I cannot recount the thousands of things that have influenced my depression with one measly pen and sheet of paper. However I can tell what has progressed through me within the last 6 months time. Also I can relate exactly what I have been diagnosed with by the psychologists I have allowed myself to visit.
My first therapist was Anna, who I had a strained doctor-patient relationship with for the simple fact that my paranoia got the best of me and I was afraid that she hated me. Then, at one of our sessions, she told me that because I wore big pants, all black, and had every color of the rainbow hair, I was asking for trouble. This statement went against every moral fiber within my body, so I stopped seeing her indefinately. I stopped therapy all together for a year, and things with me greatly fluctuated, my moods especially.
This past fall my mom thought it best that I started seeing someone new, so that was when I met my current psychotherapist, Evan. For some reason I could get along with him better. Maybe it was because he was male (I always seem to trust men more; maybe because my paranoia had lessened, I'm unsure).
Around the same time I became friends with a guy named Tom. He was also depressed, had sexual identity issues, didn't believe in organized religion, and fought the taunting at school daily. We had a lot in common, so we became fast friends. Things went downhill, slowly but surely. I had been slashing myself with razors, pins, glass, anything sharp, for quite sometime. And with Tom, my monthly cutting progressed, mostly due to the fact that he did it too, so that gave me the false security that it was normal. I have so many scars, most of them simple lines, but I also have the word hate, a heart with an X through it, and several upside down crosses all over my body.
The blood and pain made me happy. It sounds pretty scary, but this is not a rare occurrence among people who suffer from depression. Most of them also find a certain peace in self-mutilation.
I had been snowballing for near ten years when one day, following a fight with my parents, I went into my bedroom in a rage. I took my oldest, most reliable razor blade and proceeded to slice my wrists. I moved to the bathroom, locked the door and attempted to finish. My mother discovered me. That ended that and I didn't bleed too badly, not enough to actually die. My parents were very saddened by it all, and it was planned that I would be in lock-up.
After my 'brush with death' I decided to take my life back. I'm working up to it, but all of these new emotions are alien to me. I've always suppressed every feeling other than sadness. And now I feel alive; it's scary but I think I can manage. Retaking your life after depression is a lot like going through chemical rehabilitation; you have to take it one day at a time.
So far I have ended my mutilating relationship with Tom, and successfully stayed 'clean' so to speak, since January. I have begun doing things on my own, and relaying my emotions to those whom I'm close to. Like I said, It isn't much, but I'm taking it one day at a time.
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It all started in June. My brother had graduated. I was so proud of him. I felt so happy that day. Nothing could have brought me down. Until the next day.
I had only one day left with him. Then the army would come and take him from me. I had told everyone I was glad he was leaving, but deep down, I never wanted to see him go. I was going to miss the yelling, fist fights, and telling on each other. Who would pay attention to me? Certainly not my parents. The only attention I got from them was getting grounded or yelled at.
Then I started to think, Hey, now that he'll be gone, it will be just me. Then I'm sure to get all the attention.
Then it just so happened, one of my friends from grade school came around. She was always trouble, but I didn't care. I knew she would give me atention, and she did. I had just turned sixteen, and I thought I ruled the world. Boy, was I wrong.
My parents and I moved into an apartment, since we didn't need the house. I was so happy -- it was right across the street from Angie. I started getting into drinking and doing drugs more often than before. Angie had dropped out in ninth grade, so she was always messed up.
But I was still in school, so for eight hours a day I would be sober.
The apartment across from us was always empty, so we didnt' think anyone would move in. But one Saturday, about six months after we moved there, I was talking on the phone with one of my friends, and had my sterio blasted with the door open. I looked outside and saw a black truck. I told my friend, who said her ex-boyfriend and two of his friends were moving in. All three guys were so fine, especially Mike, her ex. I wanted him and nothing was going to stop me. Not anyone . It took me a couple weeks, but I finally had him. He was mine and no one elses's.
We were never apart. I always stayed the night, and was always messed up on Cocaine, weed, or both. I wanted to be with him all the time, so I made it happen. I started to skip classes, then days of school and eventually weeks. My parents didn't know until I got caught, buy even that didn't stop me. My parents said, "Fine, have it your way." I liked that and took advantage of those five little words. They would give me anything I wanted.
I wasn't in school anymore, but my parents caught on and said that if I wanted a place to stay, I needed to work. So I did. A month later, I made my parents let Mike move in. He was in trouble, so I wanted to take care of him. We had ditched all our friends and stayed together.
Just me, and him, and our addictions. That's all we wanted.
My dad hated Mike. We didn't like my dad either, so we decided to get married. It was all planned. We decided to run away also. We stole a car and dipped out. We were on the run for two months.
We first went to Daytona Beach. It was great. We went to lots of stores to steal new stuff, like clothes and shoes. It was so easy. Late one night, we were driving on Daytona Beach Avenue, and all of a sudden I saw lights flashing. I turned around and there was a cop. I told Mike to slow down and stop, but he wouldn't listen. We went down a dead end street, jumped a curb, popped the tire, and took the Dodge Ram through a house. The cop told us to stop, but we hurried out and ran.
We broke into a Caravan later in the hour, and headed to South Carolina. We were doing has runs to get there. As soon as we got there, Mike showed me where he used to live. It was really nice. We grew bored with Sough Carolina, so we decided to go to Chicago to live with his "leader."
Our next gas run would be our last. The lady at the gas station called the cops on us while we were leaving. We ditched the car at a school, and just started to walk. An undercover cop spotted us and started chasing us with his car.
Mike got away, but I was caught. I was so scared. They took me to booking, and about fifteen minutes later I saw Mike. They finally caught him.
I was transferred to Charleston County Jail, and stayed there for a couple weeks. That was my home. Sitting in jail, I had a lot of time to think about everything. I felt really bad. I had hurt everyone . . . my parents, my friends, and my brother.
When my brother found out what had happened, he thought it was his fault, and that he should never have left. It wasn't his fauly. I was just mad because he left me. I now have realized to let things go. I can't always get what I want. I might not always be with my brother, but I know he still loves me and cares for me. My parents have realized that I do need attention. We have worked out all of our mistakes, and realize what went wrong.
I'm trying to put it all behind me now, but once in a while it all comes back to me. I'm not with Mike anymore; we have gone our separate ways. He is in jail now, which is where he belongs. I'm getting on with my life no, and am trying to complete my goals the best I can.
I have grown up so much from this experience. I am so thankful for my family, my friends, and my life. Without them, I don't think I could have ever changed, and I'm glad I did.