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
From Prozac to Zoloft, we're all ***ed up.
Come Wednesday, and I went to breakfast. It consisted of pancakes and tea (which wasn’t caffeinated). I sat at a table with two guys. They both looked about 18. One had on a beanie and was on the chubby side, the other was skinny in build. The one wearing the beanie was named Lucas and the skinny one was David. Lucas had been in the Unit for about three months, consecutively. David had been in there for three weeks. So I was hesitant to sit with them.
“Kid,” Lucas said, “I suggest you write in chicken fingers and french fries on the menus for lunch and dinner because the food here sucks.” I nodded and mumbled, “Thanks.”
I picked at the pancakes with my plastic fork until I just downed the tea and left the mutilated pancakes on my plate. After breakfast was Community Meeting, in which we all gathered into a circle and said out name, age, where we’re from, and what our positive goal was.
“I’m Eliza. 16. From everywhere. My goal is to get discharged tomorrow.” she smirked and laughed. She had a raspy voice with a hint of a Hispanic accent.
“How are you from everywhere?” someone asked.
“My parents have three places around Massachusetts. So I live in three places technically.”
“I’m Lucas, I’m 18 years young, and you all know where I’m from because I’ve been here for three months. My goal is to not go crazy.”
“I’m Beatrice, I’m 15, I’m from Framingham, and my goal is to get discharged today.”
We kept going around the circle until it got to me.
“I’m Celia. I’m 13 years old and from Cambridge. My goal is to get to know people.”
After that, I took a shower.
The shower was a piece of crap. You know those faucets that you push and water comes out for a few seconds and then it stops? That was what the shower was like, so I was alarmed when the water abruptly stopped and cold air hit my body.
“Jesus Christ!” I muttered. I shrugged and pushed the button again and water came on. I did this several times and then got out. I put on jeans and t-shirt and looked in the mirror. I looked almost human.
“Keep your crap together,” I whispered to myself. “Stay strong for the sake of your m-” I almost said “mom,” but I breathed in and tried again. “Stay strong for the sake of your dad. And Ethan. And Yana. And Rashmi. And Lena.” I pushed my hair back and walked out.
Apparently we had school in the Unit, but we could also just go back to our rooms and sleep and not participate in activities. We were even sorted into groups- Group A and Group B. Group A would go to school and Group B would go to therapy sessions. Then, Group B would go to school and Group A would go to therapy after lunch I was in Group A, so I went to school.
Our teacher was a guy named Rick. Rick was around twenty-something, with dark hair and dark eyes. He seemed like a kindred spirit.
“Alright,” he clapped his hands together and grinned real big, “I’m Rick, and I see some new faces here, yeah? Let’s start with you.” he pointed at me and I pushed my hair out of my face.
“I’m Celia,” I mumbled. “I’m 13 years old and clinically depressed, nice to meet you.” Rick handed me a work folder and a pencil. Inside the work folder was a paper asking me to fill out information about my school. The class dragged on, and I almost fell asleep when Rick started reading Harrison Bergeron. I had read the story before so it was nothing new.
After school was therapy. I felt insulted because it had the vibe of an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. I picked at the hem of my shirt and would exchange glances with Beatrice and the others. We all shared a hatred for therapy, sighing after one another, the occasional eye roll.
“Do we really have to do this?” Eliza said obnoxiously.
It was a discussion about depression meds and how they can affect you. Then it got into a talk about Klonopins and a bunch of other drugs with really weird names. I zoned out because I didn’t care. It was pretty lame.
The rest of the day was kind of a blur. I can’t even recall much because every single day felt the same.
“Kid,” Lucas said, “I suggest you write in chicken fingers and french fries on the menus for lunch and dinner because the food here sucks.” I nodded and mumbled, “Thanks.”
I picked at the pancakes with my plastic fork until I just downed the tea and left the mutilated pancakes on my plate. After breakfast was Community Meeting, in which we all gathered into a circle and said out name, age, where we’re from, and what our positive goal was.
“I’m Eliza. 16. From everywhere. My goal is to get discharged tomorrow.” she smirked and laughed. She had a raspy voice with a hint of a Hispanic accent.
“How are you from everywhere?” someone asked.
“My parents have three places around Massachusetts. So I live in three places technically.”
“I’m Lucas, I’m 18 years young, and you all know where I’m from because I’ve been here for three months. My goal is to not go crazy.”
“I’m Beatrice, I’m 15, I’m from Framingham, and my goal is to get discharged today.”
We kept going around the circle until it got to me.
“I’m Celia. I’m 13 years old and from Cambridge. My goal is to get to know people.”
After that, I took a shower.
The shower was a piece of crap. You know those faucets that you push and water comes out for a few seconds and then it stops? That was what the shower was like, so I was alarmed when the water abruptly stopped and cold air hit my body.
“Jesus Christ!” I muttered. I shrugged and pushed the button again and water came on. I did this several times and then got out. I put on jeans and t-shirt and looked in the mirror. I looked almost human.
“Keep your crap together,” I whispered to myself. “Stay strong for the sake of your m-” I almost said “mom,” but I breathed in and tried again. “Stay strong for the sake of your dad. And Ethan. And Yana. And Rashmi. And Lena.” I pushed my hair back and walked out.
Apparently we had school in the Unit, but we could also just go back to our rooms and sleep and not participate in activities. We were even sorted into groups- Group A and Group B. Group A would go to school and Group B would go to therapy sessions. Then, Group B would go to school and Group A would go to therapy after lunch I was in Group A, so I went to school.
Our teacher was a guy named Rick. Rick was around twenty-something, with dark hair and dark eyes. He seemed like a kindred spirit.
“Alright,” he clapped his hands together and grinned real big, “I’m Rick, and I see some new faces here, yeah? Let’s start with you.” he pointed at me and I pushed my hair out of my face.
“I’m Celia,” I mumbled. “I’m 13 years old and clinically depressed, nice to meet you.” Rick handed me a work folder and a pencil. Inside the work folder was a paper asking me to fill out information about my school. The class dragged on, and I almost fell asleep when Rick started reading Harrison Bergeron. I had read the story before so it was nothing new.
After school was therapy. I felt insulted because it had the vibe of an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. I picked at the hem of my shirt and would exchange glances with Beatrice and the others. We all shared a hatred for therapy, sighing after one another, the occasional eye roll.
“Do we really have to do this?” Eliza said obnoxiously.
It was a discussion about depression meds and how they can affect you. Then it got into a talk about Klonopins and a bunch of other drugs with really weird names. I zoned out because I didn’t care. It was pretty lame.
The rest of the day was kind of a blur. I can’t even recall much because every single day felt the same.