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.