Words of Depression

Ever since I can remember, I have always been treated as an outsider. I was that person; the one to laugh at, the one others blamed their problems on, the one to verbally abuse to make themselves feel better. They made me believe nothing I could do was right. ‘Peers’ labelled me as 'depressive', 'freak', 'emo', 'gay', 'ugly', 'special'. I was called these names and more, nearly every day of my life. Eventually, I became these words. It’s funny when you think about it; how powerful words are. They have the power to encourage you or humiliate you, to make you a hero or a zero. Something that starts off as a joke suddenly becomes the horror of your reality. Those words became my world, they became me and I became them. I am depressive. I am a freak. That's what I started to believe, because words are what we use to make our way through life.

Words cut deeper than a knife ever could. It would have been kinder for them to have just beaten me up than to hear those words many times every day. I never got a break. People seem to only judge from the superficial level. They never bothered to look deeper or to take the time to get to know me.

Most days, I would return home to parents arguing and a family in crisis. There was no peace. I began to shut myself away from the world. At least being alone I did not have to deal with what was outside. But, I was never alone. I wore the words like a second skin. I morphed into those words. Often times disguised as banter and “only joking”, those words became my prison. I  lost myself and I lost my way. They say you would not care if they were not true, but by this time I had begun to believe that they were true.

The words and the thoughts in my head, the ones telling me that I would never be good enough, that I was worthless continued to take hold of me. I believed that my “friends” were right about me after all. I sunk into depression. I became needy, I wanted them to fix this and as I got needier, they used the words to make their point, that I was a 'weird'. When I confronted them about their relentless name calling, they would say “It’s just banter don't be such a girl”. I had no voice, I became the freak in my own mind. Eventually, I gave up on them, on me, on life. I was tired of everything. Depression was a huge weight I carried around with me. It wrapped my world in darkness. I began to space out, not focusing at school or even on what was going on around me. I would go in and out of conversations and miss things that were being said or discussed and they would say I was 'special'. Eventually, I would return home, with ‘depressive’ feeling following me, enveloping me in so much darkness that I could not see a way out of the vicious cycle I was in.

I was tired. Alone. Confused. The thoughts spiralling out of control. Nothing made sense any more. I felt dead inside. I felt hopelessness. I thought that perhaps pain would make me feel alive.  Many nights I sat at the kitchen table holding a knife. I was so tired but sleep was out of the question. Tomorrow the cycle will repeat itself and there is no way to stop it. I hold onto that knife, hoping that it could free me from this prison. The pain makes me feel alive.

Some days I managed to pick myself up. I wore a mask and I wore it well. I made people laugh and for that I was the centre of attention some times. Some people were nice to me. But by this stage it made no difference. I felt hollow. No one could understand me. It’s difficult to explain, the melancholy of joy.  

With time I learned that words only have the power you give them. Slowly I learnt to accept myself for who I am and what I am. The words lost their power. I made friends with people who like me for me.  I still bear the scars from that dark period in my life but I wear them proudly. I survived.