My Point of View
One
What is depression?
Well, according to merriam-webster.com. . .
de·pres·sion noun \di-ˈpre-shən, dē-\
: a state of feeling sad
: a serious medical condition in which a person feels very sad, hopeless, and unimportant and often is unable to live in a normal way
: a period of time in which there is little economic activity and many people do not have jobs
But that's a doctors definition. Doctors have to compartmentalize things, they can't get attached or feel anything toward their patients. Especially psychiatrists. I don't think they would function if they became too empathetic with their patients. And the one thing there is too much of is bad psychiatrists. If you think about that, it's strange because there aren't that many of them to begin with. This is a problem for a later chapter though.
I suppose I should start at the beginning (it's a very good place to start). But where is the beginning. Is it when I was born? Or when I started cutting? Or some other turning point in my life that was symbolically a turning point in my life.
Let's start with a brief synopsis of my life from birth to the summer of seventh grade, in bullet points, those are a good way to make things quick:
-I was born in Minneapolis, but didn't live there.
-I first went to what is called an "Arts Magnet School". I don't remember much from those years, I left there after second grade.
-From third to seventh grade, I went to a "Gifted and Talented School". I made good friends, had a crush for about four years on the same nerdy boy and all together remained in the background to my best friend who was a pretty blonde girl that seemed to never be single.
-I was generally angry.
-In seventh grade, I started wearing only black. Black skinny-jeans and black long-sleeve shirts. But always with my green knitted hat.
I don't remember much from that year except for trying to convince my moms that I didn't need to switch schools. I had bad grades in math, and other subjects--I didn't really care about school--and they felt that to fix this problem I needed to be moved to a smaller, private school.
After building friends and learning to trust people where I was I didn't want to leave. They didn't listen. I shadowed at the other school. I fucking hated it. I said I wouldn't go. But that spring I was enrolled there, ready to move on to eighth grade at a new place. With people I didn't like.
That summer I was miserable. I hated everything. I even ripped out all the pages in my sketchbook one night about a week before school started. I made my mommy think I ran away, when all I did was scream and then when she left to get groceries, climb onto and hide on the roof.
I was changing one day, and saw a butterfly pin I had gotten somewhere. Sitting on the top of my dresser. It really was a pretty thing. And then it happened.
I got this urge, this thing deep inside me that longed to push it into my skin. To stick the sharp point into myself as deeply as I could and then yank it out. I didn't. For the next few days, it was all I could think about. I fixated on that pin, and one day I gave up.
While changing, I stopped. And picked up that butterfly, pressing on the back to unlatch the clasp. I was too scared to dig it into my flesh, but I did drag it over my hip bone. And all of a sudden something inside me felt better. The knot that I didn't know had been in my stomach loosened and it seemed like I could breath easier now.
I didn't understand why something like that could cause such relief, but that didn't matter. At the age of thirteen I didn't worry about things like that. I didn't ask questions like why unless it benefited me in some way. I didn't think long term.
It wasn't long after school started that I was dragging the pin across my hip again. I felt it bounce as I pressed harder into my skin than before. My hand was unsteady and I was fascinated with the little pink line that appeared. It stung some. But it was so comforting in a way I couldn't understand. It didn't make sense. Why should this of all things make me feel better.
I realized it was wrong. But I didn't want to stop.
Well, according to merriam-webster.com. . .
de·pres·sion noun \di-ˈpre-shən, dē-\
: a state of feeling sad
: a serious medical condition in which a person feels very sad, hopeless, and unimportant and often is unable to live in a normal way
: a period of time in which there is little economic activity and many people do not have jobs
But that's a doctors definition. Doctors have to compartmentalize things, they can't get attached or feel anything toward their patients. Especially psychiatrists. I don't think they would function if they became too empathetic with their patients. And the one thing there is too much of is bad psychiatrists. If you think about that, it's strange because there aren't that many of them to begin with. This is a problem for a later chapter though.
I suppose I should start at the beginning (it's a very good place to start). But where is the beginning. Is it when I was born? Or when I started cutting? Or some other turning point in my life that was symbolically a turning point in my life.
Let's start with a brief synopsis of my life from birth to the summer of seventh grade, in bullet points, those are a good way to make things quick:
-I was born in Minneapolis, but didn't live there.
-I first went to what is called an "Arts Magnet School". I don't remember much from those years, I left there after second grade.
-From third to seventh grade, I went to a "Gifted and Talented School". I made good friends, had a crush for about four years on the same nerdy boy and all together remained in the background to my best friend who was a pretty blonde girl that seemed to never be single.
-I was generally angry.
-In seventh grade, I started wearing only black. Black skinny-jeans and black long-sleeve shirts. But always with my green knitted hat.
I don't remember much from that year except for trying to convince my moms that I didn't need to switch schools. I had bad grades in math, and other subjects--I didn't really care about school--and they felt that to fix this problem I needed to be moved to a smaller, private school.
After building friends and learning to trust people where I was I didn't want to leave. They didn't listen. I shadowed at the other school. I fucking hated it. I said I wouldn't go. But that spring I was enrolled there, ready to move on to eighth grade at a new place. With people I didn't like.
That summer I was miserable. I hated everything. I even ripped out all the pages in my sketchbook one night about a week before school started. I made my mommy think I ran away, when all I did was scream and then when she left to get groceries, climb onto and hide on the roof.
I was changing one day, and saw a butterfly pin I had gotten somewhere. Sitting on the top of my dresser. It really was a pretty thing. And then it happened.
I got this urge, this thing deep inside me that longed to push it into my skin. To stick the sharp point into myself as deeply as I could and then yank it out. I didn't. For the next few days, it was all I could think about. I fixated on that pin, and one day I gave up.
While changing, I stopped. And picked up that butterfly, pressing on the back to unlatch the clasp. I was too scared to dig it into my flesh, but I did drag it over my hip bone. And all of a sudden something inside me felt better. The knot that I didn't know had been in my stomach loosened and it seemed like I could breath easier now.
I didn't understand why something like that could cause such relief, but that didn't matter. At the age of thirteen I didn't worry about things like that. I didn't ask questions like why unless it benefited me in some way. I didn't think long term.
It wasn't long after school started that I was dragging the pin across my hip again. I felt it bounce as I pressed harder into my skin than before. My hand was unsteady and I was fascinated with the little pink line that appeared. It stung some. But it was so comforting in a way I couldn't understand. It didn't make sense. Why should this of all things make me feel better.
I realized it was wrong. But I didn't want to stop.