I Don't Deserve Pills

If something was noticeably wrong, maybe I’d actually believe something was wrong with me.

Feeling lightheaded. My face is kind of tingling—not sure what that is about. Getting more depressed and tired, I am screaming on the inside in pain, but I have nothing external to show for it. I am tempted to pretend to faint. I want to faint. I want people to be as concerned about my well-being as they should be. Fainting is the mental equivalent to a bone protruding from the skin after breaking it—there is no doubt that your injury should be taken seriously. But, I won't faint. I am not going to cry wolf. But hey, at least I can dream.

Dream of what? Dream of fainting? Dream of being heard? Dream of being taken seriously? Act tough, bite your tongue, grow some balls, don't be a pussy, and never bitch about being "sad." Those who have never been depressed feign empathy for the most part. How do I know? Because I used to feign it too—I used to feign it well.

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Damn, I want help. I want to be cared for, and I want to be heard. But, I don't want to be sick. I can't take my medication. I am crippled without it, but it restricts parts of me that I currently need. I want help, but no one can help. Fuck, I want help.

Dreams have been more vivid lately. They range from nightmarish to outlandish. But, they let me escape. They let me escape to a world where perhaps things are externally worse than they've ever been, but at least I am not sick. I'm sick.

I'm not sick enough, though. Because I can't even faint. That is like someone saying they are sad and can't cry, or happy but can't smile. I have no business being such a bitch when I can't even physically manifest my internal woe. Fuck me. I'm such a baby. Perhaps I don't even deserve the medication. Perhaps I don't deserve the money to pay for the medication. Perhaps I should just roll over and die already. But, no one even cares enough to kill me. I don't even care enough to make it happen. If I don't care, if they don't care, then perhaps I should just exist. Perhaps I should mind my place.

Fuck, now that I think of it, I don't think there is anything wrong with me at all. Until I faint, all I am is a pussy. But, I'll never faint; it will never be that bad; the psychosis will never be that severe. So, my designation is clear. I am bored, uninspired, unimportant, and worst of all, I can't shut my mouth long enough to be forgotten about—which is what I deserve. I can't do what it takes to get what I deserve—death or invisibility. I should really just fake fainting, because, for at least a moment, I will be able to pretend that I deserve what I am getting—because I definitely don’t deserve any pills.

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