I was lost in a dark place. It appeared to be similar to a tunnel, except you couldn't see the light on the other end. Somewhere in the distance, I heard my mother call, "Dinner's ready!" Struggling, I tried to drag myself out from the overwhelming dismal fog, but to no avail. I expected that. This was such a repetitive process that the attempt to wake up only to fail was second nature by now.
Downstairs, my mother called again. Footsteps pounded on the steps as my brothers raced downstairs, both wanting to get to the table first. I heard the sound of them engulfing my father in an exuberant bear hug and his joyous chuckles, interrupted by the sudden abrupt question he threw at my mother. "Where's your daughter?" His harsh tone and word choice pierced my heart. It was always the same. Not "Where's Summer?" or "Where's our daughter?". Instead by using "your" my father made it seem like I was an unwelcome intruder in this household, an unwanted presence in his life.
My mother's reply was always the same. "Does it matter? She's probably sulking in her room." Everyday, the brutal indifference made me wince. Did she not care? Did no one care?
I wanted to scream for help. I wanted to call out, to tell her that I'm stuck, completely and utterly alone, in a scary place with no way out, to tell her that I needed a light to guide me. But I didn't. Because I knew she would only scoff and proclaim that it was "impossible!" like she did so many years ago when I told her that I needed glasses. Instead, I tugged open my sock drawer and pulled out a small ziplock bag at the back of the drawer. Inside was a tiny blade that I had removed from a pencil sharpener a few years back. Closing my eyes, I slashed the blade across my arm.
The pain woke me up, but I knew from experience that it was only temporary. Eventually, the pain will fade, the bleeding will halt, and the fog will engulf me again. But for now, I let it anchor me to the real world.
After a while, the tears came. I had expected that too. I had tried holding them in for too long, I had tried to stay strong for too long. I had known that the dam would eventually break and a torrent of emotions would come pouring out. It was all expected.
I don't know when I first became depressed. Maybe it was the day I got my first F on a test. Maybe it was after a particularly bad argument with my parents. Maybe it was due to all the times I felt like a worthless piece of junk metal. All I know is that the first time I cut, it left nothing but a light scratch on my arm. Gradually, I sank deeper into this boundless pit, and with that the cuts grew deeper. More pain, more blood. It became an obsession. I couldn't stop.
I looked down at the gashes on my arm. It was past midnight and the house was deathly silent. Outside, the crickets chirped and through my window, I could see the pale light of the moon shining peacefully down on such a broken person. I felt like I was fighting a losing battle.
My stomach felt hollow, and I crept downstairs to sneak some more food into my room. Chips, soda, some fruit and bread. I saw the leftover spaghetti from tonight's dinner still sitting on the countertop. My mother had forgotten to refrigerate it again. Or did she leave it out for me? I ignored it. If she cared, if she truly cared about me, she would have brought me dinner upstairs, like she used to do when I was sick with the flu. Well mom, I'm sick again, and what are you going to do about it? Instead, she ignored my absence like she ignored the death of my dog so many years ago. Ignoring a problem didn't make it any less real. I learned that the hard way.
Summer passed with the same repetitive days all blurred together into one endless day. I dreaded the start of my freshman year in high school. I didn't want people to see the scars on my arm. I wouldn't be able to give them an honest answer without giving away my secret. However, when I heard about tryouts for the robotics team, I thought, "Why not give it a try? It couldn't possibly hurt." That was the start of the end. I have regretted a lot of choices in my life, but that was one decision that I would never regret.
I finally found a place where I belonged. The technology lab felt more like home than my empty house did. My fellow team members became my real family. They were the ones that were always there for me. They were the ones I called first when I needed help or support. And slowly, as time passed, I felt myself slowly healing, being pieced together like the robots I helped build. Slowly, I began to find my way again.
I became happy again. I awakened. Robotics anchored me to reality once more. The blade was salvaged from my sock drawer, wiped down with rubbing alcohol until the last traces of blood vanished, and reattached to my pencil sharpener. The tears came less frequently, and when they did visit, I greeted them like a long lost friend, because sometimes, you need sadness to move on and grow stronger. It was all part of the healing process.
