A Day With Depression

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A Day With Depression

My name is Depression and everyone knows what I am, what I have. My best friend’s name is Agoraphobia and she doesn’t get out much. My mother’s name is Anxiety, my father’s Borderline. Together, they created me, Depression. We live in a world where everyone knows everyone’s illness. It is branded all over us, it is in our name. We live in a world of utter sadness.

I walk down the hallway at school, clutching my books as though they keep me alive, which, in some cases, they do. I keep my head down, staring at the floor. I don’t want anyone to see the hollowness in my eyes. Just as I look up, I crash into a small body. She hits the floor with a grunt.
“Oh my gosh, I’m sorry, let me help you up,” I offer.
“Get your disgusting hands off me, loser,” Anorexia stands up, brushes herself off and gives me a once over. “Maybe you should skip lunch today,” she laughs to herself, picking at the lanugo that has grown on her to keep her warm. She is delusional from lack of food. I can tell that hunger consumes her. She saunters off down the hall, her too small jeans hanging loosely on her hips.

I walk down the hall to my next class and take a seat in the back corner, isolated, away from everyone else. The students all file in, filling the room with meaningless chatter.
“Alright, alright, everyone take a seat, we need to get started here!” Mr. OCD yells above the students. He walks to his desk, straightening his already neat pile of papers. He looks at the class, and his eyes nearly bulge out of his head. We all know what’s coming next. Mr. OCD is going to arrange us by the color of shirt we are wearing. If you are wearing a multicolored shirt he is going to ask you to go change into your gym shir, which is required to be white. Lucky for me, I will remain in my corner seat as I am always wearing a black shirt. Twenty minutes into class, Mr. OCD can rest easy, as we are all color coordinated into our correct seats.
“Alright, are you all ready to take today’s quiz?” Mr. OCD asks, looking over every students face.
“Um, Mr. OCD?” a hand to my left is raised in the air.
“Yes, Hysteria?” Mr. OCD acknowledges.
“I am not ready to take this quiz. I will not take this quiz! I cannot take this quiz!” Hysteria’s voice raises with worry.
“Mr. Hysteria, do you want to take the quiz tomorrow?” Inquires Mr. OCD.
“Yes, yes I would. Thank you! Thank you so much, Mr. OCD!” Hysteria is almost yelling with relief.
The quizzes are passed out and I cannot bring myself to care. I look at the problems printed neatly on the paper. I look around the classroom, watching my classmates bent over their desks, pencils scratching paper. My eyes stop on Self Harm, who is not taking her quiz, but scratching at the wounds that cover her arms. She is bleeding, and the blood is flowing freely. She wraps her sweater sleeve around her wrist, applying pressure to the gash. She raises her hand, “Mr. OCD? Can I go to the nurse? I, uh, need a bandaid.”

Mr. OCD looks up from his computer, seeing the blood, he gets a panicky look in his eyes, “Yes, yes. Go now! Bring Depression with you,” he insists quite forcefully.

I stand and walking to Self Harm, I put my arm around her frail body and walk her out the door, into the hallway. We walk silently to the nurses office, me carrying most of her weight as she is becoming drowsy from loss of blood. In the nurses office sits Nurse Hypochondria, typing away on her computer. When the door clicks closed, she looks up.
“Oh, oh dear. Oh dear. Come sit here. Let me see. Oh dear,” she continues saying things relatively close to this while she gets out gauze and some cleaning solution. She cleans up the wound, mumbling to herself as she does so.
"There, now you're all cleaned up. Don't get any blood anywhere though! Did you bleed in the hall?” she coughs. “Oh dear, I may be coming down with something. Go back to class!” she is crazed with fear of catching something from Self Harm’s blood.

We walk out of the room. “You going back to class?” asks Self Harm, rubbing her newly bandaged arm.
“No, as long as I have an excuse,” I tell her.
“Alright, see you later, Depression,” she starts to walk away but pauses. “And hey, thanks for coming with me to the nurse. Everybody is kinda freaked out by me,” with that she gives me a small smile and walks down the hall. I watch as she takes a left turn and disappears.

