Prozac Nation
Tuesday, Feb. 19, 2008 7:13 PM

"Dreams pass into the reality of action. From the actions stems the dream again; and this interdependence produces the highest form of living." - Anais Nin

Here I sit. It's 7:14 PM. The world swirls around me like a city under water. I can taste it on my lips, a droplet barely touching my tongue. I am so thirsty.

One week down that I've been back on Prozac. I couldn't help myself. I fell into a state of depression. What was I alive for? Does my existence serve any purpose what-so-ever? Do I have to create my own meaning? And why should I? Does it even matter? Does anything matter? What is it about life that has so many of us struggling to stay afloat? And why do we want too?

All my built up frustrations came flooding out. I was so upset I could barely breathe. Each breath was accompanied by a shallow hiccup until I could finally get myself under control. Why was I crying? What did I have to be upset over?

And then it happened. My deepest desire. It's like biting into a steak and tearing the meat with your teeth. It's like digging your nails deep into the skin of the person you most hate. I had the strongest urge to cut myself, to take a knife and slash my skin open. Nothing would satisfy me more than to feel that blade rip into the flesh of my arm, to see the blood ooze forth... to feel that old familiar sting. At least then I would know my pain was real.

I didn't do it. I haven't done it in years. I won't let myself do it again. Instead, I climbed into the shower until my skin was raw and bright red. Make the moment pass. Wash it all away. Maybe if I close my eyes I will cease to exist. Maybe if I bite my lip hard enough the feelings won't return. Maybe if I try just a little bit harder I'll escape from it this time.

But I didn't. A nervous rash crept up on my skin. My arms and my face itched. The itching wouldn't stop. Not that night and not the next day. It wouldn't stop. The anxiety kept growing, the paranoia was only a step away, and I couldn't stop scratching. I couldn't stop scratching! I couldn't stop scratching and I couldn't stop crying and I couldn't breathe.

Is this how Britney Spears feels? I wonder if she was raped. I know what its like to want to shave off your hair. I know what its like to want to wake up somebody else, to escape the person that you are. The sad thing is, that's the one person you can never escape.