A Piece of Prose

This is my third shower today. The water drips down my face and onto my collarbone, slipping between my breasts with satisfying wetness. Heat rises in steam around my naked body. I want to sink into the pulsating stream, forget myself and forget what brought me here.

I am not who I want to be.
I realize, with deadly calm, that I am only twenty two. I do not know anyone who is fully formed at twenty two. But I hold myself to high standards, to goals that no one will ever meet.

I sink against the tiled wall and lift my face, letting the shower fall on my chest and legs. My stomach fat sits in little rolls as I tuck my knees under my chin, and I feel like crying. And at the same time, I feel like being very, very still. I am numb. Not even the demons of my self-loathing can bother me if they don't see me. I remember being a child, hiding from monsters. Close my eyes, close my eyes. If I can't see it, it can't see me.

Sometimes I think I would like to die. I know it wouldn't solve my problems, and I am not yet so selfish, but still... I wouldn't have to try anymore.
I think, I am only twenty two. What will keep me going when I am thirty two? Or forty two? Who will I love? Who will love me?

People worry when I think like that. But I'm not scared. My mind has to wander, obsesses over the silly, the inane and the disturbing. I don't think dark thoughts all the time, but if I don't work through them, they keep knocking on my door.

I know there are things wrong with me. People act surprised when they learn I am depressed, because that is not who they think I am. I am the cheerful one, the sarcastic joker, the sympathetic friend, the A student. I am deeper.
I just wish that the deep parts of me weren't so cold and dark.

Why am I telling you this? I feel vulnerable, and lonely, and tired.

I feel selfish. Isn't depression a selfish disease by its nature? If all I can think of is myself, my own issues and problems, I can't see beyond my nose to help anyone else.

Maybe that is why I try so hard to make other people happy, to help them. I despise selfishness. Even as I sit here, wet hair fanned down my back, artificial tears wetting my chin, I hate that all my self-loathing and ache are all about me.

I am dissatisfied with my body, and I hate that I care.
I loathe my obsession with my thoughts, and I hate that it bothers me.
I can't stand hiding who I am, but I hate it when I am me and I am not comfortable.
I hate that so many of my sentences start with "I".
I hate that so many people love and care for me, and I have so many good intentions, but at the end of the day I feel so alone, and scared, and screwed up.

I am many different people, but essentially there are just two of me. The Raquel in the light, and the one in the shadows.
And as the water slowly turns cold, I feel my heart beat in my neck. I do not know who is stronger.

This is an excerpt from an article about depression I have been writing.
'Quel