defeated for the day

Depression is bullshit.

No matter how hard she tries to fight it, she still breaks down. She takes her meds, she does her exercise, she tries to sleep early, she talks to people, and she smiles.

But when there are times, she's alone and all by herself ... that dark and heavy feeling would start crawling into her again. She would fight. Sometimes, she would win. She would paint and listen to music. If none of those is available, and it's a human being she needs to be with, she would feel defeated.

So, one night, she got an invitation to meet old friends. She met up with them in a bar. Bottles of beer filled the long table while the air was filled with smoke from the cigars. They were all in a drinking spree. In the midst of this, was a duo on stage singing songs to entertain them while they were supposed to enjoy their songs while talking (maybe, shouting) to each other. Oh, she was excited to see and experience that kind of environment once again. She thought to herself, "this is what I need!" She was offered a bottle of beer. But of course, she declined. The good girl that she is, the woman that she is who wants to take good care of herself and make sure she would be cured from her mental illness, declined that bottle of beer.

Suddenly, that dazed, heavy feeling knocked her head. She didn't fall down. She was still fighting that feeling while she was talking and listening to her old friends' stories. She was having a great time with them! But inside her, that feeling was shouting at her and telling her to go home and just sleep and feel defeated.

These are the happy times that she wouldn't want to miss but she would have to miss because her mind cannot just take in too much noise and too many things going on at the same time. It was surely fun but her mind probably felt shocked.

She went home. She slept. The next day when she woke up, that feeling - dazed and heavy on her head was still in her.

She still went on with her usual day. She forgot to take her meds before leaving home. She could just have missed the medicine for the day but she chose not too because she was already starting to feel restless, sad, and just spaced out. She dropped by at the nearest drug store and continued with her day.

Just like any Prozac, it made her feel sleepy. She was in a middle of lecture listening to a master when her head could not just help but fall asleep. Her eyes were closing and her hand that was writing notes, dropped the notebook.

She thought she could still handle the day. She diverted her attention. She thought she could look forward to spending the rest of the day with her friend. They could watch a movie together. But, he wasn't available.

She went home and slept for four straight hours. Sleeping that long in the afternoon doesn't do her good. But sleep was her only escape from feeling too much sadness.


She woke up and still felt sad.

She went to the mall and still felt sad.

She went home and still felt sad.

She started writing this, feeling sad.

The power of two hands

I was already feeling that voice of sadness whispering in my head when my boyfriend left for home.

"You're alone, again" said that voice. It kept nagging at me. I closed my eyes, took a plunge onto my bed and entertained that voice. I told her, "So you're there again. Just because I'm physically alone, you're already taking advantage of my vulnerability."

And I knew then, that self-talk, that self-awareness that I was starting to feel sad, that I had to do something.

And I did. I forced myself up from the bed. I looked around me. A messy vanity table. And that buzzing vibrating sound from the aquarium's oxygen.

The sight and the sound that irritated me became my reason for my cleaning therapy. Yes, cleaning is also a therapy.

I haven't had my talk therapy for two months already. So I knew I had to make my way to help myself. An incident almost two months ago sort of pulled me back from getting my talk therapy. That's a different story.

So, I helped myself. I got my hands that cleaned the mess and removed the irritating sound . I also got my heart that desired to help myself.

My still living and breathing self and the desire to help that self... powerful.

Art as therapy

Let art speak my thoughts.

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