In my restless dream…

I see that town.

–

You promised you’d take me there again someday.

But you never did…

I guess I just want someone to hear me out. It’s been almost 5 years, and I just can’t take it anymore. Not alone.

I’m taking an A.P. psychology class, and a couple of weeks ago we took a test about depression. Not surprisingly, but hoping otherwise, I am psychologically depressed.

In English class, we’re reading the book Frankenstein. I loved it, until I realized I was just like Victor.

My life was great until I turned 11, I had a great family, friends, my needs met, etc.

To get to the point, I got raped several times by someone I really loved and considered my own father before I even knew what “sex” was and that “raping” was possible. I found out later on that I had gotten raped when I learned about sex. Too little too late.

During the same year, when I came to the U.S., I was told I needed to take a pill because I had somehow gotten a reaction to the tuberculosis test. They said that they needed my parents to sign some papers, just in case I got the side effects…

And of course I did.

It was the worst year of my life. During the first two years, I considered myself another person. I wanted to believe that this was a nightmare, and that somehow, sometime, I’d wake up.

But it was real.

I’m only 16 years old. I’m a guy. A lot of people consider me a smart-ass, and they think my life is perfect. They think I know everything.

Everyone tells me their secrets. Sometimes even random strangers. And we do therapy. No lie, I even sometimes do therapy FOR my parents. Lol, I just finished doing one with my stepfather, for like an hour. But I can’t seem to get to talk to anyone, even when I try. They all think I’m okay. But I know I’m not.

They don’t know that I spend at least once every-week (before, it used to be almost everyday) crying in my room [like today], or a “special place” I found in a near park where very few people go. So I go there, sit, and cry my ass off. Everyone is used to seeing me depressed, so it’s kind of hard to tell when I am and when not.

Anyhow, my “disease” is not fixable. I have to leave with it for the rest of my life. I wonder, now, how much did these people make from the pills? $300 a month? And at what cost?

A little boy’s life?

I compare my situation to Mary Sunderland’s, she is a character from a game. She’s sick, pissy, lonely, depressed, sad, weak, in pain, crying, desperate. Like myself.

She’s in Silent Hill. Hell on earth.

If you care to watch:

Skip to 3:47, and Mary’s letter is exactly my situation. Except that “James” represents people that have changed my life for the better, for whom I’d die without hesitation. For whom I used an excuse to not kill myself up until now.
I so wish I had a James Sunderland to put me out of my misery.

Today I thought about cleaning my room. Getting things in order. But then I realized, what’s the use? It’s not like any of my friends will come to see me. Not anymore.

Yesterday, I saw my bestfriend talk to another friend. He’d rather hang out with someone else other than me. I don’t blame him. I get too bitchy sometimes, although I miss having fun with him. I miss having something to do to keep me away from my depression…

I don’t know how I didn’t just start crying then. I feel so lonely. I even talk to MySpace whores. They don’t reply, by the way. I crave interaction, love, empathy.

I read somewhere that the only way too cure depression is to fight what causes it, but that seems to get me more depressed.

Well, I think I want to give it one more chance. I’m not alone, with the depression, I mean. I hate quiting. But I’ve failed so much in 5 years, I feel as if I’ll never get my life back.

I feel inspired by a friend I met this year. I want to be happy like him. I call him Hero in my mind. If I hadn’t met him, I’d probably have killed myself last year. He helped me with school work. I know that sounds whack, but for me, the point is that he helped me.

Someone actually took the time to actually sit, and help me! Someone realized that I needed help and that I’m not perfect! Oftentimes I would have given up on school if it weren’t for him; he’d ask to copy homework and compare answers, which actually helped me from screwing up in school.

Even though I feel like he “uses” me more than I “use” him, I owe him my life. When I’m not depressed we have a lot of fun and laughter. When I’m depressed he helps snap out of it, even if its only during that class. He has also heard about my sickness, even though he doesn’t care at all. He listened.

Sometimes I just wish I could repay him. With my life.

My life for you, my friend who I want to call Panchula.

You’ve given me so much, and I haven’t been able to return a single thing…

I hope I can be like you, and not end up killing myself…