dedicated to @nicholetailor .
It all started almost exactly one year ago. Well actually, it really started three years ago when I moved 2000 miles across the country, for the second time, and had to leave behind all of my friends and some cousins. But one year ago is when it really started affecting me.
Most of my story is not specifically about self-harm, it's what led me to think that was a viable option, and how I realized that it really wasn't.
But anyway, one year ago, I started noticing that I was living in what felt like constant darkness. There wasn't really anything specific or something I could put my finger on, it was just...dark. I wasn't sad, but I definitely wasn't happy either. I started stressing out about school and other stuff way more. I began to feel super lonely, and like nobody cared about me.
I became convinced that I didn't matter. I noticed ways that I was useless, extraneous, unwanted.
I started to hate myself.
I hated the person I was becoming. I was sinking farther and farther into depression, and for some reason that I still don't fully understand, I convinced myself that I had to handle it on my own. I wouldn't allow myself to ask for help.
But I wanted help. I wanted someone to care about me. I wanted proof that my existence mattered. I wanted to be able to feel like I was important.
Two months later, at the very end of November, I sent a text to one of my friends, explaining (partially) what I was going through, what I was feeling, and kind of indirectly asking for help. I actually didn't mean to send it. I wrote it down more to organize my thoughts, and to try to figure out how I would explain what I was feeling to someone else. But then I set my phone down to do some homework or something, and when I picked it up again, I had accidentally sent the message.
I was terrified and relieved at the same time. I was terrified of what would happen, how this would change the way my friend saw me, but I also didn't want to keep fighting my battle alone.
But then the worst thing that could've happened, happened. And that was...nothing. Nothing changed. I had partially overcome my fears of talking about my problems, and it didn't help at all.
I became really angry. I hated the situation I was in, I hated myself for not being able to do anything about it, I hated that my friend couldn't do anything about it, I hated that it seemed like she didn't care, but most of all, I just hated myself.
I sank even lower.
I lost all the energy I had once had. I didn't want to be near my family, I didn't want to be near my friends, I didn't care about myself, and yet at the same time, I cared way too much about everything I thought I was doing wrong. Doing homework became torture. Focusing on anything was torture. It felt like my thoughts were moving at about a quarter of the speed they once had. It was like I was constantly wading through several feet of mud, in my thoughts and my actions.
And still, nothing happened. I felt like no one would have cared, even if I had been able to tell them, and I already knew the one friend I had managed to tell wasn't going to do anything. I felt like there was no answer, no solution, nothing.
Finally, it got to the point that my parents could tell something was wrong. It had been five months, and I was just so, so tired of pretending to be fine. I still couldn't tell them what was going on, but I didn't have the energy to keep hiding it as well as I had been, and to make a long story and a super stressful week short, they found out about my depression, and I started going to a counselor/therapist.
But the story's not over yet, because once again, that didn't help. I hated talking. Period. I didn't want to tell my therapist what was going on, I constantly felt like I was being interrogated, and I hated it. What made it even worse is I felt like it was all pointless. Nothing was changing. I was going through all of this stress and heartache and frustration for nothing.
