Depression and More

TW: mentions of many things that I can’t think of right now but some people may find triggering.

So being a teenager sucks. Everyone has that phase, right? It’s kind of normal. With bodies changing and hormones all over the place, there’s always a time in your life where you’ll feel down like never before. Usually in the teenage years. And I get it. I’m young and I’ve barely experienced life (or so people say), but I feel like I’ve lived five lifetimes in place of one.

I’m not enough for anybody, but I’m too much for everybody. And I don’t get it. I’m all alone in this world. I’m surrounded by the same four people daily, which isn’t a bad thing, but it’s become routine. Each of them have someone. I don’t have anyone. I’m at home all day and I can’t do anything about it. Literally. No matter how much I ask for something that could alleviate me (like a JOB instead of me sitting around all day), the adults in my life answer with “sure” and never get around to helping me.

See, that’s another thing. Why do adults always think they’re so helpful when they’re not? It’s always, “I’ve been your age before,” but you’ve never been my age at this exact moment in time, have you? I don’t know. Maybe I’m just a complainer. But I’m a grateful person—or at least I’d like to think so. I pray for everyone to be okay, especially my sister—someone whom I have prayed nightly to take away her pains and have them given to me—but I forget to pray for myself a lot of the time. I’m not completely selfless, because selfishness is a key component to human nature, but some people matter more to me than myself.

Going back to what I was saying before, everyone has their person. You know? The one you bother when you’re bored, the one you call when your nail broke, the one you text “let me know when you’re home safe.” But I don’t. I have my family, and I’m grateful, but they have their people. Where’s my person? And it sucks even more living so far from everything. Being in a life where no matter how much I cry and beg, I can’t get out of the four walls that surround me.

So I study. And study, and study. And I’ve been studying since I was four. I remember being the smartest in class. How proud of that I was. How in second grade I ended up burning out for the very first time. At eight years old. Can you imagine that? Half a lifetime ago. And it’s still affecting me. An academic sensation, where “perfect” is the norm, and I’m the one who will solve my family’s problems.

Sometimes when I talk to myself about what’s going on I cry. A lot of the time, actually. It leads to panic attacks. I’ve learned to handle them with self-harm. Not my proudest moment, but what can you do? I don’t cry so much anymore. I still do, just not as much. Like last night. Panic attack, sobbing, self-harm plus a shower. Spa treatment to me. Does anyone else put it in the hottest setting to watch their skin turn red and raw?

I’m the independent one. But really all I’ve ever wanted to be is dependent. An absent mother and a father who pushes you to be like people twice your age doesn’t exactly help with that. Now I’m a mother to my sister and I’ve had no one to look up to. Maybe that’s why I’ve never understood the “my dad/mom is my hero” thing. Why I’ve always wished for an older sibling. Maybe I want to be fussed over.

Words of encouragement don’t help. “I’m here for you” and “I’m so sorry” won’t help me, so don’t bother commenting that or things such as. That being said, if you can bring a smile to my face with the slightest comment, kudos to you!

I tend to isolate a lot. People think they know me, but really, they know what I let them see. No one truly knows the details of my sexual abuse. No one truly knows the details of what my mother did to me. No one truly knows the scars I give myself almost as a nightly treat on my inner thigh, the sensation making my right leg seem heavier than the left. It also kind of burns. I’m running out of space.

I think I hide the scars because I’m ashamed of myself. Of them. Of everything. I could do it on my arms, but that’s too visible. Besides, I have a sense of style that I’d rather not sacrifice. Thighs are easier. I love wearing jeans. I’ve always kept one side “clean,” my left, just to make sure at least some part of me is pure. That was a random comment, but a necessary one, I think.

I’ve had depression four years. Diagnosed! And anxiety. But no medication, no, because as my mom says, we have to protect the body. And I love reading and writing so much, but I can’t get myself to do either. So I stock up on books and save writing ideas in my notes, then stare at them and smile as though I’ve accomplished something, when really all I’ve done is burn holes in my pockets and fill my brain with more junk.

It’s *** to be good for your age. Especially when “good” is “perfect,” and that “perfect” leads to “never enough.”