She was so sick. It was hard for her to keep food down, when she finally got a spoon to her lips. The color was gone from her cheeks and I’d close my eyes to remember just what she looked like before. I couldn’t even make her feel better. You could tell it hurt her to laugh, but she did. You could see that her smile was forced but she did it to appease everyone around.
I’d come over to gently brush her hair since getting out of bed was a conquest for the day. I understood that the sun felt like small stabs in her skin, and I was the only one who didn’t push her into placing her bare feet on the cold hard floor. “Keep the blinds shut” she would say. “I don’t want anyone to see me this way.” I noticed everyday when I came by to braid her hair, it got thinner. It broke my heart remembering how jealous I was of her thick braid when we were kids. Now in front of me was an empty skeleton of the woman I knew. She was so fragile. But nobody took her seriously.
“Did you take your medicine?” I’d ask.
“It makes me sick. And I’m tired of only feeling nauseous instead of emotions.” She’d say.
They laughed at her. They continued to tell her she wasn’t sick. Yet the years of telling her how she felt did end up coming through in her appearance.
“Wow, she looks horrible! What does she have?” A question as a close friend I was asked often.
“Depression.” I’d say.
“HA! Wow she’s good. Depression doesn’t do that to you….” I heard more then once.
“But it does actually. It’s people like you that take it so lightly that makes it seem so taboo. But she’s sick and dying. And it pains me that I can’t help her. She’s loosing her fight.” I’d cry.
But nobody listened. An illness like this… Takes more lives then you think. I wonder when society will start to see how devastating suicide is.