[Chado2423]

A Little Depression Story...

(Part one)

Chad A. Fisher


By the way... anything herein is not meant to make the reader feel depressed or to experience "the blues", or gather the same feelings the author expresses.
Disclamatory Remarks: It is of this author's personal experience that mental illnesses are misunderstood by some and at times may have a certain stigma attached to them. It is with caution that this be written. First and foremost, the stigma by certain groups and/or individuals cannot be erased, or eased if the illnesses are not explained. Secondarily, although more information may be held, and more people of mental illness may speak out this does not guarantee that the new information will not also be treated in the same way as the former by certain groups and/or individuals. Based on personal experience, friends with mental illnesses, and also a film entitled "Deep In Depression" by Lionhead movies production as seen on Youtube. (Direct Quotations from an untitled poem by Amed Hanan have also been used.)


One day a gentalman on the street passes a stranger. With a quick glance the gentalman says "Have a nice day?" But the stranger says nothing. The stranger shelters himself and seems a bit perplexingly sheltered from the gentalman's remarks, almost as though the gentelman had said something rude. "I can't be cordial to this guy... besides, the mentally ill doesn't go out to the store to buy milk for fear of retribution from society for existing. Yet one must get his daily needs from someone somewhere." The feelings inside the stranger burst with anxious energy "Should I say something like '**** off' to the guy? I mean he doesn't know what I'm going through. I haven't had a nice day in years." A quick half smile and the emotions consume the poor lad with barely enough gusto to make it to the store. "Chin up" "Proper smile." The words from childhood haunt him as he paves his way, feeling almost as though he were invisible or dead already; like a dead man walking. Yes he knows those proper phrases were meant to be social teachings that were just supposed be well... dammit, he couldn't be like everyone else; he was imperfect, and now he knows it more than ever... "Can't they see that?" He wonders. "Can't people see that I'm different." Though it is sunlight, and people greet him as though he were one of the normals, he could not help but consider himself anything but normal. "But depression is just a phase" he ponders... "it should fade away tonight after I rest... No, it hasn't faded and its been years of pills...." "medication and therapy and you'll feel better in four to eight weeks"... he laughs to himself and thinks, as he smokes. Without the cigarette he wonders if he'd even make it to the store. He hasn't been out of his apartment in a whole week, and he fears another deep onset of depression bouts are soon to enslew him like a tidal wave. He rushes past another gentalman standing at the door, and looks around inside the store. "Too many people." he thinks whispering this a few times nervously to himself. He twitches. His shoulder rises and his head bobs a little. "No I can't do this." "Yes I can. I can do this." "Just make my way to the scan and pays." Not wanting to deal with human interaction, he decides to use modern technology for his payment method. His face begins to feel numb, and blood rushes to his forehead. He feels it, but supresses it. "You'll have to wait untill I get home." He mumbles out loud to his symptom. "Was that too loud? Did people hear me? Why am I talking out loud to myself in public? After all he doesn't want anyone to think he's gone mad. He makes his way to the milk. Hands shaking, palms sweating. If the medication worked he wouldn't be shaking, right? He shouldn't be shaking. "Medication they say..."
At home sitting in a chair waiting, thoughts come up... waiting for his mother to come home. Yet another person who has been tragically stigmatized by society. Yet, it isn't her fault. And he still loves his mother, though she doesn't understand what is going on with her son at the present moment. His thoughts overwhelm him, and he wishes nothing more than they would stop. Thoughts, and thoughts rising to the sky, filling up the room. He wonders if his thoughts were turned into spiders biting him.... he might actually feel better, strangely. "There are times that I want to break down and cry" He writes "even though I know not why" "Its a letter, no its a poem, I'm going to explain this to my friends at school... no I'm not. I don't even know why I'm writing this, no one will like it." He continues writing..."It makes me feel rotten and bad, because I don't know what makes me so sad. I don't know the reason to this sadness." He steps up... places a do not disturb sign on his bedroom door handle, so his mother won't bother him. He wants to finish writing. "What's the point in writing?" He thinks. "No one cares, no one understands." "I have tried to ignore the pain. But my effort has gone in vain." He lays down, exhausted from his trip to the store. "That was hard work" he praises himself. To others a simple task. To himself, quite a burden." He falls asleep, but is quite restless through the night. He wakes up with less energy than the day before. His mother has left for work, and he is without a job... "yet another thing to be depressed about" he thinks. "Back to your writing... you got to write damn fool. Back to your poem. "This pain is driving me restless..." a good line he thinks from the nights of uneasiness that have enfolded him into a slave to their torment... "I am feeling..." "what word?" "helpless" "What should I do now?" He paces the floor. He contemplates suicide. "This sadness won't leave me."I wish to end this immediately" he writes. The poem not rhyming, he doesn't care. "But how?" "Why can't someone tell me how?" He has finsihed writing for the night.