Monday, March 16, 2009

How did I get here

Last night I woke up on the stone floor of the living room and I have no idea how I got there. I have no memory or walking in there, or lying down, or closing my eyes. But I woke up there so I think it's safe to assume that I put myself there somehow. Some dim part of my brain informs me that this is not normal behaviour. It’s been telling me this for a long time now but it’s getting quieter as the weeks go on. The same part of my brain also says to me that it’s not normal to feel overwhelming sadness every second of every day. Nor is it normal to cry all the time and wish for nothing more than sleep. Nor is it normal to spend several hours a day talking to oneself and pretending that there is someone else there in the room who cares. Nor is it normal to feel a sense of disappointment upon each waking, simply because one woke. But I'm getting used to it now. Soon the voice will go away, and this will be my normal life.

I still have to wait weeks before I can see a counsellor. Why is it that this country doesn’t treat clinical depression like it does physical diseases? If I had the flu, or an infection, or the measles, no doctor would say to me "Sorry, you must wait four months until help is available." Depression is more debilitating than a hundred illnesses combined. It's like being undead. I am a walking dead girl and I don't belong here. I don't know if I can wait another few weeks.

I've finally checked out. I no longer read, draw, speak, or eat. The weight is dropping off me now. I'm wasting away in body as well as mind. I can't seem to care.

I don't need medicine, and I don't need time off, and I don't need interference from strangers. I need a friend.

I still remember what they used to be like.