August 9, 2009


Maybe someday I'll be able to put all this behind me.

Maybe someday I'll walk into a roomful of strangers confidently wearing an outfit that doesn't cover me ankles to wrists. Maybe I'll approach someone and introduce myself and not feel like I'm being scrutinized for fine flaws which, when pressured, cause me to snap. I won't cower and run away.

Maybe someday I'll visit Eva's mom up in Canada. Maybe I'll bring her Eva's t-shirt and CD I found when I was cleaning out my closet. Maybe I'll take her out to lunch and we'll have a long chat, and most probably cry. If it's been nearly three years of hell for me, I cannot imagine what they've been like for her.

Maybe someday I'll stand up on a podium in front of hundreds of people and say, "My name is Mariah and I live with depression," and not be jeered offstage. I'll look the audience in the eye and drive my points home. Maybe I'll change the life of someone out there who thinks that there is no way to live with their depression. Maybe I'll find the courage to tell everyone that they have it all wrong; that I am, for the most part, a functioning, feeling, human being, and that I deserve to be treated as such.

But, see, the problem with all this is that it's maybe someday and not now. I can't go to a party or visit Ms. Smythe or give a speech any more than I can walk on Mars. Lethargic at the present, I think I can only dream about the future, but I know I can make it happen, if I could find the energy to motivate myself. And, of course, that is precisely what I lack. Sometimes, just wanting it is nowhere near enough.

Maybe I'll try a little harder...

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