I found this on my comp
Depression: Corrupter of the Mind
Depression, it eats away at you. It devours the soul you harbor inside. It eats away at your being until all that’s left is a shattered and shredded soul. Depression makes you seclude yourself from the world. I suffer from depression. My depression has gone untreated, and I don’t know the reason for which I suffer.
My suffering began in the eighth grade. That was the first year that I ever failed a class. It was geometry. I had never been very good at math. Failing a class really shouldn’t be the cause of depression. All my life I’ve excelled in school, and when I started failing it was like a slap in the face. I felt like it was sink or swim and I was trying, struggling, to swim, but something was holding me under. I had had my first run in with depression and no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t make it go away.
Slowly it grew worse. All of a sudden anything set it off. The worst part was that blinded myself to it so that I never knew when it was coming. But I knew was when it was there. I sank into this whole new person, this shell. I became something else. I became a new being. I secluded myself from everyone I receded from the world. I watched from the corners of my eyes, watching life pass by without me. Magnified by the tears of pain. I only wished for everyone to leave me alone. Life became a living hell for me. I became a master of cover up. I could smile, laugh, and be happy but at night I would cry. This was only the beginning. It was back to sink or swim again. No matter how hard I struggled I could not swim. It felt as if a lead weight was tied around my ankles. I was terrified.
The summer before my ninth grade year I got worse. I developed my own world. I hid myself in my room with my music and my computer. I didn’t interact with anyone, besides my friends and family, who didn’t coincide with my little world. With time my problem grew worse. The tears multiplied. I could fill a small lake with the tears I cried day and night. With the tears came the pain, and with the pain came the tears. It was a never-ending cycle of torture.
School started, my freshman year. I stopped caring about everything. School became my hideout, my isolation cell. My only escape from this torturous being I had become, but even there the pain tortured me. I walked the halls a speechless zombie. Only speaking to those I knew. I put on a masquerade for my friends and family. Using my ability to act as if nothing was wrong, this way I could throw them all off. Noone could see past my face. It had become a stonewall between me and reality. My eyes scanned the rows of lockers mindlessly. Depression had gotten a grip on me. It’s lethal deadly grip squeezing my soul. It was like a python squeezing the life from its prey. The pain increased as the grip tightened.
At the end of my freshman year I became scared. My mind was corrupt with thoughts of cutting myself and suicide. In my mind’s eye I could see it all. Perfectly planned out down to the very last detail. It replayed over and over in my mind. I could see the knife gripped in my hand. The blade catches the light and shimmers, for a second I see my reflection. I see the blade lower, getting closer to my arm. I press it down and watch the skin tear making a perfect line. From that rip comes a perfect bubble of crimson blood. It rises ever so slowly. Time is slowing down its all become slow motion. I watch that perfect bubble of crimson rise and then fall. It slides down my forearm, leaving a pale pink trail. It rolls down warm and thick. It’s the perfect color of blood. Just like the kind you see in movies. Only this was the real thing, this was my blood. For an instant I could feel all the pent up anger, hatred, and pain escape but came to the realization that it was my imagination.
Life began to scare me. I did not know what to think of myself anymore. I was someone I didn’t want to be. I abhorred myself. I hid in my world, my room. Consoling myself with my music. Occasionally crawling out of my hole to mingle with the friends I had managed to stay in contact with. I started rollerblading, I found that it helped to take out my aggression, but it would take a lot of skating to rid me of the anger I had pent up inside. My friends wondered what was wrong and I told them nothing and put up my stone wall again. That summer I thought of killing myself. We had just come home from somewhere, I don’t remember exactly, and my depression had hit an all time low. I remember making sure my brother was in his room and my mom in her’s. I went into the kitchen and opened one of the drawers quietly withdrawing one of my mom’s steak knives. I pressed the cold blade to my wrist, right on top of that blue vein that people say is critical. I remember standing there and thinking. What would happen when they found me? What would they do? I thought twice and put the knife away, and until about a week ago my mom had no idea what I had tried to do that day.
I soon discovered a temporary solution to my depression. I took the advice of a friend and wrote. It is mostly poetry, stuff that no one has read, except for a close friend who knows what I’m going through. In my writing I could yell, scream, cuss, and threaten. It scared me but it was a way to vent my anger towards something that wouldn’t hurt me or anyone else. But this was only a temporary solution, soon to ware off.
