'What happened? I used to be able to write so much and so often. I wrote daily. Poems, stories, all of that. I even came up with my own characters and worlds. Not anymore though. Anymore I can barely even write for myself. Let alone create my own characters. I don't know what happened. It's never been like this before. I've always written. Usually not more than a day or two would go by without me writing something.
Has depression taken that too? My innate ability to write? That can't be, can it? I've been writing and practicing writing for years now. Why has it changed recently? Sure, a lot has gone on... But I've never experienced this. It's like there's no creativity anymore. I don't feel the need to write. I don't..., I don't feel anything really. Is it the medication? I mean, I don't really feel the depression anymore. I feel listless and restless sometimes, but not really what one would call depressed. Occasionally, but not like I was before this set of meds. I guess maybe..., this is like that very first set of meds I was on. When I couldn't really feel anything at all. I think this is what that was like, except there is feeling this time. It's not as bad as that first time. The only real problem lately has been anxiety. It hasn't been that bad in the last week, but it was getting bad. Not as it had been before, but tests do cause some small amount of anxiety as does the paper that's due saturday. But nothing that's not manageable. Overall, I guess I might say for the most part, I'm content. I have community college, my video games, and skype with my best friend, Henrietta, she moved away a few years ago but we still mostly keep in contact. She too, has depression and anxiety and takes meds for it. I have a boyfriend, and I think things are going well, most of the time. His name is Kyle, Kyle Broflovski.
Kyle also has anxiety and bi-polar depression, which he takes meds for. We've been together for eight months.
Enough about that though. I wonder if I can write something...'
Pete sat there, staring at his notebook paper for long minutes, listening to Henrietta babble about her game. Finally, he put the pen to the paper and began to write a poem.
'Nothingness,
Like empty space,
Filled with the essence of nothing.
Whiteness, static,
Nothing felt,
Nor thought.
It's strange,
Usually things are buzzing,
but lately,
Everything is quiet.
It's truly like I'm floating,
in the Nothing.
Will the emptiness consume Me as well?
Or is the Void content to have everything but myself?'
'That was definitely darker than I anticipated. But..., it rings true in all forms.
My thoughts have been drifting back to my hospital stay. The one over the summer. My therapist had discovered my plan of suicide and thought it best to have me admitted. I don't know if the stay helped, maybe for a time it did, but sometimes I wonder if perhaps I shouldn't have stayed longer, or even go back. Things are more intensive there for a few days than one, one hour session a week, are they not? Perhaps that would be more beneficial? But to what end? I feel fine, in fact, I really feel nothing at all. Maybe though, that is reason enough to go? I do not know, I am not qualified to make such decisions. I don't wish to harm myself or others, so there is no clear reason for me to go. Perhaps this bears thinking about no longer. Why question when life is going smoothly? Well, I know why question. Because something is bound to happen to make everything go to shit again.'
He sighs and glances out the window across from his desk. True thoughts. True, slightly dark, thoughts.