Sunday, June 12, 2007. From afar I hear a steady drip-drip-drip of water falling, like clockwork, every second, into the bathroom sink. Pling. Pling. Pling.
By Ingrid Falaise
I don’t have the strength to get up out of bed, my refuge since Friday. And yet it is summer. The sun burns late in the day, the birds awaken early, and I am finally on vacation.
I’d really like to take a vacation from my earthly existence. But that’s impossible. Unless I slit my wrists, or swallow the contents of a bottle of pills lying around in my medicine cabinet…
I’ll admit that I’ve thought about it. This idea of putting an end to the hamster running in the wheel in my head fills me with dark ideas. But to do it, I’d have to get up and make a decision, which I’m incapable of doing right now. I’m safe behind drawn curtains. I don’t have to face myself in the mirror, for my reflection would certainly return the favor with horrible words aimed against me.
I hate myself. I’m no good, good-for-nothing, useless. Lying on my wet pillow, I cry. Who am I? Where am I going? How will I survive this incomprehensible state another day further?
I have no idea. I half-close my eyes, lost in my own thoughts, a prisoner of the burden which is my life.
That was me nine years ago.
Now I know that they call this hellish place I was in “depression.” That place of eternal darkness. That grim place where the seconds tick by agonizingly slowly. Where the shadow of ourselves survives without knowing why. Where tomorrow seems like just another ordeal.
Back then I didn’t know that I’d get married, be happy and fulfilled, and that I’d be thanking the heavens that I’m alive. Depression had sucked me into her endless maze.
Ingrid Falaise, an actress, wrote the autobiographical book Le Monstre, which chronicles 2 years she spent in an abusive relationship with a narcissistic pervert. She is the spokesperson for the SOS Violence conjugale organization. They offer services in English and French. If you need help, please visit their website.