You’re lying perfectly still, but the world is spinning too fast for you to comprehend. You don’t understand this. There’s a sinking kind of feeling in your stomach, sinking down to your feet, although by the laws of physics it should be sinking down to your right side. Whatever that means. You’re rambling again. A dull ache on the right side of your face. Self-induced? Who knows.
Instead of trying to slow the world down, you close your eyes. The endless gloom that is pitch black somehow traps you in a pocket of time where no one else can reach you. Your stomach growls. Your mind deafens. Broken heart. Limbed paralysis. You are the textbook example of a woman who has succumbed to the illness that is severe melancholia. How interesting it is that you have not submerged yourself in these deep waters for a while. You forget there ever was such thing as happiness. The dream, it seems, is over. In a way, the dream continues, only it darkens and begins to rot in the recesses of your mind.
“Don’t be sad, dear. Try to see it from his perspective. He is feeling ill, so it would be better for him to stay at home. Rest and recover, or was it rest and recuperate? You as well. It would be better for you to stay at home, too.”
“Fuck off. You are the voice I never want to hear when I’m depressed. Why are you even here now? Just let me go.”
“It’s okay for you to feel this way. Just understand that maybe it’s not a good idea to feed yourself this poison.”
“You know what I feel like? No, you don’t, but I’ll tell you anyway. I feel like screaming. I want to smash something. I want to break someone else’s heart, again. Maybe my own. I don’t know. I never want to let go of this rage. I know if I keep it all bottled up, eventually I will reach a breaking point and someone else might see it when I don’t want them to. This kind of bottled up resentment pushes people away, even if they don’t realise it themselves. I try to be a good person. I forgive and forget easily. But sometimes I want to go back to who I was in June.”