My soul was exhausted, my face gloomy and my body miserable, I was sure I was close to my emotional death. I spent most of my free time by myself reading and crying. My extremely kind friends attempted to cheer me up over and over again without success. I had dug a quite deep well for myself and no one could rescue me.
Hoping to get a diagnosis of a fatal disease I went to the doctor, maybe they could tell me I had just a couple of months to live, so that feeling that was consuming me wouldn't last longer. After all the crying, talking and some exams I was told I was simply suffering from PMS. This means that all the cool stuff I wrote, all the sadness, melancholy and depth are gone now that I'm being treated.
I honestly don't miss the misery and desolation, but I already miss the creativity that came along with the illness, now I understand why most of the touching artistic material I came across in my life was made by people that was depressed and in chronic misery.
The sensation that you just don't fit in anywhere gives you some sort of distance from the ordinary and ordered world everyone lives in, consequently you are capable of deconstructing everything that surrounds you as if it was a Lego Land. But there's a last question that crossed my mind, what would have happened to the history of Literature if Jane Austin, Virginia Woolf and Clarice Lispector had had a good gynecologist?
B x
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