My depressed morning

I wake up at quarter of seven. Like I'm supposed to. Except I'm so exhausted I can barely do anything. My dream was something about finding paths, riding in bikes and cars and trying to find a way. It's hazy and cloudy and going-around-in-circles like the rest of the dreams I've had when I'm depressed and exhausted and I know I need to sleep. I stumble to the next room over, my parents' room. As usual, my dad's up already and my mom's still in bed. I crash down onto their futon and toss the covers over me. My mom reaches over and hugs me.

"Do you want to go to school late today?" she asks. I shake my head. If I go, I go on time. "Do you want not to go to school at all?" I think about it for about a second and nod. I close my eyes and stay in my mom's embrace for a few minutes. "Go back to bed," she says. I reluctantly leave the safety of her hug. I need someone to shield me from the world.

I toss and turn, then finally, after a few possible minutes of sleep, I grab the iPad, which has been here since last night. I check my email, Mugglenet, YouTube. I can't shut off the queasy uneasiness that is the familiar depression in my stomach. I reach over, pick up my nook. My friend told me to read It's Kind of a Funny Story so I buy it. I go back to the iPad. Then it's breakfast time. I eat my scrambled egg, a roll with some cottage cheese, some vegetables, and a cup of chocolate milk. My parents tell me we will go outside later today.

After breakfast I return to my room. I read the first two chapters of It's Kind of a Funny Story. It's a book about a suicidal depressed guy. He's worse off than I am, but his thoughts sound too familiar. I press the home button on the nook and toss it aside. Put my head in my hands.

I get on the floor and do twenty situps.

Nothing helps.

If I could talk to my friends now, I wouldn't. Maybe I would text them. But I can't do it when I'm like this. I can't stand knowing they're that far away. And they hate it besides when I text them in such a state. When I do talk to them, it feels okay. But after it I feel awful. I try to write it out in poems, prose, whatever - put it into words - but it doesn't come out right. Besides, no one really likes reading the words of a half-mad depressed person.

It's cloudy out. The sun doesn't even bother.

All the time I'm thinking, there's no way out.

I want to go home, but at the same time I don't. Home is where I first got depressed.

I don't want to do anything.

I want everything to stop.

Stop.

Stop.

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I wrote that just now. It is a log of this morning. It sort of helps. A bit.