I don’t know if I’m depressed, or just going through some seriously effed up hormonal phase that all teenagers go through. To be honest, I have nothing to complain about. My parents fight, sure, but it’s not like bottles are being thrown around the house. Except I remember one night my dad punched down his bedroom door. But my dad usually isn’t like that. That was a first. He’s no drunk either , and he loves me. I’m pretty sure about that. My mom and I don’t like each other. She has a maternal love for me, and that’s about it. I understand that. I love her because she’s my mother. The feeling is mutual. We fight. It’s what mothers and daughters do…right?
School? Well, I have friends, although we only really talk whenever I creep over to their group from my isolated spot on the couches in the middle of the hallways. I have two closer friends, and for the sake of anonymity, I’ll name them freshman and junior. Freshman has an idea about my depression (if you can call it that) and so does junior, but they may have different ideas about it. That’s my fault. Junior knows that I used to cut in eighth grade, but I stopped. However, she doesn’t know that I started again. I think freshman believes that I’m strong. They’re both right, but they’re both wrong. Then there’s my teacher. He’s the person I want to tell most, but I am so afraid, he is the person I want to tell least. He is like a father, and he never gives me the wrong advice, and he’d never lead me down the wrong path. I trust him. However, I know I’ll end up in the counselor’s office – and at Jackson South Mental Institution. However, those three people make me smile for real sometimes. I’ve been “diagnosed” with anxiety. I’m not sure how you can diagnose someone with a mental disorder. Do those psychologists seriously know what’s going on in my head? I don’t think they’d want to. Stress makes me nervous. I tap my wrist a lot, especially when I want to cut. It kind of prevents me from doing it, but sometimes I tap too hard. I like feeling the blood, I like feeling that quick stinging sensation that lasts for those few seconds. But when it’s gone, when I’ve had my release, my arm looks disgusting to me. I hide it with sweatshirts.I live in Miami, where it’s always summer. I hate having to wear sweatshirts. A part of me wishes either junior, freshman, or my teacher would see the cuts, and would get me help; would speak for me. I’ve thought about suicide. I have a job, and sometimes, I walk home from work. If I go one way, I have to cross a busy intersection. I work tomorrow, I don’t know if I’m walking. Will I take the road leading to the busy intersection?