Trigger Warning
If you are not comfortable reading about depression, cutting, or suicide, I do not recommend reading this.
My experience with depression has never been something I hid, but it's also never been something I've openly spoken about.
That's changing now.
My story begins in seventh grade when I was twelve. At the beginning of the year, I was growing into a teenager as most twelve year-olds do. I developed my own sense of style that were usually skinny jeans, blouses, and occasionally an age appropriate dress.
At this time my life seemed perfect. I was taking violin lessons and excelling in those, I had several best friends, I joined band and was doing well as a tuba player. Everything seemed to be okay.
But then I befriended a girl.
To this day, this girl is known for antics of "cutting" and "depression," but I know it's all an act; I know it's just her way of getting attention.
But I didn't recognize that until midway through the year.
Because now I know if you cut, wear shorts by your own choice, then cry about it, that isn't genuine anguish.
I befriended this girl because she was the only person I was remotely "friends" with in a class. I sat by her everyday, and talked to her. Every day she would show me her cuts, whether they were on her arms, legs, or stomach. Her words cut deep in me: "I'm so fat" "I'm so ugly" "I need to lose weight" "I'm worthless" "I should just die."
It all stabbed me like needles that were attempting to get under my skin.
The sad part is, I didn't fight it. I was too weak to fight.
When I finally started to understand the truth of depression and the sorrow behind my insecurities, I finally realized how fake this girl was. I no longer was her friend, but the wounds still remained.
One Wednesday afternoon before my family was leaving for church, I got off of the bus and walked into my room. I knew somewhere in my bathroom was an old razor, so I grabbed a pair of scissors and took the razor, cutting it apart until the blades were held between my thumb and forefinger.
I'll spare the details of this gruesome chapter of my story.
By the time I set the blade down on my desk, both of my arms were covered in cuts from the bend of my elbow to my wrist. I didn't know it then, but I was so close to slicing my veins. Because of this, I nearly lost my life at age twelve.
It wasn't pretty, right?
Later that night, my family met at my local Mexican restaurant for dinner before church. I remember sitting there, forcing a smile, pretending everything was okay. I said I wasn't hungry; that I'd eat the chips and salsa they offered us and that'd be it. I didn't eat at all.
Thus begins the next chapter of my story.
Every day I was obsessed with my weight. I would skip breakfast in the mornings and head directly to school, drinking only green tea until lunch. I knew starving myself wasn't the solution to losing weight, so I still ate very small portions. Every day at lunch, I would eat only an apple and drink an entire bottle of water. Sometimes, I'd reward myself with a few baby carrots, but it was never anything more.
After months of this addiction, I fell into an eating disorder: binge eating. I would starve myself at school, then gorge on food at home. During this time I felt sick, so I pushed myself to nearly develop a second eating disorder: excessive exercise.
I would ask my parents to take me to my school's track every night. Most nights they would sit in the car, and I would jog endlessly around the track until my parents had to force me to leave.
I began to feel happy when I went to my friend's house for a sleepover and my friend's mom commented that I had clearly been exercising. I knew I was skinnier. I could feel the change in my body. My thighs were slimmer, my stomach was flatter, my waist was smaller. I was even able to wear a shirt that hadn't fit me in two years.
^^^
That is a picture of the night I slept over at my friend's house. August 20, 2016.
So I pushed myself further.
I went vegan.
I starved myself in school and drank only a bottle of water at lunch. When I got home, I told my parents I wasn't hungry and wasn't feeling well before resorting to my room.
Luckily, I got over my eating disorder on my own. I was also lucky that I didn't develop another, because by the beginning of eighth grade, things were looking up.
Despite the fact that there were rumors I was a lesbian going around, I was happier. Those rumors eventually faded out, making life more peaceful.
Then I developed a crush.
The thing with crushes is that, most of the time, they're easy to get over. With this one, it was different. With this crush, I felt heat flood my body that accompanied shivers from goosebumps. It was unlike anything I ever felt before. When I saw him in the halls, my face would turn red.
I'm still not over him.
I told my best friend how I felt, and she told me she had his number. I asked her if she could give me it, and she quickly said no. I asked why, and she said there was no reason why. By this point, I was suspicious. I asked her if she liked him, she said no.
I was upset.
Fast forward about two months and we're at a football game. I finally talk to my friend about it, and she says that she's always crushed on him. I tell her either she lied to me back then, or she was lying to me now.
