breathe | r lewandowski

15

Every time Jagger came home from work, it hurt me. I was in pain inside, my heart heavy from the fact that she was still able to be surrounded by the environment that I lived for, even if I did hate practically everybody there.

And the worst part was, each time she walked through the door looking sluggish and tired, just like she was completely and utterly fed up with her day to day life, it was a kick in the teeth. Sure, she wasn't a footballer, but she was still experienced the atmosphere and the surroundings that I so desperately craved. And she had it all, but looked more and more disgusted with her privilege by the day.

I had started going to the counsellor behind Jagger's back. After I missed my first month's worth of appointments, I decided that now I had nothing to do everyday, I may as well take the help that I apparently needed.

"Tell me, Mr Lewandowski, what you think is the problem here."

The fact that my counsellor happened to be male almost made me turn around and leave the office straight away. I despised talking about my feelings to women, but men were a species that I didn't speak to ever, let alone about something so personal and weak like my feelings.

However the more I thought about it, I realised I was just being my cynical self and the gentleman was here to help me, not judge me. Although I was sure he'd secretly be doing that to.

"See I don't see it as a problem," I sighed, "Because it's ingrained into me, it's who I am and I can't change that so why call it a problem?"

"Mr Lewandowski, everyone can change. You only think you can't because you've told yourself that. Have you ever just expressed your feelings? For example if you ever feel angry or upright, keeping that in doesn't help."

"You don't think I know that?" I snapped, raising my voice. The man, however, just narrowed his eyes at me.

"All I ever do is let out my anger because anger is all I ever feel. I'm always angry and I'm always sad and half the time I don't even know why. Once you tell people that they run. They run and they don't look back and you're pushed further into your hole of darkness and isolation until your buried so far under that you can't see a light anymore."

His beady eyes bore into me, absorbing every word I just spat out all over him in one big messy breath. But I didn't want to hang around to hear his 'analysis' or take his 'advice'. I didn't want other people to tell me what to do, nobody understood, not even a psychiatrist could understand and that was what made me realise that I was lost beyond hope, because now Jagger was starting to look deflated and that didn't help me, not one bit.

I rose to my feet and grabbed my jacket, hastily making an exit towards the door of his office.

"Mr Lewandowski you're depressed."

The word hit me, one letter at a time until it had sunk through my skin, my bone and filtered into my brain.

Depressed.

It sounded like something horrible, like a disease that nobody wanted, like something people would avoid, like a reason for people to start ignoring you and dropping like flies from your life because nobody wants to be around somebody who is depressed.

"W-what?" I stuttered, my hand still on the doorknob and my face still inches away from the wooden door as I decided to not turn round and face the man.

"Everything you've described to me, this lack of happiness, compression, isolation, it's the signs of depression. You need help, Mr Lewandowski and I can-" 

"No you can't! You think you can, you think you understand but you don't! Nobody understands because the only person who can possibly understand how I feel is me."

I felt myself shaking as I slammed my fists down onto his desk in a fit of rage and anxiety. My blood was pumping, heart racing and I was sweating. But still, he looked un-phased. He didn't flinch, just continued to stare at me until I finally calmed down and sat back down opposite him, my head in my hands as I wiped the sweat away from my forehead with the sleeves of my shirt.

"Mr Lewandowski you are sick and you need help. This is treatable, you are not alone with this. I know it feels like it but..."

He continued to speak, throwing comforting phrases at me every now and again but it didn't help. I wasn't a child, I didn't need to know that I wasn't 'alone'. I was alone. I was all alone and I always had been. Dylan didn't change that and neither will Jagger because no matter who I fall in love with, there's always the ice cold part of me that stops me from being completely in love with that person. I'm always reserved, I can never truly give myself to a person, because it's impossible. Everybody has limitations, and I'm my own limitation.

"Here," He handed me a sheet of paper upon which he had signed at the bottom, "go the the chemist at the end of the street, they'll give you your prescription. Take one a day. Come back to see me in two weeks. Date and time is on the back."

Feeling sick to the stomach, I just nodded. I couldn't find any words to say. I didn't feel like a 'thank you' was in order, since he'd just signed me off as mentally ill. I just took my things and left quietly.

I found the chemist with ease, walking in and finding that the store was full of people. I had never been claustrophobic, but at that moment I had never been so afraid of people. I tried to drown out the noise like I used to do when I muted the sounds of fans at the stadium, but this time, I couldn't do it.

I rushed to the counter and thrust the prescription paper into the cashier's hand. She disappeared and within a minute or so, returned with a sealed package with my medication inside.

Messily signing something that I didn't read, I took the package and shoved it inside my jacket so nobody saw. I felt like the cashier was judging me and as I left with fear in my wide eyes, feeling like a lost child, I had talked myself into believing that everybody in the store was staring at me because they somehow knew that I was clinically depressed.

Quickly walking back to my car, I jumped into the front seat and slammed the door shut, starting the engine. I pulled down the mirror and stared at myself. For the first time, I didn't recognise myself. My hair has grown too long, it had covered my ears at the sides and the top was flat against my forehead. My eyes were no longer bright blue, they were dull and cloudy with dark circles dragging them down.

I looked like a different person, I wasn't myself anymore. And then I realised that I didn't know what myself was. Had I ever really been myself? I didn't know, but I was unrecognisable and all of a sudden I became afraid of who I am.