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
Say what you mean and I'll die inside.
Instantaneously, the school guidance counselor came in. She ushered me over to her and I reluctantly got up from my seat. I felt my throat being blocked by anger and sadness. We eventually made it to her office. She told me to take a seat.
I sat down in one of the chairs and she pushed the suicide note over to me. “You wrote some serious things on here, Celia. I feel as if you can’t be safe.”
“Yes I can,” I lied. I wasn’t really there. This was all some bad dream that I was in. I blinked a few times and wished I wasn’t in this situation. I wrung my hands together, and I felt tears stream down my cheek. Rashmi and Lena would notice I wasn’t on the bus. And Ethan would notice I wasn’t there to kiss him goodbye before the bus came.
I cradled my head in my hands. I had been in the guidance counselor’s office before. I had told her about how I felt sad and upset most of the time. There was a long silence.
“I’m going to have to call your mother.”
That’s when I began sobbing. My mother? You mean the least supportive person about my depression? Dear God, why don’t you just throw me to the wolves instead, it’d be easier. I thought. I knew she would yell at me. So I begged and begged for the counselor not to call my mother. She insisted on calling her.
The first two times, it went to an automated message. The third time, my mom picked up. She read the note aloud to her over the phone and I began sobbing harder and slammed my fists on the table. I felt like no one was listening. If it was all about what I want if I was depressed, then why was the counselor doing this?
I shuddered at the thought of my mother. We were already in the hospital last week because she found out about my two suicide attempts in September 2012. My mother wanted outpatient treatment, a partial program. Now, because I screwed up, they would hospitalize me. I really wished I was dead. It’d be better than hearing my mother.
After that counselor called, I had to wait for my mother to come pick me up. The secretary had my backpack and the counselor escorted me to my locker. I took out my jackets and went back to her office. I sat down in the chair, pulled out my phone, and texted Ethan.
Hey, if I’m not there tomorrow, I’m probably in the hospital. Just know that I love you.
I put my phone back into my bag and sighed. Something inside me said, Delete your messages, your mother will check your phone. I pulled my phone back out. Delete, delete, delete. I looked at the counselor’s bookshelf. Most of them were books about therapy for teens. I rolled my eyes. Like a book could magically solve all of your problems you endure as an awkward adolescent. I reached back into my bag and got my reading book, Speak. I was lost in the world of Laurie Halse Anderson’s writing until I heard my mother arrive.
My throat was blocked by fear. She talked with the guidance counselor. I tuned it out by thinking about my happy place. I wasn’t here, I was at home. I wasn’t suicidal and my mother was happy and my father would tell me how he’s proud of me.
“Come on, Celia. We’re leaving.”
I snapped my eyes back open and followed behind my mother. As soon as she left the doors of the school, she screamed at me. Curse words, curse, words, something about not caring about how I feel. Something about being ungrateful and having no reason to be sad. I don’t remember exactly what she said because I was too busy yelling at her in my mind.
She thought I was doing this for attention.
Attention? Oh okay, you can think that. Because I want to be sad for attention, is that it? This isn’t for attention, and you yelling at me because I am mentally unable to happy isn’t helping anything. So screw you.
I do remember one thing she yelled at me.
“If I ever knew I had to go through this, I would’ve never given birth to you.”
I bit my tongue. I bit it so I wouldn’t insult her. I shoved my hands into my pockets so I wouldn’t hit her. The MBTA bus came, and I got on it. I avoided sitting next to my mother. After several different buses, we got to the hospital. The Children’s Hospital. We went to the emergency room. I got an ID bracelet.
I sat down in one of the chairs and she pushed the suicide note over to me. “You wrote some serious things on here, Celia. I feel as if you can’t be safe.”
“Yes I can,” I lied. I wasn’t really there. This was all some bad dream that I was in. I blinked a few times and wished I wasn’t in this situation. I wrung my hands together, and I felt tears stream down my cheek. Rashmi and Lena would notice I wasn’t on the bus. And Ethan would notice I wasn’t there to kiss him goodbye before the bus came.
I cradled my head in my hands. I had been in the guidance counselor’s office before. I had told her about how I felt sad and upset most of the time. There was a long silence.
“I’m going to have to call your mother.”
That’s when I began sobbing. My mother? You mean the least supportive person about my depression? Dear God, why don’t you just throw me to the wolves instead, it’d be easier. I thought. I knew she would yell at me. So I begged and begged for the counselor not to call my mother. She insisted on calling her.
The first two times, it went to an automated message. The third time, my mom picked up. She read the note aloud to her over the phone and I began sobbing harder and slammed my fists on the table. I felt like no one was listening. If it was all about what I want if I was depressed, then why was the counselor doing this?
I shuddered at the thought of my mother. We were already in the hospital last week because she found out about my two suicide attempts in September 2012. My mother wanted outpatient treatment, a partial program. Now, because I screwed up, they would hospitalize me. I really wished I was dead. It’d be better than hearing my mother.
After that counselor called, I had to wait for my mother to come pick me up. The secretary had my backpack and the counselor escorted me to my locker. I took out my jackets and went back to her office. I sat down in the chair, pulled out my phone, and texted Ethan.
Hey, if I’m not there tomorrow, I’m probably in the hospital. Just know that I love you.
I put my phone back into my bag and sighed. Something inside me said, Delete your messages, your mother will check your phone. I pulled my phone back out. Delete, delete, delete. I looked at the counselor’s bookshelf. Most of them were books about therapy for teens. I rolled my eyes. Like a book could magically solve all of your problems you endure as an awkward adolescent. I reached back into my bag and got my reading book, Speak. I was lost in the world of Laurie Halse Anderson’s writing until I heard my mother arrive.
My throat was blocked by fear. She talked with the guidance counselor. I tuned it out by thinking about my happy place. I wasn’t here, I was at home. I wasn’t suicidal and my mother was happy and my father would tell me how he’s proud of me.
“Come on, Celia. We’re leaving.”
I snapped my eyes back open and followed behind my mother. As soon as she left the doors of the school, she screamed at me. Curse words, curse, words, something about not caring about how I feel. Something about being ungrateful and having no reason to be sad. I don’t remember exactly what she said because I was too busy yelling at her in my mind.
She thought I was doing this for attention.
Attention? Oh okay, you can think that. Because I want to be sad for attention, is that it? This isn’t for attention, and you yelling at me because I am mentally unable to happy isn’t helping anything. So screw you.
I do remember one thing she yelled at me.
“If I ever knew I had to go through this, I would’ve never given birth to you.”
I bit my tongue. I bit it so I wouldn’t insult her. I shoved my hands into my pockets so I wouldn’t hit her. The MBTA bus came, and I got on it. I avoided sitting next to my mother. After several different buses, we got to the hospital. The Children’s Hospital. We went to the emergency room. I got an ID bracelet.