Then she reveals that she asked him to be her boyfriend earlier that day.
^^^
That is a picture from the football game. September 13, 2016.
Her parents drive me home, and I'm attempting to ignore the fact that she's making jokes about setting me up with his friends.
Deep down, I'm betrayed.
I go home and search for my blades, only to find that they are missing. I'm in my room, imagining every worst possible theory as to what happened to the blades.
Did someone find them?
Does someone know what I did?
I remember that night vividly: my first panic attack.
I sat on my bedroom floor, cowering beneath my desk and sobbing into my knees, struggling to breathe. I couldn't seem to catch my breath, gasping for air as quietly as I could so I wouldn't disturb my family and they wouldn't find me in my state.
I couldn't think. I couldn't calm myself down. It took me nearly an hour before my breaths were finally able to calm down, and I stood up. I inhaled deeply, and wiped the tears from my face before I went to bed.
Fast forward to around December, and marching band season is coming to an end.
I attempt to speak to one of my closest friends at the time, earning two words that mentally hurt me, "F*ck you."
Those words weren't said playfully.
And it was in that moment I felt alone.
I excused myself from class (band at the time), fighting back the tears in my eyes and racing to the bathroom. I sat in that stall for a good thirty minutes, letting my tears fall and unable to control myself. I was sobbing quietly, muffling the sounds with my hands.
Less than a month later in January, I get a message.
A classmate of mine was asking me if certain rumors were true.
I instantly deny them and ask where he heard it from. A friend. An ex-friend.
I felt truly alone in that moment. Nobody wanted to be my friend anymore.
At lunch, I was ignored by my two friends who I had in that class.
My closest friend succumbed to the lures of the girl who faked her depression.
Another friend lied to me and toyed with my emotions.
And finally, a friend backstabbed me.
I was told all of those lies that were said, and everything came crashing down.
The conversation eventually ended, and for the first time in my life, I truly wanted to die.
I found a plastic bag in my pantry, taking it back to my room. I sat on my bed, looking down at the bag in my hands. I couldn't process what I was about to do, but I did it anyways.
I placed the bag over my head, tied the handles around my neck, and leaned back onto my bed.
I didn't know how suffocating felt until that moment. My breath felt choked as if my lungs had stopped working altogether, and my vision became blurry. But before everything I had ever known came to an end, a thought went through my mind:
I couldn't do this to my family.
I quickly tore the plastic bag off of my head, gasping for air and feeling tears stinging my eyes.
And I knew then, I survived a suicide attempt.
Then comes another panic attack.
In May, my friend successfully got away from the girl who faked her depression, and she was one of my only friends at the time.
The moment that changed my life forever was the day after a field trip.
I got home, only to find that the friend who informed me about the lies of my ex-friend was calling.
We stayed on the phone for hours.
But it all came crashing down when my friend received a text. I'll spare the details, for that story is one of his own.
I understood then the true terror I was placing upon my friend's who were legitimately concerned for me.
In the middle of that phone call, I nearly witnessed my friend committing suicide.
Ever since that moment, things have gotten better for me. I'm not as skinny as I was anymore, in fact I'm at the heaviest I've ever been. But I'm fine with that. I understand now what's most important:
Being happy and being healthy.
Two years after my story began, I am doing better than I used to be. Sometimes I slip up, but that's normal. Sometimes I feel the urge to cut, but I fight it.
The difference between my past self and present self was that I didn't know how to fight back then. Now, I do.
I'm left with a single scar as a reminder of the battle I went through and the one I still have yet to face.
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I have pictures to show you how much my body changed over this period of two years
Fall 2015. Clearly, I'm not skinny. My stomach was large, I had a double chin when I smiled, I slouched to hide my fat, and my arms were thick.
That was a hot day, but I insisted on wearing long sleeves. Any idea why?
•
February 2016. I am noticeably slimmer. My legs are thinner, my body is smaller, I no longer have a double chin. Notice how I am wearing all black. This is because "black is supposed to hide fat."
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Just last week. I'm not as skinny as I once was, but I'm clearly happier.
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Now for screenshots.
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I want to thank several people for helping me. I don't know if you'll read this, but I hope you do.
Thank you to the friends who would let me talk to them when I needed help, whether you lived across the country or across the road. You helped me.
And with that, I make my exit.