I was supposed to be reading Donna Haraway now. Dancing in the celebratory chaos, the uncertainity that she weaves. Asking questions. Searching. Googling. Missing my lunch. And feeling an orgasmic pleasure, a delight in her creation. But what did I do instead? Read up on the underground film movement? Not because I didn't want to read, or I was being lazy or I wanted the easy way out to spend the day. I have been struggling since two days. Trying to read. Wanting desperately to. I know exactly where it all is going. The pills. Anti-depressants. Yeah, I am "clinically depressed". Offically so. Fuck.
"You are not trying enough", she told me. Fuck. How much more do I try? Ten years of being fucking depressed. Trying to live. Never being able to. Ten fucking years. Thats a fucking decade! All by myself. Alone. I was fucking 15 then. 15 for fuck sake! Seeing people just go past me. Beacuse they had better receptors in their fucking brains. Yeah, everyone has some problem or the other. But this is a fucking disability. One which does not appear as one anywhere. I don't get any extra time anywhere. All I get is "you are not trying enough". Fuck. "Don't take those anti-depressants". Fuck. How else am I going to survive you if I don't take those fucking pills? How else am I going to read Haraway and dance in the breached boundaries?
