Stephanie

I lie and watch him whilst he sleeps, and under this light, the kind that comes through the curtains from the streetlights; yellow and artificial, he looks so statuesque, flawless, beautiful. The shadows create such a defined figure, accentuating all the right places; his cheek bones, naked shoulders. I don't know what or how this makes me feel, these deep violets shadows of the summer night, but I get up to grab my pen and paper- I have to write this moment down.

But it fails me. As I go to look for a pen and paper, I have to unwrap the protective arm around me, leave the warmth of the bed and tip-toe down the stairs. Plain, unromantic blackness, forcing lined school paper from under the phone-book, digging around for a pen...The moment is lost, never to be found again.

When I return to bed, a coldness has taken my place and squinting eyes of the man beside me. He fumbles and struggles with the exercise book, alarmed such a hard and solid shape has made it's way into our nest. He looks at me confused, "Bored are you kitten?".

And even though I am, I don't tell him so and shake his wild, sleepy hair, kiss his moist head and pretend that everything is normal, fine. Pretend. I pretend, because I think I'm depressed. I'm not sure whether I really am, whether I would even qualify in a medically assessed situation. I don't think I would like that label, I don't want to be burdened with a title, to be overcome with something I have no control over, so I keep quiet.

My history teacher once said that if you want to know what "depressed" feels like, you should read "The Bell Jar" and I did, but I'm pretty sure it was about anorexia and not depression. And if I was on a scale of one to depression, I couldn't be that depressed because I haven't stuck my head in the oven, yet.

But anyway, sometimes I get this sense of hysteria which completely overcomes me; deep, shuddering ripples of self-doubt, anxiety, fear and the most definite self-loathing I could possibly imagine. I can't help but cry, cannot help but be drowned in my own tears of self pity. And I can't help it. I cannot look forward to anything when I am like this, there is no point in trying. But I do try to feel better, yet I cannot face the outside, I cannot let people see how wasted a life is on me. I can't face more guilt at being me. And it lasts for days.

He rolls over and I hate him. I hate him for not being able to understand this feeling. And I hate myself for not feeling better. I lie down, hugging the book, and as I face the wall I am taken over by floods of silent tears.