Hi. Before I get into the deep stuff, allow me to tell you a little about myself.
I am thirteen years old. Just because I am younger than most of you, doesn't mean that the pain I've felt wasn't just as real. And just because I'm saying that doesn't mean that I don't know the grip the hatred has on you. Trust me, I do. And I'm here to help you fight it.
I have been severely depressed since I was nine years old. I was actually depressed before that, but I didn't understand what it was until Sept. 27, 2010. It was on that day, when not only myself but my older brother battled viciously with the monsters inside of us, that I realized it. I was depressed.
Before that happened, my personality was what everyone called 'Happy-Go-Lucky', in other words, carefree, not worried about the future, etc. This was absolutely not true, but they seemed pleased enough with it, so I let it stand as my reputation. Once I became depressed, however, and my thoughts became darker every day, I went quiet, and walked around 'like a person who has had their soul beat down,' as one lady said. People started noticing, and finally my parents pulled me aside one day to talk to me. They had caught on to my depression, not just because of the worries that people kept on voicing to them, but also because they had broken one of the cardinal rules of trust: they read my diary.
I don't keep one anymore, but, like most other nine year olds, I did then. It was my own stupid mistake to write down actual, legitimate feelings of pain and sadness in it.
I take pride in some of my works of writing, and, with practice, I can be quite a good speaker. But when I'm put on the spot, unprepared, and I'm talking about something that matters, something deeper than the skin, that's when explaining something becomes my worst enemy. So I did what any--and many--scared, unprepared, and heart-wrenchingly depressed person would do. I crossed my fingers and lied like the wind.
I told them that I was just doing it for attention, and I wasn't really sad. They believed me. After all, isn't that what most nine year olds do?
So here I am, on my fourth year. So much has happened between then and now, so much that I know I'll have to explain at some point. Things that have had so much impact on my life.
But for now, I'm not going to curse you with more of my meaningless words. I'll let you go back and live your life. Because that's what it's for.
I am thirteen years old. Just because I am younger than most of you, doesn't mean that the pain I've felt wasn't just as real. And just because I'm saying that doesn't mean that I don't know the grip the hatred has on you. Trust me, I do. And I'm here to help you fight it.
I have been severely depressed since I was nine years old. I was actually depressed before that, but I didn't understand what it was until Sept. 27, 2010. It was on that day, when not only myself but my older brother battled viciously with the monsters inside of us, that I realized it. I was depressed.
Before that happened, my personality was what everyone called 'Happy-Go-Lucky', in other words, carefree, not worried about the future, etc. This was absolutely not true, but they seemed pleased enough with it, so I let it stand as my reputation. Once I became depressed, however, and my thoughts became darker every day, I went quiet, and walked around 'like a person who has had their soul beat down,' as one lady said. People started noticing, and finally my parents pulled me aside one day to talk to me. They had caught on to my depression, not just because of the worries that people kept on voicing to them, but also because they had broken one of the cardinal rules of trust: they read my diary.
I don't keep one anymore, but, like most other nine year olds, I did then. It was my own stupid mistake to write down actual, legitimate feelings of pain and sadness in it.
I take pride in some of my works of writing, and, with practice, I can be quite a good speaker. But when I'm put on the spot, unprepared, and I'm talking about something that matters, something deeper than the skin, that's when explaining something becomes my worst enemy. So I did what any--and many--scared, unprepared, and heart-wrenchingly depressed person would do. I crossed my fingers and lied like the wind.
I told them that I was just doing it for attention, and I wasn't really sad. They believed me. After all, isn't that what most nine year olds do?
So here I am, on my fourth year. So much has happened between then and now, so much that I know I'll have to explain at some point. Things that have had so much impact on my life.
But for now, I'm not going to curse you with more of my meaningless words. I'll let you go back and live your life. Because that's what it's for.