I have consistently been wearing full make-up for the first time in my life. Its a drag and I hate it but it hides the black rings under my eyes. It obscures the shadows and imperfections. Adds colour to my cheeks and makes my eyes bright. So they pop. I am an imposter with a flawless mask.
Oh yes I’m the great pretender
Adrift in a world of my own
too real is this feeling of make believe
People tell me how good I’m looking. How great I’m looking. So fine, so well, so marvelous, so healthy. I never knew depression looked so good on me. Now off venlafaxine, the feedback is I look lucid, present, in the moment. And I’ve slimmed down. As opposed to bloated, blank, slow, drugged and slurring my words. Oh wait, whats that’s I hear? Nothing. Just the demise of my dignity.
Currently undermedicated, I will soon be reinstated to slow, slurring zombie status. And, too tired to explain, I reinforce the deception with my own lies:
I’m fine thanks…. well thanks…. good…. great… fabulous… fucking aaaaaaaaaawesome!!!