It took my parents twelve years to figure out that I was depressed. Because it makes no sense that such a smart girl could be insecure or unhappy with her life. Sure, I barely had any friends. But that was by choice. I simply didn't relate well to kids my own age, because I was better than them. But I had dozens of books to keep me company, and notebooks and pencils, and maps, and movies, and CDs. And I had my parents. That should have been enough for me.
I am twelve years old. And I really think I've been depressed since the day I was born. Okay, I don't remember being a baby, or two, or three years old. One of my earliest memories is from pre-K. We were learning about the letter "E," and coloring a picture of an elephant. I finished coloring before all the other kids, and for some reason this bothered me a lot. I didn't see the point in coloring if it would only take me five minutes, and provide me with no feelings of excitement or accomplishment. So I fiddled with the crayons for a bit, and then I just started crying, for no reason. My mother picked up from school early that day, and I didn't stop crying all the way home. When I got home, my cries turned into screams. I turned over chairs and threw my toys across the room, until I was finally so exhausted that I fell asleep. I know our memories can fail us, but that's how I remember that day.
Since then, I've gotten pretty good at acting happy. And some days I really am happy. But I'm always aware that I could be sad again tomorrow, so I'm never completely at peace. Sad isn't even the best way to describe what it's like to be depressed, most days. Sometimes depressed is sad, but sometimes it's angry. And sometimes it's just indifference-absolute boredom with everything in the world. I get so bored to the point when I feel only half alive. And I figure that I might as well become fully dead.
It's not that I think the world is boring. The human body, and nature, and the universe are all fascinating. Logically, I know this is true. But sometimes I can't feel enthusiastic about even the most interesting aspects of life.
Three things help me to feel better. One is reading. My mom told me that I liked books even before I could speak, and that I learned to read at a very young age, three and a half. (I don't remember not being able to read.) Recently, I've also taken up writing. I like to write "fanfiction" for my favorite books-mostly classics (like Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights), and older science fiction and fantasy (like The Lord of the Rings and The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy). But I can't write when I'm really depressed, because when I hit a writer's block, I get frustrated and angry and end up feeling worse.
The second thing that makes me feel better is music. I'm not picky about genres. I grew up on classic rock, like Elvis, and The Beatles, and Bob Dylan. Last year, I went through a Broadway phase. My Rent CD is totally useless now because I played it every single day multiple times. Now I'm into Emo Revival bands like "Into It. Over It." and "A Great Big Pile of Leaves." My mom makes me take piano lessons, but I don't really enjoy playing piano anymore.
The third thing that makes me feel better is cutting. I've been cutting for almost two years.
It's hard to explain why cutting makes me feel better. But I guess it's a way for me to simplify my sadness, or anger, or boredom. I get lost in the pain, like I get lost in a book or a song, and life becomes less complicated for a few minutes. I bet that doesn't make any sense.
Let me be really clear about this: cutting is not cool. Cutting is not "sexy." I wish I didn't cut. I take no pride in it.
But that's why I don't enjoy playing piano anymore. It hurts my wrists.
I'm in the 10th grade. I skipped kindergarten, 3rd grade, and 9th grade. You might be thinking that I wouldn't be as socially awkward and depressed if I hadn't skipped grades, but I know that I wouldn't be any better off if I was in 7th grade with kids my own age. I actually got ahead in school because I was depressed, not the other way around. I studied a lot because I didn't see the point in doing much else.
My best friends at school are my teachers. Mr. Reuben, my science teacher, lets me eat lunch in his classroom. He shows funny science videos on YouTube and lets me feed his fish. I'm pretty sure he was a weirdo in school too, so he enjoys my company. Ms Bowers, my English teacher, appreciates my love of literature. She's always giving me book suggestions.
Except now I know that I can't trust Ms. Bowers. Yesterday, she saw the blood seeping into my sleeve. She came over to my desk to check on my reading response paragraph. She praised my work, and then she stood over me and starred at my wrist for a few seconds too long.
I knew Ms. Bowers understood, but I didn't think she'd tell on me. Except now I'm sitting in the school psychologist's office, next to some other probably-messed-up kid. I'm annoyed, but I'm not worried. I'll just tell the school psychologist the same thing I've told every other psychologist: "I'm fine."