4:52 a.m.
If she sat still enough, hidden away in the corner, maybe life would fall away, leaving her a sole entity adrift in a sea of nothingness. If she buried her face against her knees, maybe the aching pain in her head would fade away, taking the voices with it. If she cried enough tears, maybe they would wash away everything about herself that she hated, replacing it all with the beauty, intelligence, and wit that she felt she didn't have. If she swallowed enough screams of rage and pain, maybe the urge to do so would eventually move on to someone else.
She knew better. Her problem was her mind, which refused to work correctly. And so she hunkered down in the darkest corner of her bedroom, squeezing her eyes shut and whimpering softly so that no one else would hear. She wouldn't be able to explain away the tears, the pain, or the anguish if any of her family heard her, because she couldn't explain what was wrong to herself. The tears came and she couldn't stop them; the depression came and she couldn't push it away.
She knew that across the room from where she sat was a dresser, and atop this dresser she knew there was a doll, a clown. It was laughing at her, it's lips twisted into a wide, grotesque grin of triumph and mockery. It enjoyed the way she cried, creating an ocean of agony that threatened to wash her away, body and soul. Laughing at her, taunting her, it sat there day and night, a gift from a grandmother she didn't even remember, watching over her as she slowly collapsed into herself.
Nothing helped anymore. It used to be that she could sink down into bed and make up elaborate scenarios in her head that would put her anywhere else than that bedroom and make her into anyone but herself. They comforted her because she could pretend that she wasn't really who she was. And then that ability had slowly begun to fade, leaving her bereft of a way to get herself to sleep without crying into her pillow. Dreaming had once helped her mind to escape, but it had left her shivering and empty.
And no one knew. No one saw the pain in her eyes or the dying soul behind an impassive face.
Oh, she was happy-go-lucky enough when she was out in public. People saw her smile, people heard her laugh, and people saw only what she wanted them to see. It wouldn't do for her to break down, because too many people depended on her. Too many people had come to expect her sound advice, her loyal support, and her ability to make anyone feel better. It was a talent she had. She could make people feel better without any effort, but she could never extend that ability to herself. She couldn't make herself better, and she couldn't make herself happy. And there was no one around who bothered to try.
July 29th, 2002
If she sat still enough, hidden away in the corner, maybe life would fall away, leaving her a sole entity adrift in a sea of nothingness. If she buried her face against her knees, maybe the aching pain in her head would fade away, taking the voices with it. If she cried enough tears, maybe they would wash away everything about herself that she hated, replacing it all with the beauty, intelligence, and wit that she felt she didn't have. If she swallowed enough screams of rage and pain, maybe the urge to do so would eventually move on to someone else.
She knew better. Her problem was her mind, which refused to work correctly. And so she hunkered down in the darkest corner of her bedroom, squeezing her eyes shut and whimpering softly so that no one else would hear. She wouldn't be able to explain away the tears, the pain, or the anguish if any of her family heard her, because she couldn't explain what was wrong to herself. The tears came and she couldn't stop them; the depression came and she couldn't push it away.
She knew that across the room from where she sat was a dresser, and atop this dresser she knew there was a doll, a clown. It was laughing at her, it's lips twisted into a wide, grotesque grin of triumph and mockery. It enjoyed the way she cried, creating an ocean of agony that threatened to wash her away, body and soul. Laughing at her, taunting her, it sat there day and night, a gift from a grandmother she didn't even remember, watching over her as she slowly collapsed into herself.
Nothing helped anymore. It used to be that she could sink down into bed and make up elaborate scenarios in her head that would put her anywhere else than that bedroom and make her into anyone but herself. They comforted her because she could pretend that she wasn't really who she was. And then that ability had slowly begun to fade, leaving her bereft of a way to get herself to sleep without crying into her pillow. Dreaming had once helped her mind to escape, but it had left her shivering and empty.
And no one knew. No one saw the pain in her eyes or the dying soul behind an impassive face.
Oh, she was happy-go-lucky enough when she was out in public. People saw her smile, people heard her laugh, and people saw only what she wanted them to see. It wouldn't do for her to break down, because too many people depended on her. Too many people had come to expect her sound advice, her loyal support, and her ability to make anyone feel better. It was a talent she had. She could make people feel better without any effort, but she could never extend that ability to herself. She couldn't make herself better, and she couldn't make herself happy. And there was no one around who bothered to try.
July 29th, 2002