psych paper
I'm writing a paper for psych. And I really like it. I think I kind of LOVE creative writing.
So I thought I'd post it. It's basically about depression. I'm not sure how accurate it is, but I think that it's okay...
Tell me what you think.
You’ve got to be kidding me. The alarm clock already? It reads 6:00, and its bright red letters burn into my brain as I pull the grimy sheets back over my eyes. It’s only Tuesday. I wish I had something, anything to look forward to. But what is there? Saturday will only bring another date with Greasy Jim, who will again want sex and push me until I give in. Hardly a weekend, if you ask me. I reach for my pack of cigarettes. Empty. My heart sinks. I reach my hand to the ash tray for any possible remains of a half-smoked stub. Nothing. I stumble out of bed, towards the bathroom. In the mirror, my hair sticks straight up and my untrimmed bangs are plastered to my forehead with sweat. “Gosh Maria, you’re so ugly” I tell myself. “No one would ever want you. It’s no wonder you’re stuck with Greasy Jim.”
That’s when the tears start. What had gone wrong? It seems that just yesterday I was growing up in a suburban town, in a pinky-peach house with a white picket fence. I was the middle of eight children, and life had been going so well. I remember going to senior prom in a gorgeous purple gown that made my average Jane-brown hair look sparkly and fresh. Now I work a stupid telemarketing job, with horrible wages and long hours. The color of my apartment is no where near a pinky-peach, and resembles more a putrid cement block gray. The only fence is the chain link that twists itself around the non-existant backyard.
I pull myself together enough to head out the door, and make a quick stop at 7-11 for a pack of cigarettes and a black coffee. As I back my old Toyota Camry out of the parking lot, a sudden urge hits me to drive to Edmund’s bridge at the edge of the city and just drive off. Just end it right there. No more pain, no more suffering. No more sucky paychecks, sucky sex, or sucky 7-11 coffee. No more “what crap will tomorrow bring?” No more pregnancy scares, no more cancer-prone body parts. Just me, my cigarettes, and a peace of mind. Maybe it’s not too late to get to heaven. Heaven painted a pinky-peach color with gorgeous purple drapes made of prom dress material. Heaven surrounded by a pristine white picket fence.
No, I’m going to hold on for another day. Let my disgusting hair grow another half a millimeter. I’m not sure why I would even want to hold on until Wednesday, but I drive to work anyways, sucking all of the lifeless juice out of a cigarette. My small grey cubical awaits me at work. The smell of yesterday’s fries greets me with a rank stench. A yellow post-it note with the words “See Marjorie” is stuck to my computer monitor. Oh, great. Perfect. Just what I need, a lecture from the boss. It’s my fault, though I don’t even know what I could possibly be in trouble for… I hardly even work in that office anymore. More of my time is spent playing endless games of Internet checkers and hopelessly losing to a computer. But I must be in trouble. Or it must be my fault, whatever it is. Maybe I’ll get fired… wouldn’t that be a great way to spend my Tuesday.
Everything in life doesn’t seem worth it. I put so much effort into just waking up in the morning that something in the day should pay off. It never does though. My mother calls me later that evening. It’s the first time I’ve heard from her since Papi died. I hang up on her because I don’t want to hear her stories of Pottery Barn curtains and her new Ann Taylor clothes. Doesn’t she know that I don’t care? Does she even care that I don’t care? Probably not. She tells me “Maria, you realize that your sister has been married for almost three years?” and probes for more information on Mark, my ex. She doesn’t know about Greasy Jim. She doesn’t even know that Mark and I broke up two and a half months ago.
11:30 rolls around and I can’t sleep. I’m sitting huddled in a blanket in front of my TV watching the 11 o’clock news. Pretty blonde anchorwoman comes on and with an irritatingly fake voice comes on and tells me gaily of a young child being stabbed and left in a trash can. “What a wonderful world” I think to myself as I slowly drift off to sleep, the TV still flashing gruesome images of the poor boy.
The alarm clock rings in the other room and I wake with a start. It’s only Wednesday.
