I try to be normal. So many days I put on a smile, or the nearest thing I can muster to it, and go out among others. I respond to inquiries and make idle chit chat as long as I can before shrinking back away from the crowds, hoping to be alone.
Some days I laugh. Those are wonderful days when these dark clouds dissipate and I think clearly. Feeling returns to my soul and laughter warms my being.
But those days are getting farther apart. The dark clouds linger longer and the only way to avoid them is to sleep.
I try not to sleep too much, though, or people will notice. My family already knows something is wrong, but what can they do? So I sleep on the darkest days and endure the lighter days, wishing I knew how to change. Wishing I knew how to feel.
And this abulia is killing me. Simple decisions become tough ordeals. What to do. What to think. What to wear. Who cares? Why make decisions if they are as meaningless and pointless as everything else?
So I stare at this gun. It taunts my condition. It taunts my indecision. It taunts my cowardice.
And it’s right. We both know know I can’t do it. What about my family? I can’t do that to them, even though my whole being yearns to sleep.
And there I find hope. Hope that when these clouds clear again, when feelings stir again, that it will be a day spent with those who, for whatever reason, still love me. Till then, I resolve I will try to act normal.