“I tried therapy”
They say I have major depressive disorder.
Or something. I don’t know. All I know is that for as long as I can remember, life to me has been bland, tasteless. Others around me partake life’s chalice of exquisite wine as I fester in my tepid, dusty mug of fetid water.
Years of bleak exhaustively over-coated onto graying bleak.
They told me to get help, my mother told me to see someone, my father said nothing. So I did, I tried. Like I always do.
‘Dr. Phillis’ read the door; I suppressed a tinge of gray anxiety as I reluctantly shoved it open. Pristine white jacket, wiry eyebrows, bald, tired eyes masquerading behind a nauseating smile- a man earning a wage. He moved his jaw at me. I moved mine back.
“Your brain has a chemical imbalance present since birth, a lack of endorphin. This can be fixed with medication. Take these twice a day for a month.”
And so I did, and then I did some more, and I went back, and I went back some more.
“We’ve tried all the major and lesser-known medication, I’m afraid there’s nothing more we can do for you here. Here, take this card- Dr. Jones has been my friend for many years, he is the best cognitive therapist I have known in my career. I have no doubt that he can help you to feel normal.”
My body marched through the days as my mind witnessed my withered soul choking on its ethereal starvation, an orchard with no sun, a canvas with no paint, a seed with no earth.
Dr. Jones. I laid my waning eyes on him and he blended into the gray stone walls. Medium build, predictable facial responses, an empty suit. A number 4 across his gray hair combed quickly as he affixed his flat-ironed tie. I sunk into his faded couch.
“Tell me about yourself” (a modicum of complications hidden inside the shell of a seemingly empty and vapid question)
“What makes you happy in life?” (momentary surface relief, empty distractions)
And on and on. For weeks I endured Dr. Jones’s insipid assistance. His office drab, his questions pointed. I moved through time like an automaton.
On and on, week after week.
“It seems your problems are rather deep-rooted, don’t be surprised if this all just takes some time. Allow yourself that time.”
“Have you been keeping up with your mood enhancers?”
“Have you been following the exercise routine that we set for you?”
“What creative outlets have you allowed yourself this week?”
“Have you considered thrill-seeking?”
“Try letting others know how you feel, you always mention feeling ‘gray’, so borrow some of their color.”
“You’re going to have to work with me here, you haven’t been taking this seriously for a while now.”
“They will understand, let them feel how you feel, let it all out into the open.”
“Well then next time use a cleaner blade, my favorite method is to slice the neck whilst smothering the mouth, the muffled screams against my palms make me climax till I’m dizzy”
“Try leaving some evidence behind, the thrill of knowing I could get caught makes me feel so roused that I can barely sit still, It’s really something, makes my heart do ten-a-dozen.”
“You must prolong their pain as long as you can, their suffering is your dopamine. You deserve to be happy, why should they live as you suffocate? Bleed their essence through their suffering, lick it dry, vomit it up and consume it again, bathe in their exquisite agony.”
Dr. Jones is a non-conventional man, but he has helped me. I’m not gray any more, I can feel!
I feel swelling sensation when I rip their stretching tendons out of their flailing arms and pull them till they snap. I feel red-hot orgasmic fulfillment as I stare into their dilating, disbelieving, pleading eyes as I twist the barbed knife deeper into their rupturing gut. I feel unbelievably, undeniably alive as I use my hands to rip their jaws from their skulls as they cry and gurgle and beg me to stop, oh god please stop.