Caught in the crushing grips of a depressive episode, one thought haunts me above the rest. I am a burden on those around me, and the more I struggle, the more they are contaminated.
Look at how the look at me with pity in their eyes, regret and resignation just beneath the surface. They know I am nothing more than a fake, diseased excuse for a human being. They have read my file somehow, they know my disease, and they know I know it as well.
They put up with me the way they’d put up with a pimple on a strangers face—a disease that everyone’s too polite to make into a thing, but everyone would wish would just go away.