You’re good yh?
I’m really tired.
I’ve been in bed for quite a while, and although I’m tired of being here, it’s more tiring thinking of getting out. The wall light that should be keeping me company is dozing off, slowly fading away as though it, too, has had enough of the night. The rat in my roommate’s wardrobe is fighting its own demons and tugging on something every 7 seconds. It never eats our food, though; I wonder why. So we’ve never bothered to try to kill it. At least, that’s what I say. I’m actually just scared of it.
I’m scared. Of a lot of things. In this moment, not of Ratatouille, or my impending academic failure, but of what will cause that. I’m in bed, doing absolutely nothing productive, nothing even, just staring at the shadows on the ceiling, while noting the fact that I have about 82 topics left for a test 4 weeks away. And while the worry eats at me so deeply, I cannot move a limb to solve that. And this worries me. Because I have never, ever, and I mean ever, in the history of depression, let my academic energy fail.
I’m a textbook case of high-functioning depression. At least, always been. Barring the fact that I love living a really productive life, I’ve learnt to always make myself work, and somehow, the thought of making it obvious that I’m struggling or have something going on eats at me so badly that I always put in extra effort when the going gets tough. I hate being a pity case. I hate being open. I hate the strange softness that comes over people’s faces when they think they’ve found something broken in you.
So, when I’m falling apart, I pull an all-nighter. When I’m anxious, I clean. When I am miserable, I dress extra well. If something inside of me was becoming too loud, I made something outside orderly enough to drown it out. Because “I can’t look like my problems.” So I have always preferred to polish the surface. Until, slowly, there was less and less surface left to polish.
From when I became very unbothered about wearing makeup to school, to when going to school became difficult. Then there were days when getting through the door felt like trying to push my whole body through a keyhole. I’d spend barely a few hours outside before the nausea and lightheadedness sent me rushing back in.
The point where I stopped dressing so perfectly, when I retired from a lot of activities, sending notices of absence, and when I finally couldn’t study anymore—the final one because that has always been my most preserved goal. I finally accepted that I was really fucked.
Listening to the squeal of the rat, it sounds like my whimpers that have broken the silence of the night for quite some days now. I wonder if it hears me, never mind the neighbours, and if it wonders why I sound like him, or if maybe his whimpers are tears for me as well, because he must feel the despair all around me.
I think it’s pretty obvious. Over these past few weeks, the chaos within me had spilled and manifested around me. Clothes all over my table, papers where they shouldn’t be, little pieces of disorder multiplying faster than I can gather them. It’s not a dump; I’ll probably die before I let it get to that. But it’s bad enough that I know it’s bad and that it bothers me. Bad enough that the mess outside begins feeding the mess inside, and the mess inside makes it harder to touch anything outside. A vicious cycle.
I am very tired.
I must have said this so many times in the weeks gone by. And not subtly, at least not anymore. In person, in writing, on my face, on my body, in the things I have stopped doing and the things I have started doing. In every small, embarrassing way a person can leave a door open and hope somebody notices. No longer in my pretty metaphors from writings past, or fake smiles I expected people to decipher, I actively, desperately decided to let down my facade and scream my cry for help. Because even I acknowledge that I’m getting close to some line I don’t particularly want to cross. And although it scares me, it’s not enough to turn around, so I ask, or have been asking, to be held and pulled back.
But perhaps asking quietly is still a form of hiding. Perhaps there is some volume at which a cry becomes real. And not until then, it seems, do hands reach out. Not until the problem has grown large enough to occupy someone else’s room and become a burden, until it is impossible to look away. As long as you’re not shoving it into someone’s face, waving your hands and blocking their view, it is surprisingly easy to disappear.
That is why the prevention posters have started to irritate me. The detached instructions and the photographs of people smiling into cameras, as though being alive is a simple decision you make after reading the ‘right’ sentence. “How are you?” “I’m here for you.” “Do you want to talk?” What happens when the answer isn’t good? What happens when it’s inconvenient? These phrases simply become societal etiquette because death is ugly and funerals are sad. But they pass; the next day is another Saturday, school continues, and everyone has somewhere else to be. The burden is gone.
I’m really exhausted.
So when someone asks again, “You’re good, yeah?” it ticks me off so bad. Because no, no. No, I’m not okay, but your closed-ended question has already decided what the answer should be. “I’m good, and you?” You expect and want me to be okay without having to bother yourself. How else will society keep functioning and our utopia keep existing? Never mind the fact that my blade has rust from my blood, and it can’t make sharp cuts anymore. Right? I’m good, yeah?
Do I sound good?
But of course, happy suicide prevention month let’s share those broadcasts and tell everyone to talk to someone, without being a someone. Let’s dole out those “everything will be alrights” and share those camera smiles, but visibly shift in discomfort when everything is not, and we have to talk about it.
But who cares? This is just another pretty piece. Let’s clap and share this too.
The wall light finally dims. The rat is still awake. I’m tired.
Virevolte
(Contributor)
