I purely and thoroughly hate myself. There’s no sugar-coated layer to hide the fact of the matter.
Ever since I was a kid, clinical depression has lingered in every thought I’ve conceived. In public, I have it all: grades, musical/athletic talent, friends to fuck around with on the weekends. Reality? I’m smart, but totally unmotivated. I can answer questions in class and still not account for shit when it comes to my work. Music takes up my whole time, so what’s left for sports? I don’t want to get any unhealthier, but Jesus, my motivation spectra is as broad as the water level in the Saharra Desert. And sure, I have friends… Even that’s subjective, however. They’re purely activity friends, not actual people who comprehend the slightest amount of  mature content. They’re one of my last outlets to try at a normal living situation. If they had any clue what was really happening, they’d banish me as a freak and never let anyone see me as a different person besides the little twat with a shit life.
It’s not like I haven’t been tested for other things as well. They’re still not quite positive about all the things wrong about my chemical makeup. All they know is I’m pretty unbalanced and not much, besides meds, is going to change that.
Meds make you feel pretty dumb, huh? I was on several different meds for awhile… I actually thought I was getting better after some time. Did I honestly think anything was going to change? Apparently, but almost indifferent to say, nothing had changed. After awhile they numbed my emotions to the point where everything was so boring. I found myself frustrated: I’d wanted to cry or laugh or scream in fury. I wanted to feel the most extreme sense of any emotion. I wanted to be capable and in control of anything I felt… But I couldn’t. I stopped taking them altogether and spiraled back into my old ways.
I started cutting in fourth grade. Weird, huh? Modern society believes ten year-olds should still be swinging on monkey bars or even just painting each other’s nails and giggling over prepubescent boys at slumber parties. I spent the end of my elementary era holed up in my bathroom, fascinated at the ease of a blade against my flesh. I guess that was really when all the insecurities began. I had to cover it up, obviously, so people wouldn’t get on my case. I started to hate the way I looked, but I couldn’t stop. I didn’t do much of it at that age, so entering middle school became worse. Everyone I’d known was growing older and brighter: attractive and friendly… The perfect teenagers. I found such utter disgust in the way I was laced with scars. I knew then that no matter how beautiful a face I had, I would never have anything on them. I started considering suicide at age 11.
My family wasn’t ever the best. My mom and I have had the worst relationship, beautifully equipped with the verbal abuse and ignoring of my needs of happiness. My dad tried his best to level with me, but when you have the temper of a raging bull, it’s hard to see anything for what it truly is. My brother is perfect: the clear favorite in anyone’s eyes between us. He’s been a Straight-A student since kindergarten and is entering his freshman year of college with a 7.6 GPA, ranked 3rd in his entire senior class. He’s athletic and musical and charming, the kind of boy any girl goes after. But when it comes to his little sister’s paranoia/depression and the whole family fighting, he wants nothing to do with it. When an argument breaks loose, he locks his bedroom door and Skypes with his friends, constantly trying to reassure himself that he doesn’t belong to anything that isn’t less than perfect. And yet sickly enough, I idolize him more than anyone in the world. The constant need for his attention has left me with what some people would call “abandonment issues.”
Everyone dies, every year. That’s just how things seem to be. I’m quite jealous of them, really: the deceased. How sick is that to say? “Hey sorry, I know you just lost someone really important to you, but might I just add you should be happy for them? Why should they have to deal with life anymore?” By saying someone dies every year, I mean that someone I, or my family, knows personally dies relatively recent at all times. I have a designated funeral dress, if it tells you that much. Even in my state of mind, I still get shaken up over it…. No one should have to deal with that many people dying in their lifetime. But in a way, it’s made me comfortable enough around death to suck up the misery and fuel it towards what I really want.
Why is this all relevant? Well, everything has come to extremes in my life. I’m entering my freshman year of high school and the stress of my parents’ expectations of perfect, plus the insecurities, plus the constant need to cry, plus the fact that most kids my age don’t like me, plus the fact that my brother is leaving me are all putting me on a wire. I want to kill myself more than anything. Everyday I wake up to this hectic, speedy world of chaos and fear and all I do to try and slow things down are cut, sleep and just close my eyes. But after each of those actions are done, everything comes to hit me again. I want it all to stop. Sometimes I lie face-down in my room, screaming into my pillow just over the fact that I’m here. I truly believe some people are born to be unhappy. I guess I had the lucky fortune of being one of them.
The funny thing is, I can’t do it. I just can’t. Whether it’s some small, flickering light deep, deep, deep within me that’s keeping the flame of life ignited just ever so slightly, or just the sheer hope that somehow everything will get better, something is preventing me. Every time I come close to ending my life, I fall into a state of panic and/or paralysis and lose my breath, falling unconscious in my fatal attempts. It is the biggest frustration in my life: the fact that I can’t control the one thing I want most. I partially feel like subconsciously I am not ending my life to spite myself. I mean, nothing else has gone right in my life. Why should the one thing I want most be fulfilled so easily? Nothing is simple, I suppose.
My mother just came in and asked what I could possibly be doing over my chores. I explained I was journaling, that it was supposed to help me.
“Hmm. Ceases to amaze me: all the pointless shit you occupy yourself with.” She said.
I think I’ll go add a quick slice somewhere visible. Hope that’s not too pointless for her.
