Sometimes I convince myself that I’m actually in a coma. That my whole ‘life’ is something my brain conjures up to deal with whatever trauma I went through that landed me in a coma. I convince myself that things aren’t so bad because, well, it isn’t real. I think I might be certifiable…
Don’t get me wrong, my life is fantastic. I have no “real” problems. I suppose when you’re a teenager things just seem…goliath-like. I wonder why I do this though, you know, create problems for myself. I take myself too seriously. So am I really falling apart, or is this just me exaggerating? Are things really this bad, or do I simply want them to be so that life is a bit more interesting; so that I am a bit more interesting..? Am I trying to create drama?
Am I really depressed or is it just the TV talking? I hope it’s the TV talking. I don’t like being depressed. Its…empty. Like there is absolutely nothing for you to do or be; like trying is pointless. One minute you’re dreaming about what your future is going to be like and the next you’re convinced it’s never going to be any good. Depressed is…pale. It’s grey. Not black, because black has some solidity to it; substance. Grey, on the other hand is confused. Like it was trying to go out into the light, into the white, escape from the dark, the black and instead ended up in limbo. And it’s just as far in as it’ll never be out.
A person told me there is always a light at the end of the tunnel. That you just have to hold on and close your eyes, stretch your hands out and feel your way out of the dark. She said that life is screwed up and she’s sorry that I realized it this early, while I’m still supposed to be worrying about what to wear the next day. She really did look sorry. Growing up sucks, she said, it’s painful, exciting and scary. We feel like now that we’re grown up, we’re alone. That as adults we’re supposed to be able to handle everything on our own. But no man is an island.
Her words were comforting, but I felt like such a fraud. Like I had no right sobbing to her about my so called problems when they were this petty and immature. So I sat there, wondering, if things were actually this screwed up or was I simply projecting them to be so. Am I an imposter?
I have friends who have real problems: family issues, self-esteem issues, suicidal tendencies, life-threatening diseases. Among all this, do I really have problems? Or am I simply just another shallow teenager looking to be interesting by pretending like I do? Is this me merely trying to convince myself that I’m important too? I don’t think I would particularly like myself if that is the case.
But even then, I kind of wish that it was because I don’t want to be genuinely depressed either.
So instead, I convince myself that I’m actually in a coma and in actuality this all a dream and when I wake up, I’m actually going to be five years old and significantly less messed up.