I'm Kind of Invisible

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Being depressed isn’t something I asked for nor would I wish it upon anyone. I never told anyone I was depressed, and I was quite proud of how good I was at hiding it. From my outward appearance you would never suspect it. My black hair is usually pulled up into a messy bun, pale white skin with dark red lipstick. It’s funny as a kid I always wanted to wear makeup, but now that I am 18 and almost graduating I realize how stupid the concept is, yes many beg to differ but I do not listen. Anyways back to my appearance. I usually wear t-shirts of nerdy things like Harry Potter, Avengers, ninja turtles, or some band that no one has ever heard of. I swear this generation has the shittiest taste in music. I usually wear ratted jeans and leather converse all stars.

Going to counseling for depression is a constant self-discovery game. I’ve told every single one the same thing. My depression started in sixth grade. Then they continue to ask me various questions about why and how. My answer is always the same. Tarantella. Now the shrinks seem to think this is some scarring childhood memory involving a Tarantella, but it isn’t. It’s my hair. Besides being black it’s curly, not nice curls however, they clump together and naturally dread. Because of that I earned the nickname Tarantella. At first it didn’t bother me, but soon even my friends were calling me it. Before I knew it, I had no friends.

Now it’s my senior year, six years with depression and no one knows. Besides the various shrinks I have gone to, my parents, the doctor, and my little brother. I live on a schedule. Wake up, take my meds, shower, eat, take my meds, go to school, come home, take my meds, say I am going to do homework, get too depressed to do homework, eat supper, take my meds, try to sleep, fail at sleeping, finally sleep, wake up to my alarm and hour later, repeat. Everyday is the same. Everyday in between those times I think about somehow ending my life.  But then I lie to myself and say it is not that bad. Lies. I fill my body up with them to somehow function. Sometimes I feel like a zombie dressing up as a human. I feel so invisible. My parents think I am perfectly okay, and I have everything together, but I don’t. Nathan my little brother knows I am not doing well. He asks me if I am good or bad. The answer doesn’t change. Bad I tell him. He looks at me with his big brown eyes. I destroyed his innocence. No forth grader should have to witness to someone this mentally insane. “Please be good again Reagan, I miss you being good.”

I miss me being good too. And that is why I checked myself into the mental hospital. Because not only am I depressed, I have panic attacks. And because of that, I have to stay here…stay until I’m good again.

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