It’s unpleasant knowing that at a certain point over the past few years you’ve blundered so badly as to trap yourself in a life you don’t want. The worst part being, that you know the only thing keeping you stagnant is yourself. You enjoy the dreams in your sleep to the banality of consciousness, and you know you’ve done something wrong, but rather than fix it you continue to sleep for ten hours each day, and choose to spend your waking hours recoiled into the fairy tales you weave for yourself in your mind. Your thoughts bore even you, and you find tasteless television shows preferable to conversation and your own company.
I’ve done something wrong. I’m certain I have because I don’t believe such instability can be normal, but I don’t know if I’m capable of fixing it. I was happy once, but I guess I was sad before that too. I’d like to not be anymore.
I remember when you broke my heart — not the times you’d bruised it before — but the time I felt it shatter. It was after you came to visit — that time we stayed in bed for hours. My obsession with you had started before that, but it wasn’t until after you left me that I was really gone. Never studied, stopped talking, slept all day and wanted nothing else. Isn’t evasion through sleep a sign of depression?
Well I got over it eventually. College helped, Sarah helped, and I thought I was better, but four years later, there’s a different boy, and I didn’t feel my heart shatter when he left, but I’m back to not studying, not talking, trapping myself in my room and sleeping for inordinate hours. And I say I’ll stop. That I’ll be better, but I’m not. And I cling to whatever remnants of hope that I can with this second boy, but it doesn’t help. So maybe it’s time I really do stop, because I do know it’s wrong. I rationalized it for so long, that I couldn’t even tell anymore that I hated myself. Maybe if it weren’t for all the casualties, but others will get hurt, and so will I, and I don’t think he sees it but he already has been.
Anonymous