I finally talked to my mom about what was going on with me that summer. She was scared; I could see it in her eyes. I could see them shine with unshed tears. Tears that I knew she would shed that night. She asked what she could do and all I could tell her was ‘I do not know.’ My mom hates that answer but she did not argue this time. When she asked what caused it I could only give her that same answer. For a year I had lived with this depression, this thing, living inside of me, and yet when asked what caused it I was clueless. I had just started to deal with this. I had no answers for those people who wanted to help. My friends were just freaked out that I would ever even try something like suicide. After deep thought and a lot of searching I dredged up a sketchy answer for those who cared. My depression was random. I couldn’t control it and yet I knew what caused it, everything. Anything set it off, but mostly it was getting griped at by my mom, teachers, anyone. I would then pile that on top of all these other problems, bad grades, headache, friend arguments, everything was bottled up inside me waiting to be let out. It turned from anger to hate and from hate to depression. When the bottle got so full that it could hold no more it exploded and normally some poor innocent bystander became the target of my aggressions, and sometimes even myself. One time when my mom got angry out of me that forced my bottle to explode and I grabbed for a pair of large scissors on my desk spread them open and began slicing at my left forearm. When I realized the scissor blade wasn’t sharp enough I reached for my pocketknife and even then it didn’t work. I ended up with seven red welts on my left forearm. I stared at it for a second. My mom never realized it until I finally showed her. I kept them hidden beneath my hoodie. I regretted doing that to myself because it did not make me feel any better. It only gave temporary relief.
Cutting was the last straw. I had to do something about my depression. It was truly beginning to scare me. So one day I was hanging up clothes in the garage with my mom and I just started talking. I showed her my cuts and told her everything that had gone on. I even told her about my almost attempted suicide. I know it scared her, but she didn’t show it. I knew she wanted to help. We talked for what seemed like forever in the heat of the garage. After we talked I felt so much better. It was like a great weight had been lifted off of my shoulders. I wasn’t in this alone anymore.
Depression, it eats away at you. It devours the soul you harbor inside. It eats away at your being until all that’s left is a shattered and shredded soul. Depression makes you seclude yourself from the world. I suffer from depression. My depression has gone untreated, and I don’t know the reason for which I suffer.
My suffering began in the eighth grade. That was the first year that I ever failed a class. It was geometry. I had never been very good at math. Failing a class really shouldn’t be the cause of depression. All my life I’ve excelled in school, and when I started failing it was like a slap in the face. I felt like it was sink or swim and I was trying, struggling, to swim, but something was holding me under. I had had my first run in with depression and no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t make it go away.
Slowly it grew worse. All of a sudden anything set it off. The worst part was that blinded myself to it so that I never knew when it was coming. But I knew was when it was there. I sank into this whole new person, this shell. I became something else. I became a new being. I secluded myself from everyone I receded from the world. I watched from the corners of my eyes, watching life pass by without me. Magnified by the tears of pain. I only wished for everyone to leave me alone. Life became a living hell for me. I became a master of cover up. I could smile, laugh, and be happy but at night I would cry. This was only the beginning. It was back to sink or swim again. No matter how hard I struggled I could not swim. It felt as if a lead weight was tied around my ankles. I was terrified.
The summer before my ninth grade year I got worse. I developed my own world. I hid myself in my room with my music and my computer. I didn’t interact with anyone, besides my friends and family, who didn’t coincide with my little world. With time my problem grew worse. The tears multiplied. I could fill a small lake with the tears I cried day and night. With the tears came the pain, and with the pain came the tears. It was a never-ending cycle of torture.
School started, my freshman year. I stopped caring about everything. School became my hideout, my isolation cell. My only escape from this torturous being I had become, but even there the pain tortured me. I walked the halls a speechless zombie. Only speaking to those I knew. I put on a masquerade for my friends and family. Using my ability to act as if nothing was wrong, this way I could throw them all off. Noone could see past my face. It had become a stonewall between me and reality. My eyes scanned the rows of lockers mindlessly. Depression had gotten a grip on me. It’s lethal deadly grip squeezing my soul. It was like a python squeezing the life from its prey. The pain increased as the grip tightened.
