On Slowness

I am a slug.
Or rather - like the slow moving cats that sit on Elizabeth's dressers.
They are simply more likable than the slug.
Like me, every once in a while, they move - sometimes sudden.
This act of movement shows me that they are alive.

So now, I am a cat.

The kind that sits in one place.
She cannot move, she cannot speak.
She starts to write,
because it is the only ability
available to her pace and lack of living.

Because her emotions overwhelm her.
She doesn't know why she feels the way she feels.
She doesn't know where it has come from.
She checks her physical body -
she has learned that this sort of ailment
is connected to all of her bodies,
and her physical gives her the most outward shame.
So she traps it, berates it,
because there is still a part of her
that thinks it'll feel better when she hates her body.
The physical body usually does not respond to this hate.
It does not respond now. It is lackluster.

However, it is the emotional body
that keeps her
trapped inside doorways
in a white room that lasts forever
and she cannot see the next place
that proves that she is living.

In this room, there is no divider.
She either sleeps so that the days and nights
come together, and therefore there is no separation;
or she doesn't sleep, so all days and nights become one.

When she does not sleep,
she dreams, but the dreaming is what keeps her
in these white spaces.
The dreams are unreal, fantastical -
there, she is perfect,
her living is immaculate,
every inch of how she upholds herself
is Ultimately Cindy
in the fullest of her potential,
talent, gait, and desirability.
Those she loves openly loves her.
Those she loves deeply is deeply in love with her.
Here, she is both giving and selfish
and admired for both traits.
She does what she wants and everyone is okay.
And she is never lonely,
even when she is alone,
because that means she is creating.
And her creating is monumental.

When she does sleep,
she only dreams of white boxes.
They are comforting,
out of her control,
and they take care of her.
Upon wakening, the stifling mess of reality
usually puts her right back to sleep -
until the overwhelming guilt of not being awake
will force her to be "awake,"
so she'll sleepwalk through her days,
carrying white boxes.

I'm noticing that I can only address
my relationship with my depression
in the third person, and in story.
(I couldn't write the 'd' word for two minutes.)

My body is now experiencing nausea,
a heavy head, the desire to roll into a fetus.
I want to feel safe,
but safety or security
is a false prison -
and I know when I'm alive,
I want to be more than safe.

For now,

I am a cat.