Everyone has a different outlook on things, just like how everyone has a different way of handling things, whether it’s as simple as the subject of watching funny videos to complexity as tough as the Holocaust. Like sickness, for example; everyone has a different perception of sickness. When most people think or hear ‘sick’ they might think of a sickly old person or a cold, or maybe even cancer and death. But what I know is that most people do not think of depression and mental illness right away when they think of ‘sick’—sometimes it’s not even considered a sickness. Society has taught us that when you hear ‘mental’ and ‘illness’ together—or even a simple word such as ‘psychological’—their brains respond with ‘crazy’ and tells them to lock that person in an asylum. And there lies multiple mistakes; aside from the fact asylums are not where ‘crazy people’ go. First of all ‘sick’ doesn’t just mean that you’ve got a virus or are too weak from something within your genes. Everyone has seemed to forget that, that physical illness is not the only one out there. Mental illness is very real. Psychological pain is very real. Depression is real.
Me, with my paper heart, knows this all too well. The scars on my body leave proof for those with an unbelieving mind, not so easily convinced. I paint my nails black and my skin red to show myself what I am and that this is reality. I am depressed and no one believes that is really sick enough for them to help or worry about me, but here’s some proof. My mind is plagued with torment and agonizingly eternal war. My soul feels like a dark and damaged overused binder, drawn on until holes pierced the outside and torn on every edge. I have a war in my head, guilt and hatred, toward myself mostly. Everything I do makes me hate myself more and that leads to the addictions. Not cocaine or weed, no not that sort of addiction. The blades. I don’t do that a whole lot, but once you bite the blade a few times they’re not easily forgotten. They give you a rush, a rush of pain and reality. They make you feel something when all you feel is endless suffering. It’s better than dying at the moment, but maybe I’m just saying that because depression hasn’t sucked me in that far. Yet.
Aside from the fact that it’s totally horrific and uncontrollable, what makes it worse is those around you. I have a family that care about me, but it doesn’t feel like it. And my friends, well a lot of them don’t understand, none but one, my best friend. But even can’t stop the pain and torture. Battling depression is a struggle not easily faced by yourself, which is why she does help, but it is my battle after all.
And don’t let me get into when anyone finds out. For the most part I try everything to stay out of the spotlight, but there have been a few times where I’ve slipped up. When I told my mother that I was depressed—before I started with the razors—she laughed, actually laughed! And then she told me right to my face, “Shannon, you’re not depressed.” But when my father found out he handled it differently. The first time I’d cut I’d been doing a good job keeping it under wraps, but I messed up and he saw. He asked me why and I couldn’t tell him. I wanted him to be sad because then maybe I could get the help I needed, but instead he was angry. He asked me, “How could you be so stupid to do this?” Like I said, everyone handles things differently. It’s bad having your sadness rejected by your parents and shoved away into a safe in the backs of their heads, but it gets worse. Some of my friends know. I don’t like people knowing because it makes me feel guilty, but maybe its better for both of us not to acknowledge it. I’ve seen them see the scars and look away as if they never saw anything, and then act like nothing is different.
I guess these are the affects of depression on others.
Thankfully, though my best friend is inevitably my salvation. She saw the marks and she asked me questions about it, obviously worried. I wanted her to know least because she knows depression too, and I knew she would help me, but I didn’t want to feel worse about it. It made me feel guilty when she found out because I didn’t want her to find out or try getting involved, even though it would be nice. But she’s never been one to easily give up on what she loves. She told me then, “You can’t do this anymore, okay?” I didn’t agree. “I’ll help you and we’ll get through this c--- together. I love you.” That was the day that I knew something good was going to turn up about my life.
Now, hear I am, six years later, sharing dorm room with her in college. I’m going for psychology and things are good. I have a boyfriend and he makes me happy, which is all I can ask for. Happiness. Things are not the best with my family, they never have been, but they know now and they seem to believe me when I tell them depression is real and something I had to go through without their support. I can’t say that I don’t get sad or start to fall back into the evil arms of depression, but things are better. They say it gets better and you never actually believe it until it is better.