It was just me now. Just me and my baggage. The only thing I had brought was the dressing gown I wore, and not even that was mine. Nothing here was familiar and comforting. Nothing here made me feel better so what was the point of “here?”

I sat on the bed for awhile, unable to move or process anything. I felt like I should be doing something, sleeping maybe, but my body was circulating on my adrenaline. I felt panicked, but no one would ever be able to guess that I was because on the outside I seemed calm and collected. At that moment, you could describe me as a mock-Pandora’s box. If opened, there would only be terrible chaos within. The whys and hows ran a marathon in my thoughts, always able to cross the finish line but never able to stop going.

The fake door had a beach themed background, a palm tree, sun, water, and sand. I had the urge to burn it, but no means of executing that idea. How would fake scenery calm anyone? I could only see it causing irritation, at least for me. It just reminded me how fake happiness could be.

I got tired of staring at it and stood up from the bed, walking toward the large window. The view wasn’t any sort of impressive. It was just more hospital buildings and the road. There was a helicopter pad and I imagined the grand story I would have had to tell if I had came here in one of those. It was a joke without any actually amusement. All the lights outside looked blurry and only then did I remember that I had forgotten my glasses. On one hand, I didn’t really care that much, but on another hand I couldn’t see for shit so that sucked. I felt like I was already dead, just watching the world continue moving as I remained stuck in one place.

I walked into the bathroom, feeling the cool ground on my bare feet. I had become the victim of my own evil doings. My hands found the light switch and flipped it on, revealing the big mirror and my reflection.

My hair was all matted and tangled. My eyes were still puffy and sore from the numerous tears that had escaped me. I looked sad, hollowed out. There were dark circles under my eyes that gave my complexion a deathly vibe. My lips were set in a seemingly permanent frown. It was horrific but quite appropriate for the current setting. I still had the thin “blanket” wrapped around me.

This person in the mirror didn’t feel like me. The normal “me” almost always seemed full of life. Smirking or smiling, glowing or bubbly. That facade had clearly disappeared hours ago, and now I was left with only my real composure. It made my heart ache to know that I had allowed this dark infestation to grow under the mask I liked to wear. I almost began to hate myself for allowing this all to go on for as long as it did.

I splashed some cold water on my face and turned the light off, heading back to the bed. After I laid back on the bed, I curled up into a ball and stared out the window. Despite being in a setting where the only thing I could do was think, my mind was still dazed.

As I started to and drift off, the blinds on the window started to shift and move. I looked up to see the shadows and light on the ceiling started to move as if they were waves on a beach. My vision seemed clear but it couldn’t have been considering the anomaly that I was seeing. The whole room became to spin ever so slightly. For a brief moment I questioned whether I was on some kind of drug. It was crazy and I even feel crazy talking about it right now, but it still happened. It felt real to me, no matter how ridiculous it may seem to you, reading.

After a bit of time I could no longer handle the movement, so I shut my eyes, bringing my knees up to my chest. In my head, I imagined a protective barrier emerging around me. It was my only mode of comfort and self-preservation.

I couldn’t help but think about how much I had let myself down. My schema had finally won after a five year battle. I had lost against my own mind.

When I was younger and still believed in God, my mother tried to preach about God only putting forth obstacles which he knows that his children can overcome. But, in that moment, I just thought about how that philosophy was a load of shit. God isn’t real and neither is his stupid “plan” for people. Why would a higher power, who supposedly loves all his children, wire his creations to be this damaged?

On another hand, I also wished I believed he was real, so I could have that ignorant blissful peace of mind that I could count on putting my faith into something other than myself. Because right then, I couldn’t count on me for anything.

At some point, I fell asleep. My dreams were crowded and jumbled, full of anxiety and my schema’s constant protrusions. It seemed that even my dreams were threatened by my mental illness.

A schema is just a general type of form, and in this case, my schema is depression. Let’s call my schema something less severe, like Gunther. Gunther had been created due to a traumatic experience at a young age. Overtime, Gunther started to fester and expand in a mind full of blockades. Gunther would slip through the cracks of the barriers from time to time, but he never was truly able to match the force of my whole self-preservation tactics. Until January 11th, when he had outgrown the corners and hidey-holes of my mind, when the cracks were suddenly just fallen flower petals in comparison to the wrath of him. Each time I compartmentalized an event, it wouldn’t be put away in a box with a lock, Gunther would just absorb it and become more powerful. It may sound cliche, but that is how I have decided to rationalize how I got to that point in my life.