I couldn’t remember. It was a vellum fog. How could I misplace two years of my life? How could I lose two years of my recent life?
I moved back from Oregon, defeated by a school and lifestyle I thought I was too good for. My room was in a new house with new walls, foreign memories made by someone else, and a future I did not, have not, will not want.
And I still don’t remember those two years. I remember the flights out, the flights in; the tears rolling down my face during both. I remember bed and sleep and bed and sleep and the maybe I can make it out today coffee, which I would drink half of, leave next to my feet and slip back into a dream I did not want to wake up from.
I’ve read that depression is a good friend, that it makes everything about you. But when I see her at the end of the hall, walking towards me as she does, I shake. I don’t want you anymore. Why can’t you leave me alone? And she tosses off her shoes and tells me she will be around for a while and it will be all about me.
The books are stacked high on my desk, dust settles where I should be turning pages. I haven’t had a sheet on my bed in three weeks, but cups of half drank coffee outline the foot. I’m getting bad again. She is here.
I don’t want this time in my life to slip away. I don’t want to open the photos on my computer to this day and realize I did not know who I was, that I could not see my actions or inactions or the sunlight without feeling the burden of life.
I want to live.