A Symphony of Devotion: The Start [Demi Lovato]

[10] Dysania

Some days, I feel everything at once. Other days, I feel nothing at all. And I don't know what's worse; drowning beneath the waves, or dying from the thirst.

Devonne has helped me catch a break in the past week, but now it's Saturday, my room cold but my bed hot, and I don't seem to be capable of much except to lie in it and cry. It feels like a pulsing of both emotions now. There'll be a wave of sadness one minute when I'll burst into tears, and then I'll be consolled by numbness for a few more, before the cycle repeats itself.

I'm trying to get out of bed, but I've only gotten as far as sitting up and then collapsing and burying myself under a mound of blankets.

A knock on my door interrupts me as I clench my fists around the covers and try to stop myself from stuffing them into my mouth. "Miss Stone? Are you awake? Your father would like to see you in his office to discuss the final preparations for your party."

I give what sounds like a cross between a cry and a groan, and the butler takes the hint and leaves. I don't want to get out of bed. I don't want to face my father, who'll undoubtly only add to my misery.

Somehow, I manage to get myself together enough to stumble out of bed and cross the floor to my mini fridge with one of my blankets draped around my shoulders. I have difficulty opening the fridge, and when I do, I take out a bottle of water, only to have my shaking hands drop it a moment later.

I sink to the ground as something in me snaps as I begin to cry again. People without depression can't possibly come close to realizing how it works. I'm not trying to be sad about anything, but the something in my head literally makes me, every time I slip up, even if it's something small like me dropping that bottle, see it as God I can't do anything without fucking up.

I've always struggled to find a word to describe how I feel in one of my bad days. Nothing seems to fit quite right. Like I can see the sky, but the stars are blurry.

I sit in my pooling tears of self hate and misery until my door opens softly and Zack envelops me in a hug. He doesn't question why I'm crying, but continues to sit and comfort me on his lap until I've stopped.

Amidst the gruelling thoughts that are swirling around in my head, I manage to thank him quietly.

"I'm going to settle the birthday plans with Dad, okay? Will you be all right on your own?"

I nod, although tears have already begun to gather in my eyes again, and Zack exits the room, leaving me on the floor.

I hate feeling like this. Why me? Out of the seven billion people on this planet, why couldn't someone else be cursed with this illness? The fact that it's purely mental only makes it worse, because most people would just tell me to 'get over it' or to 'stop overreacting'. Can't they tell I'm trying my hardest to? Can't they tell I hate myself more than they can ever hate me?

I feel like screaming. At myself. Into the air. Doesn't matter to or at who. I just feel like screaming. Something to ease the pain.

The word pain gives me the energy to haul myself to my feet, and I lurch to the bathroom. The sight of myself in the mirror doesn't make me feel any better; as I splash water onto my face, all I can think about is how puffy my eyes are, or how disgustingly red my nose is. I'm barely able to make myself look bearable on a normal day; the added unattractiveness unsurprisingly makes me tear up even more.

The next thing I know, I'm in my bathtub with my case of blades, and my bare left arm is bleeding. I stare down at the cut blankly for a few seconds, then close my eyes as I make another one.

It's one thing to describe depression, but another to describe the relief self harming brings. For a couple minutes, the pain jolts me out of my haze; gives me clarity in a way that doesn't involve human emotions. It numbs what I feel inside.