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The Mind of the Melancholy

by Izzie 'Denmark' Flynn about a year ago in depression
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Lock her in the closet - she stinks of piss.

Sometimes survival is all we get.

My sodden jeans had long grown cold. My legs were rubbed raw from sitting in my own puddle of piss like a forgotten little fool. I crawled on to the window ledge to watch as the sun forced herself upon the rest of us, recalling even then how little I cared, having been thrown into a dark room and locked up for pissing myself. It wasn’t natural of course, but I’d suppressed worse, even so I wouldn’t have wished upon her the truck that would, in later years, turn her skull to minestrone; foul as hell though she may have been.

I remember watching the sun bounce around the top of his head. He had a brown skull mullet from the mad 70’s and it bothered me something fierce. 

"You’re a girl. You’re 16. You’re not depressed,” he laughed and yet proceeded to give me antidepressants not worth a damn. 
Well fuck you too pal, I thought to myself. I looked out of the window at the sun and how she blossomed on through everything, meanwhile, here and now my life was starting down a path from which I’d never be able to stray. 

Yes, a girl I was true enough, wiser than my years of course through no fault of my own. Whilst everyone around me dreamed of first kisses, bad parties with big mistakes and considered becoming under age mothers – there I had been; desperately searching for a reason not to jump from the bannister and let it all be gone-gone-gone from me like a thrown paperweight. But that from which I suffered, the sad state of the melancholy mind, was a committable offence. You see thinking of suicide like it was a chocolate cake apparently wasn’t healthy at all.

“Cognitive therapy,” said another doctor years later.
I shook my head. She looked at me like I was a routine case. 
She handed me a leaflet for a support group. They were sitting in a sad obscure circle with a hipster fellow who had the “your father hit you but try to smile anyway” kind of look. 
“You want me to sit with young offenders?” I asked beneath a crooked brow noticing the police issued jumpers.
“There are some young offenders who attend yes, but this is to help you think in a positive light. They are all on a wonderful path already.”

I smirked, taking the leaflet and pointing “James here,” I tapped on a wretched looking addict with three teeth, broke as glass, “is a rampaging drunk who attacks anyone who isn’t for the white supremacy movement. Last week he got his dick stuck in a plug socket from a bad bender and ran down a lovely old woman who sells tea on the avenue. Henry,” I pointed at a gothic youth who had been sent to prison for rape, “has a swastika tattooed on his cheek and runs around complaining that he can’t find a job. As for the girl he raped, Leanne, she’s been sleeping rough for 5 years. Tell me how cognitive therapy has helped her find a place to sleep. The poor kid is still prostituting herself out at grove park for a penny and a pickle. I can tell you how many babies she’s aborted; as many as 4.” 
 She sat with her mouth wide open. Eventually she blinked twice, shrugged her shoulders, evidently feeling that she didn’t get paid enough for my shit, and wrote a new prescription.

"Do you have a plan?"

"A plan?"

"How would you end it all?"
“Rope. I’m rather fond of dramatics.”

"What’s standing in your way?"

A confounded spark of will to live I imagine, I thought. The cruel irony of it was not lost on me. 

“The shower pole would never hold me. I wouldn’t want my husband to come home to find me hanging bereft of air like a forgotten Christmas ornament in the bathroom,” I laughed.

From the many years of being lost somewhere among the living and the dead, my back had long begun to arch into a never-ending coil, the pain of breathing had numbed itself into a miserable form of survival.

"As it stands I would like to have you put in the hospital immediately. You’re on that border of being a very serious danger to yourself.”

She continued to try to pacify me like I was yelling and screaming in some desperate attempt to escape the coo coos nest.

"That’s a bad idea. I’d be worse off in that confinement. In a nest full of lunatics? The Psychotic depressive is king. What if I say I won’t go?”

“I’ll send the sheriff.” 

Dial the number.”

After years of counselors, doctors and psychotherapists I find that the world would rather see me behind a glass case, in a strait jacket hanging by my toes -- and some days? As would I.

Little did I know that the heavy drum which had grown taut in my gut, as I sat piss ridden by the window all those years ago, held within the deepest depression the world had ever harbored; it was all mine. I suppose I’d rather say that I am in an eternal state of unyielding melancholy. The episode never lifts and I’ve become accustomed to a hard time, in fact I fear that I should be lonely without it.


About the author

Izzie 'Denmark' Flynn

The Hollowbone Storyteller.

A laconic fabricator of harrowing fiction and dark voice-driven narratives.

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