Pathetic in Pain
You know that sinking feeling you get when you realise how badly you’ve fucked something up?
That heavy sensation which lies in the pit of your stomach, slowing you down, numbing your senses against the unpleasant weight of anxiety dangling from your heart strings.
I’ve fucked up so badly.
How difficult must it be to walk in to your bathroom, to find your flatmate on the floor, crying, with a snapped razor in her hand and blood on her wrist? To hear her beg and plead to be allowed to die, to have to face police ambulances hospitals tears panic attacks shaking nurses doctors cuts blood tests in a scary blur of a dark January night.
I guess I’ll probably never know, because I’ve only ever been the person on the floor.
I wish depression came with a cough or a permanent cold, because then it would be easier to recognise as the chronic illness that it is. Instead of tea and sympathy, it is lies, pain, fear, anger, struggling, embarrassment and failure.
You keep it hidden because you feel you have no right to be so low all the time. It’s easy to force a smile every so often.
And then, inevitably, you snap, tumbling head first into a dark chasm and inadvertently dragging the people you love most with you. It’s not your fault, but it is your fault. You have crept into their lives and pulled them under the surface of your misery, where they cling to you. They won’t let you go and they won’t let you die.
Sad and selfish, pathetic in pain.