People don't understand. They don't understand that depression feels as
though we just a recyclable plastic bottle. I'm made and filled with
water, emotions, happiness, and then I am just cast out to the world. I
sit on a shelf waiting for anyone to ...
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People don't understand. They don't understand that depression feels as
though we just a recyclable plastic bottle. I'm made and filled with
water, emotions, happiness, and then I am just cast out to the world. I
sit on a shelf waiting for anyone to choose me. I watch as people come
and go, glancing at me, noticing me, ignoring me. Then when that one
person shows up, they take me and pay for me, as if I were just
something that could be traded away, like a piece in their own games.
Who, exactly, buys the water bottles? People that need the water, the
happiness. But not always. So the thirsty and the full take the water
bottles, and slowly drain me from the happiness inside me. I watch as it
all pours out, and yet, despite the pain this gives me. I let it happen.
Because this is my purpose. And when the thieves of my joy are
satisfied, and I lay empty, they toss me. I am once again traded for
money. Then they fill me with the water and joy from somewhere else, but
whose happiness is this, I do not know as they force me to be 'happy'
again. Even if I don't want to be. Whose joy did they steal? Just to
continue my purpose and suffering? Well... nothing I can do about that.
So once again, I am thrown on the shelf, waiting, waiting for the next
person to buy my happiness for themselves. This continued, never
stopping, never taking a break. There were people that chugged my hope
and joy as fast as possible. Some only took small sips, draining me as
slowly and painfully as possible. There was even a person that poured my
heart straight into the dirt, for their own amusement. But after all
that, I was content, because I was helping them, and they were letting
me help. Not only that, but although they returned me to be filled back
up, just to repeat this torturous cycle, it was better than me ending up
in landfill. With all the others that were taken out of this cycle. I
want to leave. But we all know how the plastic kills. So I must choose;
live an eternity of pain and artificial, or leave and poison all around
me. That is why, I am still content, I just need to last it out. 'Water
is joy; but bottles are poison. Which sacrifice must be made?'
How do I talk to my doctor?
