A strand of light landed on my face, forcing me to turn away from it. I'm sensitive to light; it makes me cry. I don't know why that happens. I can't even remember when this started.
But it was too late. Tears rolled down my eyes. Once they roll, I can't stop it anymore. Gulping, I looked around me, the tears forming little droplets on my jacket. A therapist once told me that I am troubled, deep down. Told me that I am essentially very very sad. In a word, depressed. Gave me a couple of tablets to deal with it. I tried it for a while.
Meds for depression was seen as a novel idea when they first entered the social fabric of this nation, this world even. People with mental illness were not destined to end up in Pabna if they were in Bangladesh, or the suburban institutions that housed the physically and mentally ill in the U.S. They were, all of a sudden, allowed to be part of the community, part of real life. I was no different. I was allowed to merge with the crowds, lead a life like everyone else. I wasn't forced to be surrounded by calming white walls. The urban jungle was not seen as an aggravating agent.
Yet, peace eluded me. For a long, long time. And now I am a stranger, even to myself.
(c) Error in Design
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