Content warning: depression
Please keep in mind that this is a piece of fiction, and is meant to portray a characters experience with a mental health disorder/learning disability.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
I can’t do it. I stare at the alarm clock consistently and unabashedly beeping at me, expecting me to get up, go to school, and live my life like everyone else. Unfortunately for the alarm clock, I’m not like everyone else. My body aches with a deep need to soak back into slumber as my mind similarly begs for sleep.
It’s hard to remember a time before I felt this way; before I felt this weight pressed upon my shoulders, my chest, my very being. Before my brightly colored body filled with consistent laughter flittering through the school halls turned into dark comfortable clothing and solemn smiles that never quite reach my eyes. Alas, this is how it is, and who am I to disagree with what my body and mind desire? I seep back into my blankets, quickly deciding to become one with the bed supporting my body, suddenly melding into a single being until–
“AMANDA! GET UP! IF YOU FALL BACK ASLEEP, I’M SHUTTING OFF YOUR PHONE FOR A WEEK!”
Ah yes, the blissful screaming sounds of the wild, better known as my mother. I don’t really think she understands me anymore. She can’t seem to comprehend the difference in who I’ve become, and I’ve quickly grown out of looking for acceptance and support from her. After all, I don’t know what’s happened to me either.
Depression tends to come in mysterious waves, but for me, it always seems hardest in the mornings. If I manage to escape the insurmountable pleasure of comfort that my beautiful bed provides me, I might head to the bathroom. If I do head to the bathroom, the first thing that always seems to catch my eye is my reflection.
I feel like I used to smile more. I feel like it used to be easier to wake up and look in the mirror and just simply… smile. Now, I look in the mirror and quickly scowl at the circles surrounding my eyes, noticing that my face seems to match that of the raccoons ravaging my trash cans every other day.
After comparing myself to the raccoons, the smell of morning breath might– just might– provoke me to brush my teeth. The bright white smile plastered on the tube of toothpaste stares at me, laden with perfection. I wish I cared about my teeth–I could pretend to be in one of those toothpaste commercials where the woman basks in the shower as she cleanly polishes her already perfect teeth. But lately, I can’t think of anything more brutal than the feel of mint chalk plastered throughout my mouth.
If I manage to brush my teeth, I might think about doing my hair, but this feeling only lasts a second before I sweep my mangled curls into what can be considered a “messy bun.” Other girls would probably marvel at how easy it is to create the perfect messy bun. The trick is to not bother brushing your hair.
Now, the process of deciding to do all of this would easily take me an hour, as the dread throughout my body doesn’t seem to cease for even a moment. The weight pressed upon my being remains constant, even as my eyes survey my closet. They would quickly skim over my brightly colored articles of clothing to soon land upon a dirty yet comfortable sweatshirt that might comfort me with the feeling of my bed throughout the rest of the day.
Of course, all of this never happened today. As I proceeded to take you through this rather interesting illusion of what might have been, in reality, I’m still in bed. I’m in bed, ignoring the world and the screams of my mom coming from the floor below as she heads off to work. I’m in bed with a dark weight pressing upon my chest as the darkness of my mind lulls me, hopefully, into a forever sleep.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
