Young Writers Society

“De-escalate the thoughts.” She says it like it’s just that simple, and for a moment, with her happy eyes and gentle voice I believe that is it. “Now look back for me. What’s the worst that could have happened?”

She’s speaking of two weeks ago when plans got canceled and I fell into a eight hour depression. She’s speaking of a day I spent in bed due to a minor inconvenience. She’s asking what could have come from the plans being canceled, that was worth such a drastic response.

“I don’t know,” I whisper back quietly. My mind isn’t fully in the room. It never is, and I doubt it ever will be. I remember the heavy heart and the shallow breaths of that day. I remember the sun that shone just beyond my window. I remember the hours of my life that I threw away to an imbalance of chemicals in my head.

I want to curl up on her couch, but I don’t want to give in to the comfort of the room. I wonder how many have sat in my place before and cried. I wonder how many have sat in my place and struggled for breath, confessed their darkest fears, or been unable to mumble the words they needed so desperately to be said.

I wonder how many more days will be wasted.

The tears come, unwillingly. I’ve come to talk, not to cry and I feel defeated as I sit there, unable to leave and unable to recover.

How many days will be wasted? How many tears will be shed?

I remember the week before where my mother sat at my side and cried. She cried for me and she cried for memories of others. She cried for her fear and she cried for her hope.

I stared at the dollhouse across the room. I didn’t want to cry with her. I didn’t want to cry for her. I didn’t want to cry for myself. I focused on the house and how similar it was to a plastic manor I once had in my bedroom. I remembered for a moment what it was like to live out a life through the plastic dolls; A life without worries, a life without tears.

This week I try to focus on the doll house once again but this time the reminder of happier days leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. It reminds me the stress that came when I stepped away from the little house. It reminds me that now I don’t have the option to forget my fears in plastic food and purple furniture.

“Is it hard?” she asks, her voice even quieter now.

Is it hard.

A question waiting to be asked. The words I didn’t know I needed to hear.

Hard.

That was the weight on my chest. That was the lump in my throat. Everything is hard. Everything takes effort. Nothing is fun.

The tears come quicker and I can only nod. It is hard. Life is work. Nothing is easy. I want it to be easy. I want to be able to laugh at the little things, rejoice in experiences, and bathe in the warmth of sunny days. I want to feel true comfort, know how to trust, and learn what it is to be free from oneself. I want to know what life is. I want to know joy.

But things aren’t always that easy.