I had a dream where I got depressed again.
depressed to the point where I spiralled out of control,
and, as expected,
everyone ostracised me for it.
I dreamt of being sidelined, rejected,
as though my illness were an inconvenience
they had finally grown tired of tolerating.
In the dream, I lied to escape things,
and people called me out for it.
They said not to use my illness as an excuse.
The suffocation came back.
The exhaustion I know too well returned,
wrapping itself around me like an old enemy.
When I woke up,
I felt more tired than before I slept.
Sometimes, it’s hard to distinguish
my reality from my fantasies
not that my fantasies contain rainbows or unicorns.
They are filled with scorn and rejection,
a mirror-world where my fears thrive
even when nothing real has happened.
Sometimes, I think
I shouldn’t have been born at all
that I should have died inside my mother’s womb.
A harsh thought.
A selfish one, perhaps.
But it comes, uninvited.
I miss the little girl I once was
the one who wasn’t afraid of anything.
Somehow, I have grown into fear.
I have people who love me,
people who stand by me, I know this
and yet I cannot shake this feeling,
and I hate it so much.
My life feels cyclical:
I laze around, I go to work,
I come home, and then repeat.
I simply want the peace and quiet I ache for.
Why aren’t my dreams peaceful?
Do I not deserve gentle dreams?
Do I not deserve more than this?
I know all the talk about pushing through
working hard, becoming better,
that the future still waits for me.
And I can be better.
I can do better.
But sometimes,
I just want a break.
I just want to feel
like a pair of soft, warm arms
are wrapped around me.
That’s all.
That’s what I want.
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