I walk aimlessly around the school for awhile and find myself outside sitting on a wall, my feet dangling below me. I ponder what it would be like if I were twenty stories up and looking down at my feet dangling from there. Would I jump? Would I float, delicately, to the ground? I shake my head at the thought, I am not Suicide, why am I thinking this way? Just then, a large boy walks up and plops down next to me. Multiple Personalitie, MP for short, is sitting next to me. There’s something utterly unique about MP that no doctors can really figure out. MP is also Schizophrenia. He switches between the two. Sometimes he is MP, other times he is Schizo. Personally, I like MP best.
“Hello, Depression. You’re looking wonderful, as always,” MP-I assume it’s MP, as he is not babbling about the angels he sees-smiles at me.
And then something happened. Something utterly out of my character.
I blushed.
I do not blush. I do not have feelings of joy or feel flattered. This is not right. I shake the idea off and give MP a small, sad smile. “Well, thank you MP. You’re looking quite dapper yourself.”

MP gets quiet. He slouches down a bit and shakes his shoulders. I know what is happening, and I do not mind it. I wait patiently for Schizo to arrive, knowing he will tell me lots of interesting stories. A few minutes later, Schizo sits back up. “Hello, Depression. You’re looking wonderful, as always,” Schizo smiles at me.
“Well, thank you Schizo. You’re looking quite dapper yourself,” I reply.
Schizo takes a moment to reply, looking out beyond the tree line, “Do you see them? I suppose you can’t see them, can you? They’re all lined up there. And they’re all beautiful. They look like us. Azazel is you, Depression. Cassiel, that’s Agoraphobia. Michael, that’s Hysteria. Sariel, that’s Nurse Hypochondria. Jophiel is me. There are more, but I don’t know who they are. I wish I could speak with them, know why they follow me. They don’t talk, but they make me feel safe,” he stops and smiles at me. “I feel really safe and happy when they’re around.”
“I wish I had some angels to make me feel that way,” I longed.
“They don’t always make me feel safe, you know,” Schizo inquired. “Sometimes they scare me. I’ll wake up in the middle of the night and one of them, usually Sariel, will be standing over me, watching me sleep.”
“Sometimes I can’t sleep. Actually, I can’t sleep a lot of the time,” I say.
“Oh here, I’ve got something for you then,” Schizo leans over and reaches into his backpack pulling out a bottle of pills. “They don’t do anything for me, so you can have them. They just make you sleep,” he hands me the bottle of pills.
“Are you sure? Thanks, Schizo. I’ll try them. I think I’m gonna start heading home though,” I wrap my arm around his shoulders and squeeze a little. He leans into me.
“Alright, see you around Depression,” he smiles warmly at me and slumps over again, searching for the other person, MP, that resides inside of him.

I walk around the parking lot for about twenty minutes looking for my old, beat up car. I finally find it and climb in, the door squawking at me as it opens. I drive home in a daze, unaware of the music on the radio, intent on watching my surroundings. I feel weird. I feel, not sad. Which can’t be happening because I am literally Depression personified.

I park on the street because there is no more room in the garage with my parents cars needing to park there. I walk inside, read the note on the counter asking me to do the dishes and sweep the kitchen. I roll my eyes and dump my books onto the kitchen table. I study and do homework for a good thirty minutes, or until my head starts throbbing above my left eye. I clean up the kitchen and do my chores. It is only 5:30 but I am as tired as ever. I walk downstairs into my bedroom. I kick some dirty clothes into a corner and put on an oversized t-shirt. I lay in bed and toss and turn until 6:00. Giving up, I step back into the kitchen. I grab the pill bottle out of my purse and swallow two. Back in my bed, I lay on my back, waiting for slumber to pull me in. Within fifteen minutes I am dreaming of a far away place. I dream of a world where people are people with regular names and not disorders. I dream of a world where no one knows what illness you have unless you tell them yourself. It is a nice world. I do not think I will wake up from this world.

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kjnelson said...
Oct. 28, 2013 at 2:39 pm
this is a great piece.  love your work.  keep up the amazing writing!
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