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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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Her words rang in my ears the whole way home from the office, and I would
eventually watch as everyone in my life came to the same conclusion. I saw it in Dad when he accused me of faking the depression for attention. If you’re so depressed why haven’t you tried to kill yourself yet? He shouted, his hands slamming on the dining room table. Because there’s nothing in this damn house to do it with! I shouted back. That shut him up good. And it was the first time I’d seen him cry. I saw it in Grace’s worried frown when I’d sobbed through an entire weekend and all I could do was stare as she dropped her favorite stuffed animal at the foot of my bed and quietly left the room. I saw it in Becca’s knitted brows and glances at the floor between every sentence that month when I barely showed up to school, thinking twice through every word as if whatever she chose to say to me could be the last. The hugs that she pulled me into whenever we reached the campus parking lot. I saw it in Andy— poor, long-suffering Andy— for weeks on end as he begged me to please, please tell him how he could help, and he was met with folded arms and vacant eyes that hid the shameful spark of resentment I had developed for his insufferable desire to fix things. Fix us. Fix me. There’s something that dies in a person— a person willing to do anything— when you tell them there’s nothing that can be done. It died in Andy the night I canceled on him for roller skating with Becca and Sai to sit in the shower, and he finally admitted he felt like he was dating a ghost— my ghost. His sweatshirts were in bags the next morning, and gone from the doorstep by the afternoon. No one likes feeling like there’s nothing they can do about something, and over time I guess I made it harder to want to try at all. When I ruminate on memories of my old self, when I mourn her easy laughter and endless optimism, I feel I am the worst person in the world. When I multiply the grief I feel for the person that I was by the number of people who loved her, I become the great bereaver, an impostor, and the victim all at once. How to assign blame? I was the only one who could fix me, and I was the only one who didn’t seem to care— more interested in seeing just how bad things could get. Comments are closed.
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September 2023
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