Fifteen Going on Fifty
I started writing this paper thinking I could take someone in the news or on TV, research them and come out with a good paper to write. But when it came to all the people who interested me I saw a pattern; they all had suffered from depression. So, why bother researching their stories when I knew first-hand what hell it actually was? I thought it’d be easier explaining what it was through my own story, I never thought it’d put me closer to another episode. This paper was tough to write. But empathy is good in a counselor, I think, and that is really where I’d like my life to go. I like being able to relate to people. And so remembering what it’s like is good. Hard. But good. But let me say again; this paper was TOUGH. As far back as I can remember it seemed like it was harder for me to smile than the other kids around me. My younger sister, the light of my mother’s eye, was always laughing and could bounce out of a bad mood before I even realized she’d been upset. Why I couldn’t be more like her was beyond my mother’s understanding and so, therefore mine too. I held onto hurt feelings longer and dwelt in my bad moods for reasons that even I couldn’t comprehend. I rocked the boat often, whenever there was an injustice around the household, I’d point it out or try to fix it. And that irritated my entire family. I think it pointed out the flaws in our otherwise “perfect” family. So I became known as the bad seed. I didn’t like my part in the family so I after a while, I’m not sure exactly when, I started to not like my family. No one understood me and I didn’t feel safe opening up to any of them. My secrets stayed mine. I couldn’t explain why I was the way I was. I couldn’t—or wouldn’t—change, and that irritated and annoyed them. I remember shutting myself up in my room every day after school. I didn’t want to go out for sports. I had no energy or drive to do much of anything. My grades were average, but all my teachers said I wasn’t living up to my potential. I never wanted to do much of anything except hole away and listen to my nine inch nails or counting crows or other similar dark and sad music. There was comfort in their words and lyrics. Someone was singing the things I was thinking and feeling. I slept fourteen hours a day at least. When I was asleep I could turn my brain off and go into a completely different realm where dreams took over. The first time I ran away from home I was fourteen. I stayed away three days until my parents got the police involved at school and made me come home. Then I start seeing a psychologist. They said I had problems, and wanted to get me “fixed”. I took a whole bunch of tests and was diagnosed with ADHD and chronic depression. Here’re a couple pills, Kate. Go ahead and take them to feel better. The pills didn’t make me feel better, they just numbed me. And my most comfortable emotion was sadness. It was familiar. How do you explain that? As James Hillman describes it “depression opens the door to beauty of some kind” and somehow I loved my depression. It was only thing I’d felt for so long that the thought of being happy was almost a ridiculous notion. So I’d more or less, just play with my pills. I’d take them every once in a while but would pretend that I was taking them when I’d actually flush them or just throw them away. My mom thought I was crazy and just kept saying she didn’t understand. My dad became overwhelmed when he couldn’t make it all better. There was nothing he could do to “fix” this problem and that made him crazy. And no one understood what I was going through. Except the music that also kept helping me re-live my hell on earth through the comfort in those sad, wonderful words. A friend at school overheard me talking about always being so tired and complaining about not wanting to ever do anything. She introduced me to this wonderful little drug called meth. Out of nowhere I could strings thoughts together. All I wanted to do was write and...
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