LoserI have battled depression for what feels like forever. I was really sad in 5th grade, but in 6th I got significantly happier. I went out with friends a lot, flirted with guys (only flirted, I am in middle school), did well in my classes, and my parents were decent to me. In the 7th grade I began falling very fast. Now, half way through 8th grade and age 14, I am miserable a lot. I find myself counting the seconds until I will get home from school (AKA hell), and wishing my parents would just leave me alone. I want to just lay in bed, read some Nicholas Sparks and listen to music forever. I feel as though I should give you the full story though, or at least a brief version.
In 7th grade, I began cutting school. I cut all the time, and my parents let me. I mean they tried to stop me at first, but after I had cut a few times they just let it go pretty much. My parents have never been too responsible with me or enforced any real rules, something I will be sure to do with the children I may have. I talked about being sad a lot, but nobody really believed me at school. I told my (former) best friend that I thought I was depressed and she laughed. I must put on a fantastic front in class since everyone bought it.
One day my parents took action and got me a therapist. We'll call her Joyce. Joyce was young, energetic and ready to squeeze everything out of me. She had a few sessions with me and at first it was just basic questions. I remember once, she asked me I had suicidal thoughts. I said no. That wasn't true, I had had thoughts of suicide, but not of actually doing it. Just of what it would be like and if anyone would really miss me when I was gone.
I hated seeing Joyce. She made me talk about things I didn't want to revisit, made me feel guilty about everything other than breathing, and asked me questions I really and truly couldn't answer. "Why are you sad?" She would look at me, clipboard poised and ready. I would just shrug and she would send me on another guilt trip. So I decided to put on my front for her too. Then I wouldn't have to see her anymore, she would think I was happy. But no, she did not think I was happy. She pried and pestered on and made me dread the days I had to see her more and more. I told my parents this, and they told me I needed to see Joyce, to get "better". Awesome, so now I'm sick or something.
My parents and Joyce didn't know it, but my "sickness" wasn't my only problem. Thanks to my critical, nit-picking, so-called BFFS at school, I had realized I was stupid, a loser, and needed to lose 20 pounds. One night while brushing my teeth, I shoved the brush down my throat and jiggled it. Nothing, absolutely nothing. So I tried not to eat, and that worked great for about a day. I was so mad at myself for being so weak and so stupid. Too weak to starve myself, too weak to cut myself, too weak to let down the front, too weak to suck it up and go to school everyday. Too weak to stick to God too. I was losing my religion, constantly thinking how is a God even possible, and why isn't he doing something to better our sick, sad world? To me God was like Santa. Fun when you are a gullible, naive child, but hard to believe once you get some common sense.
A particular group of people at school were making it even shittier than usual, and I longed for summer. And summer came, being the most relaxing summer ever. I stayed in bed until late, and stayed up thinking until the AM, just listening to my iPod and dreaming up stories in my head. Stories I never can really put down on paper, but I do love my stories. They are much better than real life, with beautiful, perfect girls I wish I was and drama and romance. I may not be able to put down my stories well, but I can write poems okay. Poems about heartbreak, and drug addiction and abused runaways.
Back on topic, I didn't have to see Joyce that summer either. She would be gone, and I would be alone. And I really and truly was perfectly fine with that. I didn't go to the pool much like I had previous years, truthfully I didn't get out much at all. My parents would take my sister to our grandmas our a restaurant and I would stay home for hours just doing as I pleased until the end of summer. A few of my friends would text me now and then asking me to the movies or the pool, but they lessened as summer went on. I kept saying no. I didn't want to put on a fake smile for people I barely liked, and who didn't seem to care too much of me either.
School was quickly approaching though and I wasn't ready for it. I dreaded the day we would return to school, and decided to ignore that fact the day would come. I didn't buy a new bag or binders, and I didn't go to open house. My mom would broach the subject of school and I shrug it off, "Mom we've got plenty of time, it's summer!" It wasn't until the night before school started up that I realized we didn't have plenty of time.
I skipped the first day of eighth grade. The idea of walking in those two doors terrified me to no end. I could not go and I meant it. But of course, the next day I forced myself to go, plastered on a fake smile and walked into homeroom. And to my delight (sarcasm btw), almost everyone I didn't like was on my team. Joy!
Speaking of joy, I had to see Joyce again. My first session back with her was ****. She claimed I had an anxiety problem, and let me tell you, I don't think I had one back then, but I sure as hell have one now. She sent me to a sleepy old psychiatrist, who quickly diagnosed me as being depressed and decided to talk with my parents about me popping some Zoloft.
I don't like drugs, presc
I kind of felt like I was getting better too. I had nice teachers, and the kids I had been mainly worried about in my class were leaving me alone. Eighth grade was okay, I could handle this. One day I came back from a break and had a new teacher, those kids were back to making me feel like **** and a boy had committed suicide. He didn't go to our school anymore, and was in high school, I didn't even know him. It didn't matter I still cried for him. One of his friends told me a story of him and I burst into tears and went home for the rest of the day. The whole thing seemed so surreal, nothing like this had ever happened so close to home, in our community.
I don't have a Facebook, but I went to his old page and saw that everyone was posting about how they missed him and for once I thought maybe we all would realize what bullying and depression and sadness could do to a person and be better to each other. And we were, for about two days. On Monday I walked down the hall ready to face my day and a rude boy who sits near me, told me I was so annoying, I made him want to kill himself. I knew it was the same school as before. I wasn't the same girl though, I thought about suicide a lot more, still not wanting to do it. But I though of it. What would I do? Would a write a will? Who would I mention in my suicide note? But I would and still won't ever do it, I know that.
I think about lots of things, about love, drugs, sickness, marriage, politics, losing love, life as a runaway. I have always loved the thought of running away. I tell people about that sometimes and they look at me like I'm dumb and crazy or like I'm kidding. All except one friend. My only real one, I suppose. She said if I were to run away, I would have to take her with me, we planned it out and everything. I don't always treat that friend the best, but I think she's real great, and I hope she knows it.
Great as she may be, high school is soon approaching, and I don't know if she is great enough to make go to the same high school as her. I have to think about so much more now, will I go to boarding school, as I think I want, and escape to get a fresh start? Grades matter more in high school, everyone will be changing, people will date more but nobody wants to date me, in just 4 years I will be in college and then in the real world. These thoughts consume me constantly, as Joyce said, I am anxious, I want to be a kid on the playground again, laughing, truly happy. I stopped seeing her btw, it involved a big incident which ended in her yelling at me and me running away crying from her building. My parents were going to force me to go back, but I talked them out of it. She sent me a card filled with BS, about how she cared about me. It was sweet; not sweet enough for me to go again. I may be an anxious, ****** up, depressed loser, but I am getting up every morning, putting on my mask of smiles and laughs and facing the world.
I left a lot out of this, especially, in eighth grade, not to mention things that happened near the end of 6th grade.