Liar

You’re supposed to be the happy child. The one who’s always smiling and giggling and so carefree but right now you’re curled up in bed, the heel of your palms on your eyes as you cry. The sadness that’s been building inside you for weeks breaks through your weak walls and cascades down your face. Your chest aches as you try to keep the sobs from escaping, from slipping through the crack under your door and into the ears of the three girls you live with. They might knock on your door and ask in a quiet whisper what’s wrong? hoping to god you’d say nothing because they’ve only known you a month and just want to go to sleep.

            You wouldn’t have an answer though. You hate lies but you don’t know the truth.

            You tell your boyfriend that you’re fine, tell him you’re just going to go to sleep, it’s been a long day. You don’t want him to worry more than he already does.

            When you called Mom this morning she said you sound sad. You brushed it off. I just woke up and forced a laugh.

            You hate lies.

            Your brother is the one with depression, the one on meds. You wonder how many nights he spent in bed, half-buried under the covers, desperate to keep quiet. He was strong though. He got help. Talked about it. You’re dampening the pages of the journal your parents got you for Christmas because they know you love writing.

            You fear telling Mom about nights like tonight. Long distance phone calls don’t offer much reassurance in ways that moms who have depressed children will accept. In person she might scan what bare skin she can see for cuts. Over the phone you’d tell her there were none (you don’t tell her you only scratched the surface so there wouldn’t be scars).

            You hate lies.

            Telling your boyfriend would be just as bad. He’s told you about his ex-girlfriend, the one with the major depressive disorder who threatened to kill herself at least three times a week. You’re not her. You’re the happy one who makes him laugh and forget the past. A depressed girl is not in his present. Not when he sees a future with you, one where you wouldn’t live seven hours apart.

            You’re the happy one; like repeating it to yourself is self-affirming.

            You hate lies.

            You exhale, the overwhelming pain of everything and nothing subsiding for the moment. Your hands shake and your sinuses are so blocked up you have to breathe through your mouth, cool air drying already chapped and cracked lips.

            You wonder if you’ll feel better in the morning- the later morning. Your clock already switched from PM to AM. You think about going to talk to someone in the morning. You can imagine yourself doing it, walking into an office and letting the weight fall from its carefully balanced spot on top of your head. You’d slouch and look at the floor and hug your knees to your chest because if you sat up straight and looked at someone in the eye you’d crack and all the little pieces wouldn’t be able to fit back together without too much glue.

            You know you won’t talk. Because you’re the happy one.

            You hate lies.

Author's Note

first draft, possible entry for my portfolio

Reviews

[Forest Green]

Troubles, trials, life is filled with them and the modus operandi for everyone of them is different.

Learning to cope involves simplicty, not always a grand strategy. You have illustrated this well in your segment.

[Crow]

Very nice! I can realize the thoughts of an adolescent girl's life. It is almost like a prose.