“You pull and pull,” the Nursing Professor said as she reached her hands down to the floor, “There’s nothing there. It’s like pulling on a corpse. They don’t grab you back.”
“I beg to differ,” I had wanted to say.
Instead I slid down in the plastic chair, hiding my head behind the girl in front of me.
Specks of white from the dry erase board poked through the frizz of hair collected on the top of her head.
I pushed the psychiatric assessment page to the side, revealing a blank notebook page.
I grabbed my pen and scribbled “Dead?”.
I don’t know what you see when you look at me when I’m depressed.
Perhaps it’s like looking down the barrel of a nightmare.
A deadened soul that is seemingly impenetrable.
But I dare you.
Put your hand in the barrel.
If you don’t feel anything, go further and further.
As far as your arm will let you go and leave it there.
You may not notice the subtle brush on the tips of your fingers or when my hand slides loosely into yours.
But I guarantee you that one day you’ll feel a tug.
You need to pull.
Pull and pull and pull.
It may take a while before the darkness around me begins to fade and for you to see the broken pieces of my soul meld together.
But your hand?
Is my hope.
I won’t let that go.
As long as you don’t let go of me.