If you had the flu and could barely get out of bed, what would you do? Would you go see a doctor? Probably. If you were feeling depressed and could barely get out of bed, what would you do? Would you see a doctor? Maybe.
I guess you could say I’ve always been a crier. From a very young age, I’ve been sensitive to how people look at me, speak to me, or criticize me. You’re probably thinking, so what, everyone is, but I’m sensitive to an extent that can make me feel weak and can even hinder my day-to-day activities.
My eyes scan the bookcase for something to read, but nothing stands out. Of course, most of the books here in my childhood bedroom are meant for an audience younger than my college-aged self, but I wouldn’t mind reading one for nostalgia’s sake.
I gloss over familiar titles and reminisce about my joyful days as a kid, when my eyes catch on a spiral-bound journal with red and white stripes. I remember this one – it always looked like a candy cane to me. I take it from the shelf and begin to thumb through its pages.
The bell sounds and 30 people sit quietly in a room without making eye contact.
For an hour no one moves or says a word. The turn of a page would upset the stillness in the air.
My eyes shield me and I see nothing but darkness. I try to focus on my breath. I don’t notice distraction creeping in. Thoughts fill the void.
My internal dialogue: How long do I have to sit here? Ow ow ow my legs are going numb. That’s not normal. I wonder what’s for lunch? The tempeh was pretty good yesterday. This is stupid. I’m stupid. Why can’t I sit still without hurting? Why?