The past two weeks have been a melancholic shit show. Nothing happened, nothing’s happening. I’m still trapped in my room – convincing myself that I’ll never need to step foot in to the outside world, even if I need to replenish anything, since this house is basically a hoarder’s paradise, that I’ll find everything, anything, somewhere.
My antidepressant was a big joke – it worked well, but to the extent that I was driven to heavy bouts of crying spells. Wiping away the river that descended only insisted on a weight I refused to face. I bid myself bedridden due to an obligatory force that states its mandatory presence. AKA you-know-what.
Truth be told, it was Thanksgiving weekend, I gave up on my AD and it was out of my system long enough for me to be able to pretend to be a regular human. It was an eerie event. Everyone was either staring up at the giant flat screen HDTV, or down at their smartphones, scrolling through the abyss of memes and likes. At this point I only had brief encounters with older relatives, trying to fake a smile as they tell me that I’ve put on weight and “it’s good!”. Right. I found my cousins and they’re busy doing homework. No one my age is holding a drink. It was around this point that I started considering going sober; why am I even so reliant on a beverage that will only ruin my liver, weight, and skin?
A friend once told me that she was too vain to do cocaine. 50% health 50% vanity. Maybe it’s time to immerse myself in my narcissism, like the pretty girl I’m expected to be.