S.A.D || zarry au

three

I was in such a talk-a-tive mood so dear God help you because Harry gets into such a ramble about a damn book....

~

        When someone has any type of disorder, it can slowly tear them apart. Now, take that and add it to the fact that I'm fifteen year old boy who is naturally always depressed. Sucks, right?

        As a teenager you are at risk of:

        Severe depression. Check.

        Severe anxiety. Check.

        Self destruction (physical harm to one's self). Check.

        Being mentally unstable already I have all of that times two.

        I scratched the four day old cuts on my forearm. I never understood why they always become so itchy. Yeah, kinda funny how that's the thing I'm wondering about when I cut myself.

        When I was told I had Social Anxiety, it started to slowly take a peice of me away every day. It was so much to handle and I started not wanting to get out of bed. Not wanting to talk to anyone. Not wanting to eat. I didn't want to do anything.

        By the time I was in Year 8 Mum had taken me back to the doctor and they told me I needed to take anti-depressants. I refused. They couldn't even get me to take the medicine for my anxiety, so what makes them think I'll take these stupid anti-depressants that'll turn me into an emotionless zombie?

        "Harry, you have to get up. You have an appointment with your doctor at nine," Mum said shaking me awake.

        I groaned, "Why do I have to go?"

        "It's required."

        "Well, I don't care," I grumble.

        "Harry get out of bed. You need to take your medicine and eat." I heard my door shut.

        Yeah, did I mention when I said I refused to take my pills that no one knows that I don't take them?

        The doctors think that they just don't work when really I flush them down the toilet. I'm not going to let some stupid tablet control my life.

        I rolled out of bed and didn't even bother taking a shower. I dressed myself in joggers and a random black t-shirt along with my everyday-worn converse. I lazily ran a brush through my hair and brushed my teeth. I didn't even spare a single glance in the mirror before walking downstairs to the kitchen with the most zombified expression playing on my face.

        "Harry," Mum scolded disapprovingly at my lazy attire. She knew it was just because she was making me go to the doctor's.

        To be completely honest, though, she's lucky I didn't lock myself in the bathroom until a few minutes past nine rolled around. Actually, that sounds like a pretty good idea.

        I shrugged and grabbed a water bottle from the fridge before heading to the living room. I plopped onto the couch and frowned when I saw my laptop on the coffee table having no memory of putting it there the night before. I leaned up and turned it on. I typed in my password thebombdotcom, yeah, I've had this laptop since my "random phase" in Year 8.

        The first thing to pop up was an old poem. I smiled at it remembering that I was doing research last night. In history, what now is my least favorite class, we are studying Camelot and what comes with that is essays on old poems. We each had to chose one (well, it was suppose to be with a partner but I was the exception) and I got The Lady of Shallot, a.k.a my favorite poem in the history of man kind.