Thoughts.

Feelings.

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.