The Story of Griffin Hawkins

Chapter One

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Chapter One

            I always knew I had depression, but when I had told my mother sophomore year in high school, she told me it was a phase. I believed her. There was always something about me when I was younger, before high school, when hearing those snarky remarks from kids at school; they stung more than I thought they would. Each little comment, each negative word hit home.  They sent me crying to my only safe haven—my bed. I used to hide it too, from my parents and from everyone. I always acted like I was great, but those comments were eating me up inside.

            Then, high school rolled around. Certain friendships became difficult and dwindled into nothing, like we were never friends. There’s always that one person too. That one person that may be friend, foe, or even a frenemy, but they say those comments that bother you, that get to you. I had that one girl, I befriended her and we were great friends, but that all changed. She used to embarrass me constantly in front of the guy I liked and had no chance with. It only made how I felt about myself that much worse.

            My parents still don’t know that I cut my freshman year in high school. I never told anyone. They weren’t visible either; they were personal and only for myself. I remember how those cuts burned the day after when they rubbed against my jeans, but I secretly enjoyed it. Nothing could take away how I felt about myself and nothing seemed to make me happy.

            I was living in this constant hurricane of emotions. I couldn’t keep myself in the sunshine and instead ran towards the familiarity of the dangerous winds and drenching rain. I was stuck with undefined pain and self-loathing. Boys, friends, and family—nothing could bring me out of it. I stopped cutting, realizing that it didn’t do what I wanted it to. I didn’t want to keep looking in the mirror and hating myself even more by adding cuts and scars. Instead, I bottled up my emotions and my pain by burying it deep inside myself.

            Rejection, humiliation, and heartbreak all brought my deep pain forward, but only in the safety of my bed. I never told my friends how truly hurt I was by the comments people made towards me. I put up my walls and cried by myself in my room.

            By the time college rolled around, I had just lost the one person that meant most to me. I had lost my first love. We had so much in common and when he broke my heart, it killed me. My first year of college was spent getting trashed at fraternities and throwing up in random places. I barely left my dorm room, playing the Sims the entire time. I spent my time trying to control a virtual life rather than living my own.

            Then, I tried drugs officially and my life consisted of smoking weed while driving around aimlessly and going to parties. I spent my freshman year of college high and drunk that I couldn’t even remember most of it if I tried. It made me forget, forget any kind of pain I was in. The friends I made only cared about how to get the money for their next high.

            Eventually, I had met a guy, who happened to be a drug dealer. He loved me, not in the way my first love did, but it was close. He meant the world to me and gave me my next high. I didn’t want that anymore, I wanted more. Even though I never thought I was worthy to have more. It was a stupid mind game that I was playing on myself, thinking I deserved more when deep down I knew I didn’t.

            I moved six months later, before my twentieth birthday, to the biggest city in my state. I wanted the atmosphere, I wanted to meet more people and I wanted a change. I transferred colleges and moved two hours away from my hometown and my family. I was there up until my big break down.