Rachel S. Heslin
Thoughts, insights, and mindless blather

The weight of darkness
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I like to think of myself as a happy person. I take pride in my adaptability and resilience. But, lately, I've forced myself to weigh the empirical evidence against these impressions.

How many hours of my days are spent lying on the couch watching TV, or aimlessly surfing the net? How often do I plan to do something then not feel up to it? How many times have I called in sick to work because I just couldn't get out of bed?

The final factor was Shawn. He was telling me how it hurt to be around me: the mood swings, the way I'd crash out so that he thought I never wanted to do anything with him, that he felt alone when I was sitting beside him.

His words were echoes. I'd been on the outside of clinical depression, and I knew what he was feeling because I'd been helplessly caught in his own vortex not so long ago. He's sought help and it has worked such that he's now once again the man I fell in love with. He deserves no less from me.

It's not something I'm ashamed of, any more than someone should be ashamed of having diabetes. It's been shown that long-term levels of stress actually cause the human body to change on a physiological level, disrupting the way serotonin is produced and processed. Since I'm allergic to chocolate (which helps serotonin levels -- Professor Lupin was right) I'm looking at pharmaceutical options to regulate my body chemistry and bring it back in line.

Of course you didn't know. I'm a happy person, remember? And since I'm an extrovert, I gain energy from interacting with others. Therefore, when I'm with other people, I feel better. This, combined with my natural desire to put others at ease, means that you couldn't know. In a lot of ways, you merely saw what I wanted you to see.

As did I.

Sometimes I'm fine. Sometimes I am happy and inspired and full of life. But sometimes....

It's dark in here. I'm not breathing, because I've forgotten how. My chest is hollow and my blood is still, no longer pulsing but drifting along flaccid veins. I have become intangible, distant, other. If I were to reach to touch, my hand would pass through. I have heard of those who hurt themselves to know they can bleed, and though I have not the urge, I understand why.

I am tired of being tired. I am tired of crying over inconsequentials that do not merit my tears. I am tired of hurting the one who means more to me than Life, wounds suffered as punishment for wanting to love me.

I want to be me again.

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