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Strawberry field 🍓
It was one of those sticky afternoons where the air feels like it's been soaked in sweat and the sun’s just a big, tired eye staring down at you. My mother and I were sprawled out in the living room, her voice droning on about some vague future trip. She was painting a picture of a strawberry field in a valley somewhere, her eyes lighting up like she’d just stumbled upon a forgotten dream.
I wasn’t really listening. I was too busy trying to anchor myself to the present, to the confines of that little room, while my mind wandered off into darker territories. I could see myself tumbling off a cliff, the wind howling past my ears, the earth rushing up to meet me. It was a stark contrast to the picture she was painting with her words, and it was all I could do to keep from drifting too far.
I looked at her, caught in that moment of her excitement. Her eyes were like tiny stars, glittering with hope and possibility, oblivious to the shadows lurking in my thoughts. She was talking about the strawberries, the valley, the freedom of the open road, and I was stuck in a place where the sky was a canvas of despair.
It felt almost cruel, the way she didn’t see through the facade I wore like a second skin. She was busy weaving her dreams while I was silently grateful she didn’t know the truth—that sometimes, I wished I’d never been born, that I wished I could vanish into the cracks of reality and be forgotten.
She had this way of filling the room with light, with the promise of things that might never come to pass. And I had this way of shadowing it all with a silent, internal scream. I was caught between her dreams and my nightmares, and the gulf between us felt as wide as the world.
But I kept my mouth shut, nodded occasionally, threw in the right smiles at the right times. How could I ever tell her that behind the veil of my polite responses was a dark wish for oblivion? How could I ruin her bright, innocent vision with the murky depths of my own despair?
So I let her talk about strawberries and valleys, and I let myself sink deeper into the comfort of my own darkness, silently grateful for her ignorance and my own ability to pretend.
© reddragonfly
#depression
I wasn’t really listening. I was too busy trying to anchor myself to the present, to the confines of that little room, while my mind wandered off into darker territories. I could see myself tumbling off a cliff, the wind howling past my ears, the earth rushing up to meet me. It was a stark contrast to the picture she was painting with her words, and it was all I could do to keep from drifting too far.
I looked at her, caught in that moment of her excitement. Her eyes were like tiny stars, glittering with hope and possibility, oblivious to the shadows lurking in my thoughts. She was talking about the strawberries, the valley, the freedom of the open road, and I was stuck in a place where the sky was a canvas of despair.
It felt almost cruel, the way she didn’t see through the facade I wore like a second skin. She was busy weaving her dreams while I was silently grateful she didn’t know the truth—that sometimes, I wished I’d never been born, that I wished I could vanish into the cracks of reality and be forgotten.
She had this way of filling the room with light, with the promise of things that might never come to pass. And I had this way of shadowing it all with a silent, internal scream. I was caught between her dreams and my nightmares, and the gulf between us felt as wide as the world.
But I kept my mouth shut, nodded occasionally, threw in the right smiles at the right times. How could I ever tell her that behind the veil of my polite responses was a dark wish for oblivion? How could I ruin her bright, innocent vision with the murky depths of my own despair?
So I let her talk about strawberries and valleys, and I let myself sink deeper into the comfort of my own darkness, silently grateful for her ignorance and my own ability to pretend.
© reddragonfly
#depression
