And that makes me sad, sort of.
My middle name is Maree, and I’ve had serious depression for about three-and-a-half years now. I believe the causes have an older age, but most of it is a bit foggy. Do I write “had” depression, as if it was an object? I had a hat that I used to wear everyday, no matter the weather, but now I don’t anymore. Or is it more of a condition: I’ve been depressed for three-and-a-half years, and the fact that it hasn’t let up tremendously shows it’s more that a bit of the blues.
I’m straying from the point. I don’t know if I even had a point to begin with.
I think there are layers to depression, with central issues surrounded by trivial factors that aren’t making a person’s day any better. For me, inherent problems range from an alcoholic mother to an irresponsible father to their bitter divorce to current (could you call 7 years current?) living arrangements with grandparents who are now exceedingly ill to the point where they may be in a nursing home for the remainder of their lives. Trivial factors that don’t really help include a Summer with no one to really talk with, an upcoming year with additional night classes to AP coursework and responsibilities at home, and an absolutely ridiculous crush-leaning-towards obsession over a teacher that I don’t need at the moment. Or ever.
I know this website was created with the intention of people sharing their stories as to how they overcame their suicidal thoughts or recoveries from suicidal attempts or severe depression that landed them into a unforgiving pit or perhaps a hospital.
I’ve never tried to kill myself, I’ve always been too afraid of the pain. I would pick up knives in the kitchen when no one was there and imagine sliding it across my wrist or neck- sometimes I’d imagine it so vividly I could actually feel a dull impression of a movement. I would bite my hands and arms instead of using razors, creating bruises instead of scabs. My grandpa is an antique gun collector, and I sleep on a futon in his old office, making it very easy to slip into the closet in the middle of the night and just press an unloaded barrel of a varnished pistol against my head, crying. There was one time when I was attending a 4-day state-wide theatre festival at a convention center connecting to a hotel that I was looking at the city from 30 floors up. There were a few other high school students (I don’t know whether to call them kids or near-adults) with me, exploring the top of the hotel as it was beginning to be nighttime. There was a skyline, with just a glass railing and a little ledge that went between me and falling. I almost climbed over. I didn’t, of course- just stared down, hugging the glass. I imagined the looks on their faces as they saw me disappear from their sight. Then I wondered if they would even notice at all.
That ended a little more than a year ago, all that. Except the biting, I sometimes do that when I get anxious, like an animal.
My time in serious depression was at a point where I couldn’t get suicide out of my head and I spent day after day in bed and a comatose-like state (I even stopped going to school, I had to be “homeschooled”, meaning not actual homeschooling but a year off doing what I have just described). I saw it as a rabbit hole I burrowed in and never wanted to leave. I nearly lived by Hamlet’s soliloquy, and almost lost the fear of what dreams may come to such solemn sleepers.
I got out of it, somehow. My mom, when she was sober, became a drill sergeant in her daily phone calls, and got me a counselor. She set up tight schedules for getting assignments completed so I could actually finish some classes and return to public school the following year. She pulled me out of the hole by the tail, no matter how much I was kicking and screaming.
Because of her, I had an alright year last year. Started in a new school, got great grades, went through one day at a time. Some stress here and there, my usual doubt and lack of self-confidence gave us a start, but nothing nearly as bad as the few years previous (especially the “homeschooling” year).
Well, she’s not with me right now. She’s drunk again. Every time I try to call her nowadays it seems she’s always drinking.
She’s been an alcoholic for a long time, since I was born. But she quit drinking when I was in her belly, and that makes me love her more. And I hate her for that.
I know this isn’t a forum or webpage for children of alcoholics, but I know I’m not the only child of an alcoholic who feels guilty for some reason or another. Who gets an epiphany as to why their parent might drink. Who wonders why they should even have their existence. Should I write “have” like it’s an object? Or should it be considered a condition?
I’m starting to get those feelings again. I don’t know if I want them or not. So I watched an ASMR video in order to bring me some level of meditative peace, which they are known for bringing… and the guy said to talk to someone if I’m feeling this sort of way.
And so I’m typing to strangers.
What a strange world we’re in today, huh?