I’m speechless. Those pills are antidepressants. I am not taking them, because I feel better. Obviously, not because of the pills, but because I thought my anxiety attack had passed, or so it seemed.

No, it hadn’t passed. It was not a mental disorder; it was not a depression. It was a passion. I did not know then, I was only in the midst of pain, but that pain was also knowledge. What I have seen in life has upset me, but it has been worth seeing. That same summer night, with the windows open, my mother made hot dogs and chips for dinner. My mother made very special French fries, I loved them. That day, I did not manage to eat a single one. I was completely fucked. An angel had come to see me, and he would never leave. And time passed very slowly. For those who suffer from depressive disorders, time stands still. It took me a long time to realize that no human being fits into a diagnosis. A diagnosis is a cruel invention of men. I was over-conscious, that was all. I was seeing too many things.

My father didn’t even know what was happening to me. He had enough with his own problems. His and mine, which were the same, which ended up being ours. The angel told me look at how emptiness spreads over everything, look at the summer heat, and look at yourself, look at the trees, the sky, look at me and be afraid. I was afraid of him, yes, for years I was afraid of him, and I never spoke about him, to anyone. I did not speak of the angel of melancholy.