I grew up sheltered within myself. I hated physical contact, hated saying I love you, hated taking baths. I hated being touched. Maybe the fact that I was molested when I was younger didn't help the fact that I was growing depressed at a very young age. Except I didn't show the way it normally would. I didn't want an escape and I didn't understand what I was feeling until I turned 10. It really started showing and becoming clearer. I started to feel indifferent. I kept myself sheltered no matter the situation. That's when I started to write. It made me feel free. Like I was flying or laying on a cloud. So I continued writing. Keeping every day written on paper. Filling notebooks and journals. Headphones on.
It wasn't until I was 11 or 12 when I started to understand what the depression was. I started to feel like I was drowning and watching everybody else breathe. Music became my vice, even though it had been a big part of me my whole life. My mom started to notice so she took me to get checked. They told me I had severe manic depression caused by genetic bipolar disorder. I refused the medicine for about 2 years, even though I still took it unhappily. I started to express myself differently. I dyed my hair and changed the way I dressed. I kept my head low and stayed to myself. I made some friends. Most were from childhood. It wasn't until I started middle school that I found that people release pain from their depression by causing pain to themselves. I was iffy about it at first. I didn't quite understand. But I saw the girls on the bus showing it off. Showing everyone else the way they cut little lines into their arms.
I didn't try it for a while. But I started to get bullied worse than I did in elementary. I'd draw a lot but eventually it didn't help anymore. The bullying was bearable throughout then, but as soon as I got to middle school it was like I was being eaten alive. So one day it got too much and I came home. I got off the bus crying about the cruel kids I had encountered throughout the day at a place that is supposed to be safe to learn. But it wasn't and I didn't understand how they picked me to play with like a dart board. I went inside and went straight to my room and shut the door even though no one else was home yet. I sharpened a colored pencil because I was too scared to use something sharper. I ran it across my arm multiple times. And I felt more free than I did when I would write. I watched it whelp up. It felt better.
I felt better.
YOU ARE READING
Thoughts.
RomanceJukka (yu-kah) was only 3 years old when life decided to throw itself at her in one swoop. She never understood why things were the way they were. She tried to turn to God, she tried praying every night. But if there really is a God, then why would...