Numb to the World

I answered all the questions I could within half an hour , and spent the remaining half hour colouring in all the letters on my test paper.

People came out of the test and talked about how hard it was, how there were questions they couldn't answer, post-test conversations I couldn't partake in because I didn't know enough about the material to tell whether the test had been hard or easy, whether there had been questions that I should have been able to answer (but couldn't).

I had not studied. This was the first time in my entire schooling career that I had gone into a test, not knowing anything, and not caring.

Yes, that's how bad it is. I don't care.

At the end of the test I counted 15%, and sat there, not feeling anything. I sit here now, having not started an assignment that is due tomorrow. I have no intention of doing it.

This shouldn't be happening a small voice in my head will pipe up once every so often. You are an A grade student, why are you doing this. But I don't know how to fix it - I don't know how to make myself care again.

"Depression. It's an illness, not a weakness." The brochure the doctor gave me shouts at me. I don't believe it. Nothing anyone says will make me believe that the way I am feeling is not my fault. That I am not a failure. That I am not ruining my life, and letting everyone down.

That everything is not in my head.

I went to see the counsellor a week ago. They said they had no appointments for a week - but oh wait - on second thought maybe so and so was free. Last time I had been there (a little over a year ago, after Ron's accident), they had done exactly the same thing.

So and so was Claire, a little woman with bug eyes. I sat in the waiting room for ten minutes flipping uninterestedly through Time Magazine before she invited me in.

"Take a seat." She told me, and I sat down on the ugly gray faded couch in the office. "What can I do for you today?"

I started crying. She edged the tissue box on the coffee table between us closer to me. The gesture almost made me want to laugh.

I told her most things. I told her about being afraid to fall asleep at night, and being afraid to wake up in the morning. I told her about seeking peace with the overdose (no, I didn't want to kill myself, I wanted peace of mind, I wanted to stop thinking). I told her about the intruder, and how I had started wishing that he had killed me.

Then, there were some things I didn't tell her, like how sometimes I like to cut myself, and like how I thought Therese and Anna didn't like me because I was not blonde, and how I thought that my boyfriend was in love with my sister. I thought she would think I was silly, like everyone else did.

She told me I should see the doctor, and look into getting medication.

"I just want to be okay." I sobbed into the tissue, which had been saturated with tears, and dried.

"We will get you there, I promise." Penny, the doctor tells me at our appointment the week after I have started the medication. She wants to know if I have been experiencing any problems with them. No, no problems. No improvement, either. But it takes up to two weeks, apparently.

The day after, I get a call on my mobile from the head of university health and counselling. I feel warm and fuzzy when she tells me who she is, thinking that perhaps she is concerned for my health. The feeling quickly dissolves into horror and disbelief after she explains to me that they are looking for people for a case study.

"She's a postgraduate psych student," she tells me, "who needs people with depression. The plus side is that you will have excellent quality service. The minus side is that you will be videoed."

I told her, politely, that I didn't feel comfortable talking about things as it was, and thanks but no thanks.

The world turns into shit again.

Why do people always have to want things? Perhaps I am overreacting. I stand in the shower and think about things as hot water trickles down my back. My mind is a jumble of questions that I don't have the answers to.

What do I want? I don't know anymore. All the hopes and dreams that I had been harbouring for the past few years have disappeared. Where did they go? Where can I find them again? Do I even want to? Maybe Boy was right - perhaps it had been a bad idea to live in my dream world. Perhaps I am going insane.

I can not cry anymore, I don't feel sad. I can not laugh and feel happy. I can not think of anything that I could do, that I would actually enjoy. It is like I haved stopped feeling. On occasion, when I do feel something, it will be fear - fear of the apathy that has overcome me.

It is like I am numb to the world.

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