midnight in athens

my hair doesn’t glow gold and my eyelashes aren’t thick enough and my nail polish has chipped and my triceps aren’t tight enough. my thoughts are fuzzy and my skin isn’t clean enough and my smile is too small and being busy and alone all day is tough.

today my soul felt moth-eaten for the first time in a while. a little crash for a little high. i knew i was thinking too fast yesterday. tomorrow i will be okay (i am okay now too), i am just a bit taken aback because i actually forgot what this feels like.

we were talking about how to differentiate between having a shitty day and unravelling at the seams. i said, ‘you know, most of the time, a shitty day is just the blues, but i think we get terrified because the blues, and the mean reds, they feel the same, it’s just that the mean reds don’t go away with the new day; they put their feet up on your coffee table and eat all your fucking cereal. the blues though, they evaporate when you spend the day in bed eating chocolate or you have a good laugh with a friend. most of the time, a shitty day is just the blues but we panic because we don’t know there’s a difference.’
she nodded.
i said, ‘it makes me feel sad for myself. i can handles the blues, sure, sometimes i even enjoy them, but think about it like this: the mean reds are so painful, that even the blues terrify us. what do you think of that? doesn’t it make you really sad? it’s like depression has it’s own version of ptsd.’

my name is alexia and i’m a melancholic. it’s been countless days since my last binge and there is no threat of one in the future. i just thought it would be a good idea to pop into a meeting.

it’s raining in athens. thick, white rain that blinds us. everyone is on strike. the garbage men haven’t collected anything in days. when it rained yesterday, the swollen bins and their rejects scattered across the streets. now everywhere you go there is trash. the air smells. this country is rotting.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

8 thoughts on “midnight in athens”

  1. Sometimes I long for the despair of the mean reds, the pain and anguish. At least I feel alive, even if I’d rather be dead. The blues, they come and go like expressions on a face never really making an impression but so do the good feeling.

  2. depression has its own ptsd — it’s so funny, isn’t it. remembering being sad makes you sad, remembering leaving scars feels like a scar of its own…

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