Friend long gone. Other thoughts.

I live in a south-american country with lots of social problems. One of those, connected in a way to all, is poverty. I was born in a fairly wealthy family, not rich, but in a country were some some didn’t make enough to eat, certainly more than enough. My family didn’t live always as well as they did by the time I was born, and still lived in the same “low-class” neighborhood. In this neighborhood, lived a much poorer family, and my grandmother were friends with them. I was about 7 when I was introduced to the other old lady’s grandson, a kid older than me, about 12. Despite the age gap, we became good friends, and had many pleasant afternoons playing Super Mario World and Donkey Kong Country on my SNES. He had a melancholic mood, despite the smiles and the laughter we shared together. It was there, when he would stare by the window for a long time or when he didn’t want to play. He never spoke about it, and in my child thinking, I couldn’t really understand. He lived with his grandmother and sisters. His mother would show quite frequently, but didn’t live there, and his father appeared only drunk to ask for money and mistread everybody. I know this because I was told later. We were friends until I became 11. He never complained, despite I knowing from my and his grandmothers conversations that he used to cry a lot. His father was violent on him, blamed him for a lot of things he just wasen’t guilty of. One day, I was told he died. An “accident” they said. Nobody really thought that I should know that he suicided at the moment. When I knew, I felt hollow, guilty. He was my friend, how come I didn’t notice, couldn’t help in any way? He was 17. His family moved, and I never had the chance to talk to them. I never stopped asking myself why.

Later in my life, I came to a moment when I began to understand why. I became depressive myself, with my share of suicidal thoughts. I also was ashamed of talking about it, I wanted everybody to hate me, because if they hated me, they wouldn’t miss me when I was gone. I used to “play” with my father’s unloaded gun when no one was home, imagining what I would feel if the bullet pierced my brain. Never tried it for real. The most terrifying felling is that no one knew. Nobody suspected. I was just a regular teen, moody, kind of gloomy, but no one knew how close I was to taking my life. And that is what is the most dangerous thing in depression in my opinion. We get used to live in a body we consider a walking corpse, we keep jobs, keep family, a happy and fine outside, when in the inside you just want to end it.

Time goes by and I’m now a psichology student. I had help, and when I found this website, I just wanted to share that the first step to change is talking about it. It’s hard, you don’t want to, you think no one can understand, or that you simply can’t be helped. If you keep it quiet, one day it will be too late. if you talk about it, each day gets easier. you can start talking in here, but you should also look for professional help. From what I’ve been reading, each post here is the demonstration of someone willing to share something. Keep sharing! Wish you well.