This is one topic I don’t think a lot of women discuss due to the bluntness of it’s nature. No one ever wants to talk about the elephant in the room, as long as it refuses to abide by society’s standards of what’s to be taken seriously. Though I’m just starting out-my overall blog will be about an array of topics ranging from makeup and all its overrated glory to sex, I’ll be covering any and every topic, even questions asked, but this one however is something I felt the need to shine light on.
When I was 14 years old, I was diagnosed with depression.
I grew up in a small household of just me, my older brother, and my mother, My father left us when I was five, often picking us up on weekends thereafter. He bought my brother and I whatever we wanted, and tried his best to stay in touch. After a few years the calls eased. I still got gifts mailed in on my birthday, but that wasn’t enough. New phone? Got it. That wasn’t enough. A new necklace? Got it. But that wasn’t enough. It’d never be enough to fill that void.
My childhood continued happily. Straight A’s, karate, soccer, ballet, etc. I was a happy kid. My older brother (by 12 years) tried his hardest to compensate for not only his role, by my father’s role to me in the house. But that still wasn’t enough.
Fast forward to my high school years.
…My mother thought that it was all an act for attention, so that I could get what I want. I was just in my early stages of young rebellion, so obviously passing out due to dehydration was just another act of defiance in her eyes. I mean really, who would starve themselves for days on purpose? My brother begged her to believe what the doctors said, and went against suggestions to medicate. “She’s doing this for attention. She doesn’t need medication. Who the fuck does she think she is?”
That was in August of 2010.
I sat, staring at the boxes and boxes left to empty around the apartment we’d just moved into. Sitting…waiting…trying to concentrate on the throbbing sensation that filled my throat. I could taste my own pulse. Here I sat, against the wall of our kitchen- with a knife against my left wrist. I waited patiently for the opportunity to slice, cutting deeper and deeper till blood pooled around my limp body. I sat thinking for minutes. How would my mother react to seeing her child dead? Would anyone miss me?
My first suicide attempt.
November of 2011.
By September of 2012, I returned to school weighing 165 pounds. My usual weight. Always did come from a wide hipped, thick thigh family so my weight suited my small frame. At the time I’d been transitioning into a D cup bra, and my jeans size was a 14. Not bad.
By February of 2013, I’d lost over 35 pounds in less than a month. I stopped eating. When I was forced to eat, my portions would be less than a handful, often finding their way back to my plate after vomiting continuously because I held no appetite. My depression had worsened, rapidly declining within weeks. My mother was becoming more and more abusive at home. My grades were dropping. The strain of college letters were near and the idea of where I’d be in 5 years kept me awake night after night.
My anxiety had reached an all time high, leaving me no choice but to step out pf the classroom for a few minutes while I hyperventilated quietly out of range of my classmates. My mother was called. She put her two cents in, about what she thought about my declining mental health. The whole charade went on, whilst I remain seated n in the school’s clinic- listening to her rant about “how mental illness ran great in numbers in our family “. Lies.
“You and this shit has to stop. Are you trying to embarrass me? Cut this fucking depression shit out.”
Summer of 2015. My relationship was in shambles. I was with someone who took depression as a joke.
“Damn babe, you’ll be alright. I think you’re overreacting. don’t you think you being over dramatic? ”
By that August, I’d tripped down the stairs at my boyfriend’s house and sprained my ankle. Casted for 3 months.
I was being overworked and underpaid to oversee children who held no respect for me. I ran the business. I worked the books and collected payments. I went to school by day, rushed out of classes with my crutches to the train, to take a bus 20 minutes later to work.
I lost 5 more pounds.
“You’ll be fine. You’re dragging it.”
Today I write this blog, because someone has gone through it. Someone has had these statements said to them before.
“You’re so damn dramatic.”
“What do you have to be stressed over? Pray about it and move on, the fuck.”
“You are not depressed.”
Today I write this blog, because of the unsaid truth about depression. It’ll eat you alive. Bit by bit, you start to lose pieces of yourself.
Today I write this blog, because depression is or will never be anything to laugh at.
Today I write this blog, to spread awareness. Society may not take it seriously but I am one of the few souls that do. You’re not alone. Someone’s always listening, whether you know it or not. You are loved. You are a queen, whose been knocked off her thrown.
You will not drown in those thoughts.
You will not succumb to the pressures of this life.
You are loved.
You hear me? You are loved.
“Depression is not a sign of weakness. It just means you have been strong for too long.” – Anonymous
But what do I know? I’m only 20.