Of Pixels and Dying

Chapter 1: The How and the Why

Depression is something that steadily, nefariously, snares you in its grasp. 

It holds no regard for your accomplishments, goals, or that you're a junior in high school looking forward to college. Depression didn't care about how I'd had perfect grades for the past 11 years of my life or that I was enduring impossible expectations from my parents. 

It also didn't care that I was desperately struggling to find my place on this hugely overwhelming planet.

Believe it or not, I actually saw it coming. Despite not having experienced any major traumatic events in my life, I had become less than ecstatic about existing. I suppose a significant contributing factor was the stifling pressure placed on me by my parents, which started when I was around 10 or 11 years old.

Between only accepting A grades, enrolling me in intensive tutoring courses, dispensing threats of being disowned if I didn't go to college, or frequently discussing how "you need to make something of yourself and get a good job ", my parents ensured that I didn't go a week without a reminder to think about my future. This was also around the time they became emotionally abusive. The lack of healthy encouragement or words of pride to compensate for their harsh criticisms undoubtedly made my depression inevitable.

No wonder I developed grade anxiety, obsessive perfectionism, and awful self-esteem. And no wonder I got burnt out by the time I was 17.

"Kelsey, are you paying attention? What are your thoughts on this chapter?" My teacher's sharp tone snapped me out of my melancholy thoughts.

Damnit, I cursed silently as I stared down at the pages of Macbeth. What were my thoughts on this chapter indeed? This useless chapter that I'd been forced to read- or skim, in my case- under the curse of William Shakespeare's work infiltrating every high school English class. I began to panic as my classmates twisted around in their seats to watch me fumble my words.

"Um... I thought it was, like, really insightful..." I started uncertainly.

"Okay..." Mrs. Hightower said, clearly annoyed that I wasn't contributing some mind-blowing opinion to the class discussion. "Any reason why?"

I shrunk down in my chair. "Not really."

Mrs. Hightower pressed her lips together but didn't say anything else and called on another student instead, to my relief. I sighed inwardly and let my mind drift back to the train of thought that had been so rudely interrupted. Where was I? Oh yeah, depression.

The high school I was attending could not have been a worse place for me considering the person I was turning out to be: someone who sought all validation from and placed every last ounce of her worth on the letters printed on her report cards. A few weeks before I finished 8th grade my parents changed school districts to place me in a more academically challenging high school, in hopes that I would become a competitive applicant for universities.

Turns out "more academically challenging" should be accompanied with a warning note saying something along the lines of: "may cause your child to develop mental health issues". Everywhere I looked there was a fellow student with an astonishingly long list of accolades. Mix and match 4.0 GPA, club leader, talented first-chair musician, has prestigious scholarship offers, or receives near-perfect scores on the SAT exam, and you'd catch a large percentage of the students at Eastlake High. My toxic habit of co-comparison flourished greedily here. I couldn't avoid it even with my friends. Being called a "gifted child" throughout my childhood had never seemed more like a joke.

It wasn't always like this. I had been your typical happy-go-lucky child that loved collecting rocks and creating crayon-scribble artwork. Reminiscing about the times my parents would take me to the zoo gave me a comforting escape. My lips twitched into a small smile as I remembered how I would, apparently, always beg to see the tigers and lions. Whenever my mom told the story she'd joke about me running away from the other animal exhibits back towards the big cats. My parents had bought me numerous stuffed wild cat toys and enjoyed watching me recreate my own safari park. 

Nowadays it seemed they enjoyed berating me for minor mistakes. I knew when the disconnect between us happened, but exactly why, I didn't know. It was as though a switch had flicked on as soon as I started 4th grade.

I was jolted out of my musings by the creaking of chairs and jostling of students exiting the room. I shuffled out the door towards my next class, World History. I rolled my eyes as the teacher began his lecture on the Pearl Harbor attack during World War II. Despite my best depressed efforts, I couldn't bring myself to focus. I actually used to genuinely enjoy school; now I find myself caring very little about subjects I found interesting just a couple of months ago.

I sighed sadly as I thought about the stark contrast in my attitude towards attending school between now and when I was a child. Thanks to the endless hours of tutoring, I did fairly well in elementary and middle school. I aced all of my tests and used to read book after book to satisfy my craving for knowledge. This was when "she's such a gifted child" became a regular praise by my teachers. Now that I'm in high school, though, such flattery has become nonexistent and I'm left to face the void created by my parents' lack of encouragement. 

I should probably provide some more context. It wasn't until a month ago when the second school semester began in January that I started to feel off. Moody, tired, just not myself. I brushed it off as hormones. A couple of weeks passed and I started feeling worse. Completing schoolwork felt impossible, getting out of bed felt impossible, socializing felt impossible, and I hated seeing myself in the mirror every day. Even playing my French horn, which I'd always felt fulfilled by, no longer satisfied me. 

The worst of it all, though, was this sensation of emptiness that gnawed at me relentlessly. Nothing I did could fill the gaping black hole sucking all the colorful richness out of life. Sometime during March, I had a sudden realization: oh, I think I'm depressed.

The timing absolutely could not have been worse. I was preparing to apply to colleges, which meant engaging in every last activity possible to boost my applications. If there was ever a point in my life that I needed to work the hardest, it was now.

"You need some volunteer hours," my dad had said, staring down disappointedly at the meager list of extracurriculars on the application drafts I'd typed out. "You should have started last year."

Anyway, enough self-pity. There are people out there who have had to deal with much worse. I could be an orphan, homeless, or have an incurable disease. Lucky for me, the imposter syndrome-self critic duo has all of the bases covered. My mind constantly goes back and forth between "you're not good enough to be at this high school" and "there's no reason for you to be depressed." It's a lovely little rollercoaster.

3:15 PM finally rolled around and I trudged out towards the parking lot to wait for my dad to pick me up, bringing my French horn in hopes I might be able to scrape up the motivation to practice. Lately even just taking it out of the case felt like an arduous chore. I stared blankly off into the distance, thinking about the upcoming auditions for the top band at my high school- the wind ensemble- until my dad pulled up to the parking lot.

"How was your day?" he said after I climbed into the car and he began the drive home.

"Fine," I grumbled, not wanting to talk.

"Did you ask your teachers about letters of recommendation yet?" he asked, for the 3rd time that week.

"No," I snapped. "Can you stop bothering me about it for one minute?"

"You need to get on that," my dad continued without acknowledging me. "College application season will be here before you know it, and if you don't have those recommendations you might not get into the good schools."

I pointedly ignored him, sulking and staring out the window the rest of the ride home. I immediately headed upstairs once I got home. Tubs, my cat, was already in my room, patiently waiting for me. I petted his soft head and snuggled him.

"You're the best cat ever, aren't you?" I cooed, kissing his fuzzy face. "You're always here when I get home. My bed is that comfortable, huh?" He purred loudly and licked my nose affectionately, eliciting a sneeze and a laugh from me.

Animals truly are a blessing, unconditionally and loyally loving all. If only humans were also like that. Wishing it was the weekend already, I sat down next to Tubs with my laptop. I procrastinated on homework by watching YouTube and absentmindedly stroking Tubs every once in a while. The constant rumble of his purring served as a reminder that he hadn't budged, opting instead to keep me company for the rest of the evening.