The past two weeks

Several weeks ago, I seriously thought about dying, thinking my life wasn't worth living. If it was worth living, I wouldn't feel like a round lead ball, rolling around in my bedsheets all day. I wouldn't be tired all the time, wouldn't want to go back to sleep as soon as I wake up in the morning. I'd be pretty, so I wouldn't have to overeat to make myself compensate for not feeling pretty.

Food didn't look at me strange because I'm a short haired black girl who likes Foo Fighters and Johhny Depp, but not 50 Cent and Wesley Snipes. Food did't bug me about deadlines, or working late on the weekends with no overtime pay. Food never said I was following Satan by
choosing not to be religious. Food never yelled at me in anger or intoxication.

But food stopped being enough. So I stopped eating in the daytime, cutting my meals down to the occasional tiptoe to the fridge at for some leftover roast beef that I was never awake in the daytime to eat anyway. I started getting panicked and nervous at work, so I wasn't getting anything done. I avoided everyone at home, not venturing out when anyone was there, or not going home at all.

Meanwhile, my muse was encouraging me to get help. I was too scared to for a while, but I just got so sick of being the way I was, I finally got up the strength to call a private hospital I had been treated at as an adolescent. I made an appointment, confident that I wouldn't be considered an emergency case and admitted. After all, I was in college holding down a job. I hadn't hurt anyone, and I was coming there of my own free will.

But they did want to admit me. I was suffering from severe depression, and they were concerned. Always the pragmatist, I had brought some clothes, just in case. I couldn't help wondering how circular life was. Here I was, five years later, dressed a little nicer, but for the most place, in the same emotional boat I was in before.

"What is the point of living?" I asked myself, but I didn't know the answer. For several months, I had brooded over that question, but I couldn't find anything good enough for me. The scientific answer is procreation, but it's never satisfied me. It just didn't sound right. I still don't have titles to several stories because nothing has sounded right. I'm picky when it comes to a perfect fit.

I brooded over that question for two more days, then focused on my treatment. I was given Zoloft and a few other medications, but didn't notice any effect. Just being away from home helped, in and of itself. But I still worried about leaving things unfinished at home, my job and college. Then things just fell apart when my muse said she was leaving so I could fully recover. I freaked out and had my first uncontrollable panic attack, complete with shaking and hyperventalation.

It was then I realized just how sick I was. I had always prided myself on the appearence of being in control, but when I lost it for everyone to see, it was actually a relief. Everyone was freaking out too. In a way, in the hospital, I was normal in my abnormalities, if that makes any sense. I was able to finally open about my problems and work on them. My therapist even understood the fact that I had a muse! Everything worked out better than I could have hoped for, and after a week, I was back home.

I quit my job after deciding it wasn't beneficial to my mental health, and decided to focus on getting my life back together. My college teacher is giving me ample time to makeup my work, and my friends are being very understanding about everything. My friends even have similar problems I didn't know about. My parents have been a big help too.

So today, I can answer my former self and give a good reason to stay alive. Because I want to live now. What better reason do I need?