At the end of my freshman year I became scared. My mind was corrupt with thoughts of cutting myself and suicide. In my mind’s eye I could see it all. Perfectly planned out down to the very last detail. It replayed over and over in my mind. I could see the knife gripped in my hand. The blade catches the light and shimmers, for a second I see my reflection. I see the blade lower, getting closer to my arm. I press it down and watch the skin tear making a perfect line. From that rip comes a perfect bubble of crimson blood. It rises ever so slowly. Time is slowing down its all become slow motion. I watch that perfect bubble of crimson rise and then fall. It slides down my forearm, leaving a pale pink trail. It rolls down warm and thick. It’s the perfect color of blood. Just like the kind you see in movies. Only this was the real thing, this was my blood. For an instant I could feel all the pent up anger, hatred, and pain escape but came to the realization that it was my imagination.
Life began to scare me. I did not know what to think of myself anymore. I was someone I didn’t want to be. I abhorred myself. I hid in my world, my room. Consoling myself with my music. Occasionally crawling out of my hole to mingle with the friends I had managed to stay in contact with. I started rollerblading, I found that it helped to take out my aggression, but it would take a lot of skating to rid me of the anger I had pent up inside. My friends wondered what was wrong and I told them nothing and put up my stone wall again. That summer I thought of killing myself. We had just come home from somewhere, I don’t remember exactly, and my depression had hit an all time low. I remember making sure my brother was in his room and my mom in her’s. I went into the kitchen and opened one of the drawers quietly withdrawing one of my mom’s steak knives. I pressed the cold blade to my wrist, right on top of that blue vein that people say is critical. I remember standing there and thinking. What would happen when they found me? What would they do? I thought twice and put the knife away, and until about a week ago my mom had no idea what I had tried to do that day.
I soon discovered a temporary solution to my depression. I took the advice of a friend and wrote. It is mostly poetry, stuff that no one has read, except for a close friend who knows what I’m going through. In my writing I could yell, scream, cuss, and threaten. It scared me but it was a way to vent my anger towards something that wouldn’t hurt me or anyone else. But this was only a temporary solution, soon to ware off.
I finally talked to my mom about what was going on with me that summer. She was scared; I could see it in her eyes. I could see them shine with unshed tears. Tears that I knew she would shed that night. She asked what she could do and all I could tell her was ‘I do not know.’ My mom hates that answer but she did not argue this time. When she asked what caused it I could only give her that same answer. For a year I had lived with this depression, this thing, living inside of me, and yet when asked what caused it I was clueless. I had just started to deal with this. I had no answers for those people who wanted to help. My friends were just freaked out that I would ever even try something like suicide. After deep thought and a lot of searching I dredged up a sketchy answer for those who cared. My depression was random. I couldn’t control it and yet I knew what caused it, everything. Anything set it off, but mostly it was getting griped at by my mom, teachers, anyone. I would then pile that on top of all these other problems, bad grades, headache, friend arguments, everything was bottled up inside me waiting to be let out. It turned from anger to hate and from hate to depression. When the bottle got so full that it could hold no more it exploded and normally some poor innocent bystander became the target of my aggressions, and sometimes even myself. One time when my mom got angry out of me that forced my bottle to explode and I grabbed for a pair of large scissors on my desk spread them open and began slicing at my left forearm. When I realized the scissor blade wasn’t sharp enough I reached for my pocketknife and even then it didn’t work. I ended up with seven red welts on my left forearm. I stared at it for a second. My mom never realized it until I finally showed her. I kept them hidden beneath my hoodie. I regretted doing that to myself because it did not make me feel any better. It only gave temporary relief.
Cutting was the last straw. I had to do something about my depression. It was truly beginning to scare me. So one day I was hanging up clothes in the garage with my mom and I just started talking. I showed her my cuts and told her everything that had gone on. I even told her about my almost attempted suicide. I know it scared her, but she didn’t show it. I knew she wanted to help. We talked for what seemed like forever in the heat of the garage. After we talked I felt so much better. It was like a great weight had been lifted off of my shoulders. I wasn’t in this alone anymore.