3 comments
Hiya Fright! Do you know the song by the British band ‘The Smiths’, ‘There is a Light and it Never Goes Out’? Maybe you could google it and find it on U Tube or something. That’s what sprang to mind when you talked about the little light that is currenntly keeping you alive.
One thing is totally clear to me from this post is that the writer is well-read, verbally gifted and highly intelligent probably way beyond most of her contemporaries I wouldn’t be surprised.
My heart goes out to you. You sound like a sweetie. These teenage years can be absolute unmitigated torment for so many. How dare those others (like your brother) be OK with it all, high achievers, good looking and popular etc!! Makes you sick!
My son is 16, isolates in his room, won’t go out, rarely converses and lives like a Japanese recluse with his laptop and XBox.. He’s probably someone you’d feel right at home with! Well that’s presumptuous, since he doesn’t really have a lot to offer a girl right now…But I’m just saying. I know about teenage depression!
Once again. I’m assuming you’re a teen.
Hope I haven’t been too annoying (and middle-aged). Someone else on the site told me I sounded just like their Mum. Ouch!
I wish you the best f-r-i-g-h-t. Zoe x
Hello Zoe. I actually do know The Smiths; my older brother educated me at a young age with cultured UK music. I can see how one could associate my light reference with that song.
Thank you for your kind words. One thing I do take pride in is my ability to express my feelings via writing of any sort, whether handwritten or digital. I figure that if there’s not much use for me in trying to vocalize everything to someone, the least I could do is know enough on how to write it out.
I’m touched by your affection. I’ve come to learn that my brother is indeed concerned; he’s just not as expressive as one might hope.
If there’s one thing I’d like to make apparent, it’s that I put the ones that I love ahead of myself in any circumstance. From what I’ve known and felt, there’s not much that’s going to make me feel better; so I just hope and pray that the ones I do care about are happy with themselves if I can’t do anything for me.
I can relate to your son. There are days I spend holed up in my room with my music. I used to think everyone wanted to be alone like that. I thought it was the most normal thing in the world for it to happen that frequently. But as you and I both know, it’s a problem. I have strong empathy for your situation with your son and I do hope he finds enough purpose in something to pursue it and leave his comfort zone.
Yes, I am a teen.
You haven’t been annoying and you don’t remind me of my mother. No matter how temporary it sits with me, it’s a calming feeling knowing someone out there is willing to reach out and tell you how much they understand. Again, I’m very touched.
I hope you find resolution in your situation as well.
-Scout xx
Hello!
I’d like to start off by saying that I love your comment about your “motivation spectra is as broad as the water level in the Saharra Desert”. It’s exactly how my teachers would describe mine, if they could find such a clever way to do it!
I’m not going to respond with any platitudes along the lines of “don’t kill yourself”, “it’s all going to work out”, etc. I haven’t been in your particular situation, but I do think I’ve been in the neighborhood, and none of those things have ever helped me.
Do you know, my mother once told me that, with the way I was living, I would be better off dead. I thought it was ironic; I was living that way precisely because I was trying to survive. I spent a ridiculous amount of time being upset about it.
And then my mum told me the other day that she thought I was the strongest of my family’s children, because I was determined to do well by myself (by society’s standards, anyhow) despite obviously being half-cracked.
Quite apart from the fact that I now wonder whether she ever means anything she says (and whether mothers do in general) – please do realise that you are strong for having come this far. Not just for surviving (and please, don’t consider yourself weak because you’ve failed in your suicide attempts – the self-preservation instinct isn’t an easy thing to overcome). You’re clearly an interesting and intelligent person from what you’ve written.
I won’t tell you not to cut yourself, either. I’ve been doing it too and it’s a hard thing to let go of – sometimes you feel like cold steel is the closest thing you can get to unconditional love. My knife is the friend I know I can always rely on; it won’t put me down or tell me it has better things to do. But it doesn’t hurt to have other friends that you can talk to about these things. I’m also starting to feel the impact that my history of self-harm may have on my career, and it’s a *huge* source of stress. I still regret nothing, but I’m aware that that may change if the repercussions get worse. For that reason, cutting has become something that I try not to do except as a last resort. People used to warn me about the professional consequences years ago and their advice fell on deaf ears – I’m learning from it now, so I’ll repeat that advice to you. In the end, though, it’s up to you to decide if it’s worth it to continue. As with all cost-benefit analyses, there is no single correct answer.
By the way, I’ve learned to see my scars as beautiful. They’re like a road map of my life etched into skin; I can see exactly where I’ve been (important given I’ve the memory of a goldfish). And on my happier days when I actually want to be here, I’m proud of them because they show (I think) that I’m a survivor. It may be an unusual perspective, but I hope it can help you see them in a, well, more flattering light. I’ve been scared stiff of being rejected because of the scars, too – but now I figure if someone can’t accept you as you are, they aren’t worth it.
I think there’s a little light keeping me here too. (Loving that metaphor.) Sometimes I’m thankful for that, other times I’m not. At the moment I’m going with the flow, watching life go by even if I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fully participate. Who knows, tomorrow I might feel like snuffing it out. Today I’m okay.
I know this has been an incredibly long response. I’m not even sure it has a point. I’m certain it doesn’t have a resolution (because how *do* you resolve things like these?). I’ve been blathering on about everything and nothing, but I hope that I might have made your day better in some small way, if only by saying that you are not alone. I would hug you if I could, but I’ll settle for this. 🙂 All the best.