Oh, SAT scores came in today. Hah. That's called taking them again in October :)
So I thought I'd post it. It's basically about depression. I'm not sure how accurate it is, but I think that it's okay...
Tell me what you think.
You’ve got to be kidding me. The alarm clock already? It reads 6:00, and its bright red letters burn into my brain as I pull the grimy sheets back over my eyes. It’s only Tuesday. I wish I had something, anything to look forward to. But what is there? Saturday will only bring another date with Greasy Jim, who will again want sex and push me until I give in. Hardly a weekend, if you ask me. I reach for my pack of cigarettes. Empty. My heart sinks. I reach my hand to the ash tray for any possible remains of a half-smoked stub. Nothing. I stumble out of bed, towards the bathroom. In the mirror, my hair sticks straight up and my untrimmed bangs are plastered to my forehead with sweat. “Gosh Maria, you’re so ugly” I tell myself. “No one would ever want you. It’s no wonder you’re stuck with Greasy Jim.”
That’s when the tears start. What had gone wrong? It seems that just yesterday I was growing up in a suburban town, in a pinky-peach house with a white picket fence. I was the middle of eight children, and life had been going so well. I remember going to senior prom in a gorgeous purple gown that made my average Jane-brown hair look sparkly and fresh. Now I work a stupid telemarketing job, with horrible wages and long hours. The color of my apartment is no where near a pinky-peach, and resembles more a putrid cement block gray. The only fence is the chain link that twists itself around the non-existant backyard.
I pull myself together enough to head out the door, and make a quick stop at 7-11 for a pack of cigarettes and a black coffee. As I back my old Toyota Camry out of the parking lot, a sudden urge hits me to drive to Edmund’s bridge at the edge of the city and just drive off. Just end it right there. No more pain, no more suffering. No more sucky paychecks, sucky sex, or sucky 7-11 coffee. No more “what crap will tomorrow bring?” No more pregnancy scares, no more cancer-prone body parts. Just me, my cigarettes, and a peace of mind. Maybe it’s not too late to get to heaven. Heaven painted a pinky-peach color with gorgeous purple drapes made of prom dress material. Heaven surrounded by a pristine white picket fence.
No, I’m going to hold on for another day. Let my disgusting hair grow another half a millimeter. I’m not sure why I would even want to hold on until Wednesday, but I drive to work anyways, sucking all of the lifeless juice out of a cigarette. My small grey cubical awaits me at work. The smell of yesterday’s fries greets me with a rank stench. A yellow post-it note with the words “See Marjorie” is stuck to my computer monitor. Oh, great. Perfect. Just what I need, a lecture from the boss. It’s my fault, though I don’t even know what I could possibly be in trouble for… I hardly even work in that office anymore. More of my time is spent playing endless games of Internet checkers and hopelessly losing to a computer. But I must be in trouble. Or it must be my fault, whatever it is. Maybe I’ll get fired… wouldn’t that be a great way to spend my Tuesday.
Everything in life doesn’t seem worth it. I put so much effort into just waking up in the morning that something in the day should pay off. It never does though. My mother calls me later that evening. It’s the first time I’ve heard from her since Papi died. I hang up on her because I don’t want to hear her stories of Pottery Barn curtains and her new Ann Taylor clothes. Doesn’t she know that I don’t care? Does she even care that I don’t care? Probably not. She tells me “Maria, you realize that your sister has been married for almost three years?” and probes for more information on Mark, my ex. She doesn’t know about Greasy Jim. She doesn’t even know that Mark and I broke up two and a half months ago.
11:30 rolls around and I can’t sleep. I’m sitting huddled in a blanket in front of my TV watching the 11 o’clock news. Pretty blonde anchorwoman comes on and with an irritatingly fake voice comes on and tells me gaily of a young child being stabbed and left in a trash can. “What a wonderful world” I think to myself as I slowly drift off to sleep, the TV still flashing gruesome images of the poor boy.
The alarm clock rings in the other room and I wake with a start. It’s only Wednesday.
Oh, SAT scores came in today. Hah. That's called taking them again in October :)