THIS IS A LONG POST. TW: SUICIDE / DEPRESSION / ABUSE.
three words: I have depression.
which isn’t a sentence you hear tossed around, at least not with people you know or trust. I know you. I trust you. I still don’t know if I should actually post this, if people will actually read this.
I have depression.
And if you don’t, it’s hard to understand why it’s so fucking hard to say. It’s because the world thinks you should be tough, hide your emotions, if you’re sad just GET OVER IT.
It doesn’t work like that.
Even now I’m scared to tell my parents because I think they’ll say just get over it, it’s not a real disease, it’s just emotions and emotions are easy things to get control of. I’m scared because they were part of it, but that was a long time ago.
It’s hard to talk about it. I don’t have many friends from the period of time I was depressed — around sixth-grade-ish to mid-seventh grade, then it went away for a while and I felt like I could be a Normal Functioning Human Bean. Around the end of ninth grade (May?) it came back. I don’t even know why.
If I don’t look or sound like I’m depressed it means that I’m just hiding it really well. Sometimes I don’t feel it. Sometimes it keeps me up at night. Sometimes I get panicky just thinking about human interaction.
I suffer from depression, and i still don’t want to get medication for it, because that would mean that I’m sick, and that I have to tell my parents. I don’t want to be sick. I don’t want to tell my parents. I’m utterly terrified of telling my parents.
I was abused when I was a kid.
THERE. I SAID IT.
But I’ve never said anything about it because everyone else’s abuse stories all seemed so horrific, with drunk parents and bruises. My abuse story is very simple.
When I couldn’t do math properly, my father would hit me and call me stupid. He doesn’t drink.
When I could, he didn’t.
He still calls me stupid sometimes. He doesn’t hit me anymore.
I haven’t forgiven him. I’m not good at forgiving. I’m a violent person and I don’t know use words to express annoyance half the time.
i always feel guilty about telling my story because so many people have been hurt worse than i have. and when i think about writing it down, about getting it out there, my brain tells me it doesn’t hurt enough.
It took me about halfway through seventh grade to tell someone about being abused and two and a half years later to write it down.
I was suicidal for most of sixth grade. I would lie in bed and think that i was a fucking coward for not being brave enough to die.
Now with the world how it is I’ve been thinking about killing myself again. about just not having to deal with the crap and politics and everything crashing down around my ears.
I’m not going to kill myself. I love you. You’re my friends. I’m not going to leave you hanging. and I have a book to finish writing.
But I don’t sound like a depressed teenager. I don’t sound like someone who’s been suicidal.
DON’T EXPECT ME NOT TO CHANGE.
DON’T EXPECT ME TO ALWAYS BE ONE WAY.
DON’T EXPECT ME TO ALWAYS BE HAPPY.
DON’T EXPECT ME TO NEVER SWEAR.
Because what I show you at one given time? It’s never all of me. Sometimes I wonder what’s the point of telling you even that I’m depressed and that I was abused if I want you to treat me like a Normal Human Bean anyway.
This is the point: we’re complicated. This is proof that none of us have it all together, we just don’t like showing it. this wasn’t a hard post to write. It was a hard post to post.
This is the other point: please believe me. I’m real.
This is real.
and it hurts.