The four walls of my bedroom have begun to feel as though they’re closing in on me day by day as I wake up and realise I have to spend another 24 hours trapped inside this fucking house. I thrive on social interaction and being deprived of it causes me a pain deeper than I’m willing to admit. I long to message my friends so I can at least have some virtual contact but, for reasons I cannot comprehend, my fear of annoying them sadly outweighs my need to talk to them and, regrettably, I leave my phone on the side untouched. I turn on my PS4 knowing that there’ll be nothing I want to play, I browse through Netflix knowing there’ll be nothing I want to watch, I peruse my bookshelf knowing there’ll be nothing I want to read. I wonder what it must be like to have someone to hold you in a situation like this, someone who could comfort you and tell you that everything is going to be ok. I am surrounded by people who love me and care about me but my constant need for reassurance renders this irrelevant as my insecurity overrules it all and I convince myself that, for some perverse and incoherent reason, they are all lying to me. Never in my life have I had such a genuine, reliable group of people around me, yet never have I felt so alone. I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling as I wonder if I’ll ever get a sense of what it is like to be truly happy. Part of me wishes that I could just sink into my mattress and never emerge, freed from this life that has brought me nothing but misery and anguish. Do you know how often I get told that I shouldn’t worry? That, compared to most people, I have a fantastic life and I should stop worrying about crap like this? How I’d love to invite those people into the minefield that is my mind and watch them navigate it without anyone being able to help them or understand the challenges they face. I cook dinner for myself and my mother and we sit down to eat it together. She’s a very supportive woman and I love her with all my heart, but she could never understand the pure toxicity that runs through my veins and forces me to isolate from others. I barely understand it myself. I watch the clock in my bedroom count the minutes until it’s deemed acceptable for me to climb back into bed, shut my eyes and try to liberate myself from the captivity of my mind. I close my curtains, put my eye mask on and begin to attempt sleep, desperate to escape the incessant emotional aching that plagues me daily for just a few hours, until I wake up and do it all over again.
Author’s note: I would just like to clarify that this is a fictional piece of work. I am not actually that depressed (anymore).
