It’s 9:30 at night, I am feeling kind of dead. Not kind of - no, I don’t know. I’m not dead, I just wish I was dead. I’m lying in my little bed.
I wish I was dead, wish I was dead, wish I was dead… Depression, a lonely muse, sings in my ear.
I fold myself up like one of the notes people never pass me, and pull the comforter over my body. I try to pretend that I am somewhere far, far away.
BLEEP BLEEP IT IS SIX O’CLOCK BLEEP WAKE UP
Oh, it’s 6:00? Already? Well, I don’t have to be ready until 7:50. I’ll skip the homework I planned to do this morning and get ready in a bit. I need a bit more rest…
6:25. Still dark outside. Please get up.
Worthless, worthless, worthless, hopeless
”Phil, it’s 7:00! You have to leave in 50 minutes! Get up, honey!” My mother cheeps at me from the doorway of my room.
It’s 7:00. Already. I should have known.
Get up right now, you screwed-up, lazy, unkept -
Fine, yes, alright.
I fly through my daily duties of dressing, brushing and breakfast (should I skip? Yes? No? Oh, never mind, it’s not like you would be able to stop yourself anyways. Fattie.) and by then I am so stressed/terrified/depressed that I have involuntarily descended into an almost mute state. I am emotionally numb; listless. This sort-of-defense-mechanism grates on the nasty little perfectionist who lives in my head. She fires up at once, disgusted with the exceptionally worthless qualities I am exhibiting. I am commanded by her to get my act together and put a smile on that face. However, I lack even the energy to do her bidding, and simply continue to stare - frozen - into nothingness.
Well, since you can’t do anything about your state, don’t look anyone in the eye. They’ll know there’s something wrong you.
I begin to ponder my own death. Oh, suicide, how would I carry out thee? Let me count the ways: Pills and Booze, Razor, Rope, in the bathroom, in my room, outside in the forest… These thoughts are immediately met with snarling opposition from other thoughts. Thinking of suicide is “wrong” - therefore, I am even more worthless. To escape the bloody, conflicting words in my head, I crawl further into my imagination.
I am in a room. It is a long, rectangular room with high ceilings. Every surface is covered with smooth white tiles that blend together almost seamlessly at the edges. A single window, high up on the wall I stand in front of, fills the room with bright light. Everything is peaceful. Everything is quiet. I can be alone here.
Suddenly, someone appears in front of the wall opposite me. Hostility practically bursts out of their bodies to come pin me to the wall: their face shows horrible anger, their fists are balled up and they are shaking with the effort it is taking them to keep from attacking me at once. Another person, equally furious, steps out from behind the first person and takes a place beside them. Then another person steps out from behind, and another from behind them, and soon the whole opposite end of the room is filled with angry beings. They shout at me, and raise their fists at me, and snarl and spit and speak of murder. I look towards the window above me, hoping to escape, but it is higher than even the tips of my fingers and there are metal bars over the glass. The crowd of people grows angrier at my apparent consideration of escape, and a tall boy in the front steps forward and cups his hands around his mouth to scream:
More of the crowd begins to take steps towards me, all of them shouting and screeching.
”You are an ugly human being!”
”You are selfish and insane!”
”You are never going to solve your problems!”
”Phil, are you ready? It’s time to go,” says my mother. I blink. She doesn’t know what just happened inside my head. I guess that’s okay. What happened wasn’t real.
I rush out of my house and to my driveway, where my dad is waiting in the car. As we drive to school, he tries to have a conversation, but I can’t participate. I want to tell him that I am no more useful than a boiled cabbage. No rational humans should speak to boiled cabbages, should they?
Soon I am stepping out of the car again and walking into my school and then my first class. As it turns out, I am late.
Oh, yes, walk into class late. Look at everybody staring at you, Phil! This is pretty pathetic.
Sleepy Sloth Stares Silently into Space. Salliteration.
Teacher reminds Sloth of test tomorrow. Will Sloth be ready? By the way, Sloth missed the pop quiz at the beginning of class today, so Sloth will need to remember to make it up during a study hall later.
”Okay,” I say, through what feels like 100 yards of murky river water.
Class goes by. People talk; blah, blah, blah. Next class = more talking + more space in which to disappear.
”Are you alright?” asks Teacher #2. Sleepy Sloth Stares into Space and the teacher leaves. It is only then that Sloth whispers: