A Broken Optimist

Depression

She's the happiest person you'll ever meet, with the most optimistic heart.

She denied it for so long.
Didn't allow herself to even think the word,
In relation to herself.

Saying she had anxiety was easy.
It fits her personality,
The persona she plays in public,
And it makes sense.
She's likely always had it,
In one way or another.

Saying she had anxiety was a matter of confirmation.
She took tests,
Read up on the situation,
Compared herself.
She knew it could be what's wrong.

She doubted it,
She certainly struggled to admit
That she needs help
Help, if she ever wanted to be better.
But she found it,
Her conclusion,
Realization,
Resignation,
Easily.
She has anxiety. And it's real.

Depression.
This came about in a different monster.
She never thought it was an option,
Not for her.
She didn't ponder her death,
In the past.
She's never wished harm upon herself,
In retaliation.
She used to find joy,
In life.

She's always loved living.
She couldn't wait for a moment at the piano,
A moment to read,
To sing,
To play.
She loved laughing,
Smiling,
Being with people.

She's always loved living.
Now,
She would rather live
Without so much life.

A little less brightness,
A little less sunshine,
Even a little less glitter.
That would be more tolerable.

She's lost her will.
Music is a chore.
Once it's happening,
She's happy.
But the effort,
The motivation,
The will,
It's almost not worth doing it.

Reading can be a solace,
The one thing away,
Her only true simplicity.
And then,
In a breath,
It becomes forced.

She could do this.
All of this work,
All of the everything.
It's possible.
She used to do it.
It used to be easy,
With a bit of hesitation.

Now, she can't.
She simply can't.

She lays in bed,
Telling herself she must get up,
Convincing herself it's important.
But in the end,
What difference did it make?
She could stay home,
Make up the work tomorrow.
It would be easy.

It would be easy,
Oh so easy,
To slip away.
She wishes to slip away,
To
Stop
Everything.
If only for a moment.

Driving.
Okay,
So this bitch.
First,
She terrifies.
She bubbles and brews,
Stops and starts,
Leaves her questioning,
Concerning,
Overthinking,
After one honked horn.
The bitch.

Then,
Suddenly,
Anxiety isn't her concern.
She almost hits a car:
She almost crashes,
And it would have been fatal.
It wasn't.
She braked.
She kept driving.
She continued the night as normal.

It didn't stop her.
She the anxiety she felt all day,
The attack she knew was coming,
It went away.
The near death experience,
It sent away the bubble of anxiety.
She didn't fret.
She wondered how severe it would have been.
If there would have been collateral,
If others would have been hurt.
She cares more for the passengers,
Then herself.

If she hit it,
If she died,
So be it.
If it's meant to be, it'll be.
It wasn't. Not then.
But if she died,
If that was the end,
Then so be it.

She didn't stress.
She didn't worry.
She didn't freak out.
And that,
The eerily calmness she felt,
Is what terrifies her the most.

Tormenting her,
Why isn't she worried?
Why isn't she terrified?
Death?
It brushed her and
Nothing.
A moments fright
And life continues.

This is how she's responded to everything,
She sees.
No emotion,
No concern,
To true terror.
Why?

Is it that death no longer scares her?
Or that life scares her more?

Maybe death is merely the easy way out.
A cowards end.
An end she wouldn't mind.