Depression.

People think they know what it is.

"Oh, when my father died last summer I was so depressed. You just have to keep focused on the good things in life."

They think they know of that which they speak.

But they don't. They were in mourning. Perhaps they were sad for a few days--maybe even a week or two--over something. But depression? No.

I'll tell you what true depression is. True depression is when you sit and stare at a wall, even though you can hear someone crying right next to you, because you just don't care. All you can think about is that perhaps, if you stepped out into that line of cars, you would get hit and you wouldn't have to feel this way anymore. Then you think 'that's silly', and you try to stop. Only to find you can't. You try to focus on the good things in your life--the woman who helps me here, always so caring. And you find that you don't care about any of that, either. You just want to sit, and cry. And you don't know why.

Then, just maybe, if you're lucky, it lifts. And you think everything's going to be okay. Then you have a black-out, and when you awaken someone near you has been killed. And there's blood on your hands. You want to go to the police, to put a stop to this, and you find that it's impossible. Because you're crying too hard to see, and you can't go to the police if you can't see the way.

And you just want to go to sleep, and never wake up. Is that too much to ask? That something will come in the middle of the night, and you never wake? It wouldn't be so bad to sleep for eternity. It would be better if you died, and perhaps went to heaven, but that won't happen because you've killed so many people. And yet, the prospect of hell isn't too bad either.

But you won't go to sleep and never wake up, because you're young, and strong, and that's not the way it works. You'll sleep, and then waken, and still be depressed. So you think that maybe you could kill yourself. You know there's a razor in the bathroom. The women use it to shave their legs. All you would have to do is get up, walk in there, break it and slice your wrists. But that wouldn't work, because you have a healing factor. And besides, the bathroom is such a long way away, and you just want to sleep . . . .

You hold it in, and don't tell anyone. Because if someone senses you're hurt, they'll dive in and rip you apart. And there's no one to talk to, because your father is psychotic and you drove your mother insane. So you tell no one. And you build a wonderful facade, because if someone were to suspect you were so depressed they might laugh at you, and hurt you, even unknowingly. Everyone is suspect.

So you smile, and you act like you care when someone tells you about a cat they used to have. But you don't. And, if you're lucky, you meet someone you can tell. Someone who sees through the facade--just a little. And they get you into a private spot and they ask you what's wrong. And for a long time you hold out, because they might hurt you. And so you laugh. You laugh, and you tell them the truth.

"My father's crazy, I killed my grandparents and drove my mom insane. God, what a year!" And you don't let them know how much saying that hurts you. Because if you let them in, even for a moment, He'll get angry. And He'll kill them. So that, even if they don't hurt you, you'll hurt them. But you can't take it anymore. You can't take the hurt, and the grief, and wanting to die. And mid-laugh you start crying. And you're laughing and crying at the same time, trying to laugh and actually thinking it is funny, but you don't know what is funny and you want to curl up in a ball and go to sleep, and make it all go away. You just want it to go away. And you're scared, because you know you shouldn't be laughing and crying and something is WRONG.

And then you feel arms on your shoulders. Arms that aren't hurting, and words that aren't sarcastic or teasing, or hurtful. And you start crying harder, and you don't stop until you've been crying forever and you're completely out of tears, but you're crying anyway. Then you stop. Because she's rocking you, and telling you it's going to be okay. And you believe her.

But you know better than to believe anyone. You should never trust anyone.

For the next few days you feel good.

And you think things are going to be okay.

You don't have any black-outs.

But then you start getting sad again. And no one notices, because you don't want them to. Because you have a great mask you can wear. People say hurtful things without meaning to, and you laugh along with them and say nothing. Because to show pain would be to get killed. But you want to scream, and to cry out "Help!" And yet . . . something won't let you. You don't know how.

But the woman, the one who saw you in the first place, she's still here. And she'll help. If only she'll notice. And you think that you can make her notice--you can ask for help because you know she won't hurt you. So you walk to her, and you start talking. And later you walk away, and she thinks you're fine because you were laughing and smiling. You didn't know how to tell her you were hurting and needed help. She didn't see it on her own, and you didn't tell her.

And everything is so cold.

You think about that razor in the bathroom.

And the bottle of sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet.

But the bathroom is so far away.

And you just want to sleep.

--End

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