Please Understand This
It's hard at first
It was hard at first.
Getting help.
In fact I didn’t even go for help, that’s probably the problem. It’s why I’m still here.
I didn’t recognize it at first, I thought that everyone was going through what I was. I mean, as a child I thought that I wasn’t normal, but it was all part of puberty.
No one could understand me. I was a special snowflake, and all of my problems were unique.
In a way they were unique, but my mother explained my problems away so easily that after a year of fighting with her over it I gave up and accepted it. I was just changing, my life was in a constant state of change, there was never any type of stability for me. It would make even the most sane man a little irritable.
My mother wanted to take me to the doctor then because I was so wild, she thought about sending me away just so she wouldn’t have to deal with me. I know that at the time she had meant it, and I know she would have regretted the decision had she made it later on, but those words scared me.
Even though I hated her, I loved her. It’s very difficult to balance those two emotions, and love won that battle.
So I stopped talking about my problems, because they were just phases of my life, and what I was feeling would go away eventually. That’s what I grew up being told. I’m not saying I blame my mother for this, but there’s certainly a role for her in this tragedy.
I have this empty hole in my chest, but I have this rage inside of me as well. That’s why I never thought I needed help. People with depression don’t feel angry, they’re sad, and they cry, and they want to die all of the time.
That’s not me.
But when I was finally stuck in that chair and this woman asked me about it I learned. Apparently I was a picture perfect case for clinical depression. That was the first step towards the destruction of everything.
She asked me if I felt suicidal, and I told her that I was too much of a coward to ever take my own life, but I was certainly passive in fighting for it. She asked me to explain further. So I said that if I were standing in the middle of the road and a car came rushing towards me, that I don’t know if I would jump out of the way.
I’m a sick and broken person, and I wish you would understand that. I wish you would see the rotting mess that lives within me.
-Jenna
Getting help.
In fact I didn’t even go for help, that’s probably the problem. It’s why I’m still here.
I didn’t recognize it at first, I thought that everyone was going through what I was. I mean, as a child I thought that I wasn’t normal, but it was all part of puberty.
No one could understand me. I was a special snowflake, and all of my problems were unique.
In a way they were unique, but my mother explained my problems away so easily that after a year of fighting with her over it I gave up and accepted it. I was just changing, my life was in a constant state of change, there was never any type of stability for me. It would make even the most sane man a little irritable.
My mother wanted to take me to the doctor then because I was so wild, she thought about sending me away just so she wouldn’t have to deal with me. I know that at the time she had meant it, and I know she would have regretted the decision had she made it later on, but those words scared me.
Even though I hated her, I loved her. It’s very difficult to balance those two emotions, and love won that battle.
So I stopped talking about my problems, because they were just phases of my life, and what I was feeling would go away eventually. That’s what I grew up being told. I’m not saying I blame my mother for this, but there’s certainly a role for her in this tragedy.
I have this empty hole in my chest, but I have this rage inside of me as well. That’s why I never thought I needed help. People with depression don’t feel angry, they’re sad, and they cry, and they want to die all of the time.
That’s not me.
But when I was finally stuck in that chair and this woman asked me about it I learned. Apparently I was a picture perfect case for clinical depression. That was the first step towards the destruction of everything.
She asked me if I felt suicidal, and I told her that I was too much of a coward to ever take my own life, but I was certainly passive in fighting for it. She asked me to explain further. So I said that if I were standing in the middle of the road and a car came rushing towards me, that I don’t know if I would jump out of the way.
I’m a sick and broken person, and I wish you would understand that. I wish you would see the rotting mess that lives within me.
-Jenna