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The wreckage called 'me'

One look at me, I wonder if Sherlock will be able to make a deduction. I must have looked like a wreck when I walked home in my white coat today. With a dull, exhausted face, plaster of Paris powder on my sleeves, remnants of latex gloves on my hands, front pocket bulging from the contents, from a block of wax to x-ray films, teeth and what not.

When I came back to my room, I saw a glimpse of books I haven't had the time to read yet. I need to get myself sorted. As long as this week is not over, I don't think I can even rest. 

Lately I went to sleep with anxiety which causes me to not be able to sleep well. I keep on waking up and I always woke with my heart beating fast, as if I just went for a run. I am also starting to have false hopelessness, headaches, heavy feeling in my heart when I woke up. Well, that's what my husband called it. I was telling him my troubles with sleeping and other things that I felt. He told me to go to a psychiatrist because I might be depressed but I don't want to because I'm afraid if I AM diagnosed as depressed, the medical record might affect me later when I have to apply for a job after school. 

To be honest, I'm not really sure about that but I'm just taking safety measures. 

I think there's a lot of things that's faulty in me. My personality, my mind, my heart. I wonder if, like a machine, I would suddenly blow up when I went on an overdrive. 

I don't know. 

And I don't even know what point I am trying to make here. 

I wonder if there will be any part of me that I will be proud of. As for now, I don't think there's any.


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Speak good, or remain silent. (Bukhari & Muslim)

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