Depressed

I started cutting my wrist. I told myself that I am so deppresed

The immortal words of Papa Franku echoed in my head. “Sideways for attention, longways for results.” At first I sat there, confused over its meaning, but then I looked down at my wrist, and all doubt was cleared. Horizontal lines all over it. Would it be different this time?

I pulled my long sleeve back to my wrist, covering up my past attention-getters. It wasn’t worth it this time. Nothing seemed worth it. Whether it was deep depression or simply ennui, I couldn’t even tell anymore. I was so used to being down that it all seemed to melt together.

The worst part was my arm tattoos were all colorful drawings of candy. They made everyone think my depression was a joke. And wearing long sleeves in Phoenix isn’t fun either.

What they didn’t know was that I had crippling depression. And on top of that I had osteoporosis. And I’m gay. I would sometimes lick my arms to taste the candy on them. Tastes a lot like blood actually. I finally decided to trek across the country to find the greatest therapist.