In desperation I get in touch with Miles, a friend like no other I've had, who knows all the darkest secrets, was there when Trist left, tried in vain to keep me sane, knowing I'm helpless, hopeless, bound to make the same mistakes. In two hours' time he talks me out of it, talks me into putting the knife down, talks me out of striking deep and vertical, down the length of my arm. Desolation like I've never felt except for that night, to know Tristan may have found a replacement at last. Calling me out for the idiot I'm being, the idiot I am, to keep trusting a man - boy - who's never earned the chances I've given him to begin with.
The trouble with depression, or whatever you'd like to label it as, categorize this melancholy desperate panic of a feeling, is that while everyone is acquainted with it, so few KNOW it, understand it, see it and live it - and I pick up The Bell Jar again, and realize, by the end, that Sylvia Plath is no good for me, I see too much of myself in her. When she tries, plots, schemes to slit her wrists and slip into a warm Roman bath, tired and full of desire to no longer be, I cry, and shake, and feel closer to anyone than I ever have.
The trouble with depression, or whatever you'd like to label it as, categorize this melancholy desperate panic of a feeling, is that while everyone is acquainted with it, so few KNOW it, understand it, see it and live it - and I pick up The Bell Jar again, and realize, by the end, that Sylvia Plath is no good for me, I see too much of myself in her. When she tries, plots, schemes to slit her wrists and slip into a warm Roman bath, tired and full of desire to no longer be, I cry, and shake, and feel closer to anyone than I ever have.
