love & depression

I see my reflection in my computer screen. My face has become sharp angles. I am very sick and sickness has taken me over. An aging beauty queen, if those words can describe what I was when I was younger, an Asian girl in black leather stretched tight over jutting hipbones, jet black hair spilling in tangles and eyes as haunted as moonlight. Everyone’s eyes following me, self-conscious and exotic. Today I am thirty-eight, damaged by the indiscretions of my past. I am sick, I tell myself. Today I am sick and I will stay in bed. My intensity scares people. I cannot go out.

There are tiny little things. Signs that I must keep going. In reality, there are no other acceptable options. Our bedroom is sectioned in two by a bare mattress. The mess on my side would get me committed and my husband’s side is not much better. A prosaic thought: we’ll spend the weekend cleaning. Cheap ovulation prediction kit strips litter my nightstand next to bottles of pills. Ziprasidone. Lamotrogine. Paroxetine. I’m not like a regular person, I’m a little zany. The cat starts crying. I haven’t kept track of the time, and his dinner is late. Life was not always like this for me, for my husband that I love so dearly. He’ll be home soon and I’ll smile. The daytime is brutal.


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