Chapter 3

Scrumpling up yet another piece of paper I tossed it blindly at the waste paper basket by my side that was already overflowing with scraps of torn and crinkled paper. 

Letting out a long sigh I sunk in my chair bringing my head to rest on my desk.

Damn therapists, all they want to do is talk about "feelings".  "And what happens then if you're like me and you feel nothing?" I thought out loud to myself. "What if you're just a numb shadow of a former self..."

I peeked through the small gaps in the flowing black curtain that was my hair falling in before my face as I gazed defeated at the mess on the desk in front of me. Scraps of paper, a refill pad covered in scribbled out words here and there from my repeated failed attempts to answer that one question, "How are you?"

I rolled my eyes and buried my face in my crossed arms at the though of having to give the letter for Dr.Garavaglia, who I referred to as "Dr.G" due to difficulties in spelling her name, another attempt. 

"Okay" I breathed.... "One last attempt."

I sat up and pulled the refill pad over to me. I paused, looking at my last attempt. "Nothing" I wrote. I simply just felt nothing anymore.

"No" I muttered quietly shaking my head, "no, I will do this"

Taking a deep breath I began.

           An hour later I looked up at the clock. It read four A.M. I gave my letter for Dr.G another read over before sealing it in the envelope. "I hope it's okay" I whispered. I was surprised how hard it is to answer the simple question after being isolated by my depression for so long.

Numb they say.

Emotionless they assume.

Heartless they accuse.

Insane they proclaim.

Outcast they decide.

Empty i explain. Yes numb but not insane.

Emotions become a memory gone but not forgotten.No feeling, only emptiness.

Sometimes that emptiness is replaced by fear.

No purpose, no reason, no ambition, no cause.

Sometimes it's hard to believe you're living. It's as if you are witnessing every move in the game of life but you're merely a bystander. 

Vulnerable, helpless, paralysed by fear and desensitized by the vacancy of it all.

Alive but barely breathing. 

Each step I take sending me further down the path of depression. Although, I do not like to admit it as it makes me feel insane.

And how is one illness of the mind possibly responsible for my oppressed condition?

Seldom illnesses of the body can destroy a person's personality and will alone. So how can it be that one, just one, illness of the mind can tear me apart as fluidly as depression?

I feel I am too internally disfigured to be of any significance.

Outcasted by society.

And it's killing me.