Today I wore depression as a cloak.
If I was still in hospital, I would tell Geoff that my chest aches, that it's heavy with pain; and he'd record every detail, like a scientist in a lab searching for a cure. I would ask Oliver to play uno on the couch when secretly I just wanted company; a witness to my internal turmoil, someone to observe the double blinks and melancholy pauses. If I was lucky, Alistair would be on night duty and he'd talk about the Simpsons, how our brain doesn't fully mature till we're twenty-five, or how his wife is flawless and forever expanding in an effortless expression of beauty (he was still very much in love).
Yesterday when I met with my psychiatrist, three singular tears rolled down my cheek—they spelt DEFEAT, HOPELESS and DESPARATION in liquid form. You're doing all the right things, he said firmly. But I don't know how much longer I can go through the motions before I slip back into PLANNING, DELUSION and FAREWELL MODE.
I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry.