The cold winter sun bleeds through the curtains in the morning, rousing me from an alcoholic slumber. I grumble with a dry throat and cover my face with my forearm in a futile attempt to block it out. Sounds of clinking beer bottles and the scraping of empty cans along the wooden floor was followed by a hungered whimper and a nuzzling at my elbow. I glanced out and saw Harry, my soppy old black Labrador, wagging his tail halfheartedly at me.
“You want something to eat, Harry boy?”
He barked, understanding that I knew what he wanted. I rolled slowly onto my side and looked across the floor – a sea of bottles, cans, dog ends, and pizza boxes. I reached for one of those boxes and found some pizza still inside, barbecue bacon I think. I slid the box at Harry and continued to doze on the sofa. He didn’t make much noise as he cautiously sampled the cold meal. I knew something like that wasn’t good for him, but I really didn’t care at that point.
Where was the remote for the stereo? Ah, I was lying on it. I pushed a few buttons and stuck on something heavy; the lyrics suddenly echoing my mind as I listened to them.
“My mind is a cage, trapping my every thought and emotion. Will this ever end? Will this ever die? If it goes on then I will be the one to die. It is like a battlefield inside, my hopes and dreams like soldiers – dead and scattered, never to be reborn. Someone help me; someone kill me!”
I cried myself back to sleep, the whole time aware of the pain and torment that clouded my mind.
I woke up later on in the day and shuffled my way into the shower. It was hot and somewhat refreshing; maybe the scalding heat would melt my troubles away. It was there that I questioned myself like I always do: Why am I so depressed? What the hell has caused this? I have nothing to be depressed about – I have a wonderful job, lovely fiancee, and we’ve recently moved into our own house… so what the actual fuck?!
I don’t think about ending my life; I don’t think about anything. My mind is so fuzzy and clouded, and has been for countless years. I don’t get excited, happy, or bothered over anything anymore. Sometimes I think I have just died inside and what walks around is just an empty husk that feels the remnants of the suffering my soul has been ravaged by. I want to be happy, and I know I have things to be happy about, but telling myself this never does any good. I think I am destined to drink and eat myself into a state where I fall over dead from a heart attack. Even though this scares me, it does promise some essence of peace.