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Alive

but not living

By Jillian BakerPublished 4 years ago β€’ 3 min read
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𝒀𝒐𝒖 π’‚π’π’˜π’‚π’šπ’” π’”π’Žπ’Šπ’π’† π’π’Šπ’Œπ’† π’šπ’π’–β€™π’“π’† 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒐 π’„π’“π’š...

𝒀𝒐𝒖 π’‚π’π’˜π’‚π’šπ’” π’”π’Žπ’Šπ’π’† π’π’Šπ’Œπ’† π’šπ’π’–β€™π’“π’† 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒐 π’„π’“π’š; sometimes I wonder if anyone else notices. I’m sure your spine has been permanently curved by the weight of all those empty, broken promises you continue to carry on your shoulders.

β€˜I’ll come home this Christmas.’

β€˜I’ll go out with you tomorrow.’

β€˜I’m fine, really; work is just stressful.’

β€˜I’m different now. I’m better.’

Your friends aren’t oblivious to the longing in your eyes, but they’ve learned to write it off as β€˜one of those days’. You and I both know that can’t be right, though, because it’s been β€˜one of those days’ for the past 8 months. Maybe it’s been a year... you’re not sure because most of the days have gotten away from you. You spent most of them unable to move from your bed, thinking about all the ways you could have made the day productive, but what’s the use?

Many of them were also spent trying to feel something; curled up naked in the bathtub without any water. Your skin pressed against the cold porcelain reminded you that you were still warm, and that meant that blood was being pumped through your veins to your heart, which meant you were still alive, but you weren’t sure you knew what that meant anymore.

Some days were spent outside of your house, usually with a friend, probably getting coffee or lunch, something like that. Those were the days that got away from you the most, though, right? You’re smart and you know that staying home all the time without contacting anyone, drowning in the pool of regret and disappointment that you’ve created, might cause people to see through your lies, and that couldn’t happen. So, you call up a friend, pick a restaurant, and go out. You talk and smile, even laugh a few times, so as not to make it obvious that you could taste blood from biting the inside of your cheek so hard every time she makes a joke about never seeing you.

You’ve colored the scenario in your head countless times, so as not to leave any piece in black in white. What would happen if they never saw you again? Would it really be so bad? They don’t care where you are until they need you. Your disappearance would be, at most, a minor inconvenience. You don’t think you want to die, but you know you want to disappear. The only issue, the one question that continues to plague you: is there really a difference? And if so, is it significant enough a reason to care? If no one knows you’re alive, are you?

You are. You know that, but does it matter? If you’re alive but no one knows, no one cares... you have somehow circled back to the same feeling of inadequacy and helplessness as before.

In your efforts to avoid the looming question, you continue to exist. You continue to make an appearance here and there in the lives of those β€œclose” to you; and you, too, write off the emptiness as β€˜one of those days’. Maybe one day, you’ll believe it, too.

depression
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