origin.

"Perhaps it's because you are so dedicated to what you do."

Well, yes. Of course. That's all? That means there's nothing he can do about it. He's walked so far down this path that there's nowhere else to go. If he turned around, who would support him? The path has been so demanding, and it'll continue to be. He's endured so much of it, and it's produced some amazing things.

Anyway, time is up. He stands up and nods at the therapist, giving thanks with no intention to return. Just as last time.

He picks up his bag and drapes the strap over his shoulder. As he turns the corner outside of the room, he slips a hat on then places his headphones on top. Having chosen a playlist, he sticks his phone into his pocket and strides silently out of the building, never letting his line of vision leave the ground, but all too aware of the glances and whispers of others walking along the same street. Why do they feel louder than his music? He slides his hand into his pocket and clicks the volume button on his phone over and over, but it does nothing to outweigh the whispers that anyone else would not even notice.

Thus, when he turns into the desolate parking garage, the worry slips away and he suddenly realizes how deafeningly loud his music was. He holds his finger on the other volume button on the phone until the sound subsides.

He drives. He's late. He apologizes and, all of a sudden, several days pass. They were marked with the same anxieties and fears and stress.

Nothing has gotten better. Everything he loves is destroying him from the inside. It's ingrained in him, and he's in a position where others' happiness is dependent on his depression. And even beyond that, there are people who are not satisfied with all that he has done. It's unfair, it seems as if there's only a certain amount of joy in the world, and so he gives away all he has for the sake of those who benefit from his sacrifice.

But it hurts. It's painful, it's terrible, it's excruciating. There are other simple things that bring happiness, but it never comes close to the constant misery that smothers every crevice of his life that is left unprotected.

Days and days, years and years, of the same thing, with no escape.

He writes a letter. Carefully thought out, he writes everything down with such elegance and refinement.

He contemplates. He purchases some things. He hesitates. He waits for someone, something, anything. But nothing presents itself. He tries harder, hoping for someone, something to stop him. But nothing does. He sends a few texts.

He does it in a way that, while horribly painful, could take a long time. And he waits, again. But for one reason or another, the police did not arrive in time. By the time the world realized everything that had been devouring his soul, it was too late.