As followers and visitors to this blog may know, I have set up a Special Project section called Dealing With the Blues, where support is given and received from those suffering from depression and other related illnesses
It has always been my wish to invite Guest contributors and Guest Authors to post work and advice within this section, and it is with much Pleasure that I can now welcome the first Guest Author to this site; JOANNR7
I have not included her second name for privacy reasons, and I would like her to introduce herself in her own way, but, like me, she has experienced depression in one of many of its forms
We both feel that it is only by opening up and speaking about such issues that understanding and support can be given, so I hope you will enjoy her contributions over time
What I can do though, with her kind permission, is to present you with one work which she has written called: Am I What They Think I Am
I hope you enjoy the work as much as much as I have done, and please feel free to comment on what you see.
Am I What They Think I Am
People have good things to say about me most of the time. I’m cute- funny- warm hearted- give you the shirt off my back kind of girl. I wear my masque so well and after all this time, I have so many! Something for almost any occasion, only a select few have seen what lives behind the masques. If people knew the thoughts that go through my head they would be appalled.
I am late for my dinner party.
So, I smile upon entering, make small talk, check on dinner and make sure my husband is behaving. I nod and smile and make sure we have plenty of aperitifs. I touch a hand, smile, gesture “hello” again and again. Yes, we all live in a artificial world, but only a few of us see it. I attempt to be the perfect hostess.
My real world is a dark and dank place. It’s a place where hurting myself is perfectly acceptable. Among the rubble of my broken dreams lies a shattered life. There choked with weeds,are the ruined cities of my memories. Here I take off the masque and I am what I see in the mirror, a mess. This dress which I thought was so wonderful is hideous. I am out of control. I run silently screaming through my body, disgusted. I feel compelled to look in the mirror again. I don’t want to. There are words written on the mirror: Lazy! Fat! Procrastinator! Slob! Ugly! I reach out to wipe them away only to find they are written in blood. My blood. I’ve cut myself again, deeper than usual. Funny, it doesn’t hurt at all, not as much as those words did. Words that are now a bloody smear across a mirror. Where does that leave me? Alone – again.
Back at the party no one has noticed my absence. I return, masque in place, just in time to dance with my husband.
I’m home, but it doesn’t feel like home. I am empty inside, but you would never know. I don’t fit. I don’t know how to fit my piece in this puzzle called “Life”. How do people go about doing their daily routine and never realize that if they stopped the world wouldn’t. It just keeps on turning, silently in space. There are people who are leaders and people who are followers. I am neither. I am only me,no more, no less and not enough.
The party wasn’t real. There were no aperitifs, no greetings and definitely no dancing. Just crap that rolls around in my brain. The words on the mirror are real and I do cut when necessary and I can’t even explain that to you. Then again why would you care?