I lied down, I felt numb. It was 1:39 AM, I told her that I could possibly have a mental illness.
What a joke, I told myself as I uttered the words, "I might be sick."
I followed it with a resounding laugh.
She responded, "It's only in your head."
And I changed the conversation faster than I finish a stick of cigarette.
It's only a phase, and I'll get over it.
I could not stop crying, I felt like I was about to explode. It was 4:26 AM, I told her that I could possibly have a mental illness.
I mustered all my strength, and said, "I might be sick."
As soon as I stopped vomiting the words, I left.
She ran after me, and calmly said, "You're going to be okay."
I smiled, and pretended I believe her more than I do in death.
It's sadness, and it'll go away.
It was a spur of the moment, I was feeling euphoric. It was 7:05 AM, I told her that I could possibly have a mental illness.
"I might be sick," I confessed while looking out the window.
"But you are still better than most people with that kind of illness," was her immediate response.
She added, "some cannot even admit that they are sick."
I said nothing, hoping she'll not ask me to prove it like when parents ask you to disclose your vices.
She doubts me. And I get why.
It was a moment of defeat, I wanted to seek help. It was 10:22 AM, I told myself I could possibly have a mental illness.
"You're not sick," Affirmed one of the many voices whispering in every crack in my head.
I listened as I wandered deeper into the pitch-black smoke.
I don't need help, I'm fine.
(photo from freunde von freunden)
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