re-reading *Annihilation,” a book I really love even after I hated the movie, because who cares art is everywhere and holding the hater’s face is for mummies.
anyway, I just read this and felt a shudder of resentment and pain go through my chest. I wish I didn’t understand these feelings. I wish I hadn’t been killed at 18, then left to breathe and struggle and carry on anyway. To pretend I was alive. To keep taking on the disappointment of others while every new life withered in my hands.
“There are certain kinds of deaths that one should not be expected to relive,”
“certain kinds of connections so deep that when they are broken you feel the snap of the link inside you.”
I’ve felt too many of those links snap. I can feel the empty space where they used to sit. The genuine love and wonder that I felt for this life and world and the people in it, who were supposed to care for me and instead shoved my face into the dirt. Who convinced me I couldn’t be trusted, especially not inside myself. When all I ever wanted was to dance and sing and laugh and take care of others.
do I have depression? or am I undead?