Status: Okay, so it's kind of a true story. Everything in here happened, but I changed the names for privacy reasons.
Confessions of a Clinically Depressed Teenager
Laughing all the way to the hospital.
Thursday was when I was admitted to the emergency room by my mother. You’re probably wondering, “Why was Celia in the emergency room on a Thursday evening, trailing behind her angry mother?”
Because in Math, I had written a suicide note. We were working on two way tables or something, I’m not sure what it was but it was dull. Throughout the entire day I just felt so down and out for no particular reason. I was dwelling on how much of failure I was, and how I wasn’t really cut out for a practical career.
Picture it this way: I didn’t want to be a part of this system of school and grades and college... it was too overwhelming to think about. I was only thirteen, and my school already was forcing us to digest the importance of college.
“What’s your idea of a future career?”
“What do you want to do with your life?’
“Are you planning on going to college?”
It made me physically sick. I didn’t know. I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life and I didn’t want to work or take these stressful tests or whatever. The idea of having to choose a career when you’re only starting out your teenage years is ridiculous. And you know what else is ridiculous?
The human species is the only species that worries about college and school. Cats don’t have to worry about bringing home bad progress reports. I don’t see turtles having to go get Masters degrees. You don’t see mice chewing on their tails and crying when they don’t get an acceptance letter to that university in London.
In other words, my grades were slipping before I got into the hospital. On my first trimester report card I had an F in English, an F in Science, a D in Math, and C in Social Studies. The reason why I had these grades? It wasn’t that I was stupid, I just didn’t apply myself. I found it easier to write a nine page creative writing assignment than to solve an algebra problem.
I found it easier to haul a ton of bricks across the Zicam bridge than to do test corrections for a Science exam. Oh, Science.
My teacher, Mr. Ledger, gave back full credit if you did test corrections. But guess who didn’t want to do because she was too lazy? I was. I’m good at Science, too, yet that did nothing to make me do corrections. I wanted to do it, but at the same time I didn’t.
English was decent- in the second trimester. The first trimester was about symbolism and reading like a writer. I was insulted when she had taught us grammar conventions considering the fact I was a writer. This was a slap in the face. Ms. Oakley-Keane had to do it because believe it or not, some 8th graders still used you’re and your wrong. This fact kind of broke my heart.
Math was a different story. It had always been my problem subject. I would get upset and even start crying when I couldn’t solve a question on the homework. I would fill with dread when there was a test because I just knew I would blow it. I would blow it like I always did, come to think of it.
My teacher was Ms. Bernstein. She had a temper, to be honest. Most of my classmates had a slight hatred for her. Sure, she may have been a bit over the top but I suppose she meant well. She was the person who saw my suicide note.
Now that we’re back on topic again, I’ll tell you how I ended up in emergency room. I was working on my two way table, then gave up when I didn’t understand a question. From there on I was angry and pretty peeved that everyone else could do their work so easily. Then I began having a trail of thoughts.
They’re all smarter than me. They’re all better than me. They’ll make it in life while I’ll probably become some stupid, pathetic suffering artist. God, I wish I could just die right now.
I hastily pulled out a piece of paper and jotted down the note until Ms. Bernstein came along. I shoved it into my Math book so she wouldn’t see it but I was too late. She narrowed her eyes at me.
“Let me see that paper.”
“No.”
“I said, let me see it.”
She was stern. My class looked at me, pairs of eyeballs burning into my flesh. I didn’t want to cause more of a scene, so I handed it over. No one was supposed to see that note. No one was. I began shaking violently and I wanted to punch Ms. Bernstein as I saw her read the note. She walked out of the class and I wanted to scream.
Because in Math, I had written a suicide note. We were working on two way tables or something, I’m not sure what it was but it was dull. Throughout the entire day I just felt so down and out for no particular reason. I was dwelling on how much of failure I was, and how I wasn’t really cut out for a practical career.
Picture it this way: I didn’t want to be a part of this system of school and grades and college... it was too overwhelming to think about. I was only thirteen, and my school already was forcing us to digest the importance of college.
“What’s your idea of a future career?”
“What do you want to do with your life?’
“Are you planning on going to college?”
It made me physically sick. I didn’t know. I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life and I didn’t want to work or take these stressful tests or whatever. The idea of having to choose a career when you’re only starting out your teenage years is ridiculous. And you know what else is ridiculous?
The human species is the only species that worries about college and school. Cats don’t have to worry about bringing home bad progress reports. I don’t see turtles having to go get Masters degrees. You don’t see mice chewing on their tails and crying when they don’t get an acceptance letter to that university in London.
In other words, my grades were slipping before I got into the hospital. On my first trimester report card I had an F in English, an F in Science, a D in Math, and C in Social Studies. The reason why I had these grades? It wasn’t that I was stupid, I just didn’t apply myself. I found it easier to write a nine page creative writing assignment than to solve an algebra problem.
I found it easier to haul a ton of bricks across the Zicam bridge than to do test corrections for a Science exam. Oh, Science.
My teacher, Mr. Ledger, gave back full credit if you did test corrections. But guess who didn’t want to do because she was too lazy? I was. I’m good at Science, too, yet that did nothing to make me do corrections. I wanted to do it, but at the same time I didn’t.
English was decent- in the second trimester. The first trimester was about symbolism and reading like a writer. I was insulted when she had taught us grammar conventions considering the fact I was a writer. This was a slap in the face. Ms. Oakley-Keane had to do it because believe it or not, some 8th graders still used you’re and your wrong. This fact kind of broke my heart.
Math was a different story. It had always been my problem subject. I would get upset and even start crying when I couldn’t solve a question on the homework. I would fill with dread when there was a test because I just knew I would blow it. I would blow it like I always did, come to think of it.
My teacher was Ms. Bernstein. She had a temper, to be honest. Most of my classmates had a slight hatred for her. Sure, she may have been a bit over the top but I suppose she meant well. She was the person who saw my suicide note.
Now that we’re back on topic again, I’ll tell you how I ended up in emergency room. I was working on my two way table, then gave up when I didn’t understand a question. From there on I was angry and pretty peeved that everyone else could do their work so easily. Then I began having a trail of thoughts.
They’re all smarter than me. They’re all better than me. They’ll make it in life while I’ll probably become some stupid, pathetic suffering artist. God, I wish I could just die right now.
I hastily pulled out a piece of paper and jotted down the note until Ms. Bernstein came along. I shoved it into my Math book so she wouldn’t see it but I was too late. She narrowed her eyes at me.
“Let me see that paper.”
“No.”
“I said, let me see it.”
She was stern. My class looked at me, pairs of eyeballs burning into my flesh. I didn’t want to cause more of a scene, so I handed it over. No one was supposed to see that note. No one was. I began shaking violently and I wanted to punch Ms. Bernstein as I saw her read the note. She walked out of the class and I wanted to scream.