unsinkable hardship

July 11, 2008
By rachel ainsworth, Edmonton, ZZ

One man can tell one little lie that can change a life; two hundred people-who don’t matter to one person-can make that person feel stupid; three days can be confusing as hell; some truths should never be told; and one December shouldn’t be miserable; but one girl can get hurt beyond belief, and keep on living, and holding on.

They say in depression, you have an obsession with death; but not me, I was terrified of it. I mean sure I wanted to die, no, I felt like I needed to die, but I was scared. Scared of what would happen when I was dying: would I be afraid of what I was becoming, instead of already afraid of what I had become? What I don’t understand is how I had gotten there. It was one little lie, one little joke, involving a lot of people. I already knew I was a misfit, so why was I concerned?

And, well, maybe it was better that it had mattered to me, because I stopped trying to be friends with those in my class, and everyone like them, after that. I guess something must have risen with my depression, the understanding that no one in my class would ever be a good friend, except for those in the same situation, but perhaps not as deep.

I heard them whisper behind my back, “just look at her, ha-ha what a looser,” “why doesn’t she smile?” “What’s wrong with her?” I wanted to turn on them, tell them they were my problem, especially Rob Zuchine*. But instead I sat there, biting my tongue for control of my words, trying not to be noticed, and wanting them to detect my presence at the same time. I tried to blend in, be one of them, but it wasn’t working, and so I was doomed to sit there in silence, looking on to the cruel reality that had become of us.

Some times one of them would get a cut, a scrape, a bruise and others would say, “wow, that must hurt,” and I wanted to shove my wrist, my mind, and my soul in front of them, and tell them to compare. Some could call a piece of writing deep, but they didn’t no what deep was. If they could read my actual stories, my poetry, I think they’d be afraid, maybe terrified, not of what I’d become, (after all I was just another looser) but of how deep, how dark the secrets of just my thoughts were.

But no, I sat there in depression, thinking to myself, over the sounds of another voice telling me to commit suicide, just thinking about how much I wanted to leave this world, how they could be free of the person who didn’t matter, wondering if they’d even notice I had left this place they call home.

And now because of three days in a December, I’m stuck in horrid depression, with changing stages, none of them better than the rest. Some filled with cutting, some filled with suicide plans, some filled anti-social behavior, and others just filled with writing, but no longer could I cry, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make myself shed tears, I had run my tears dry. Crying had always healed me, so did that mean I wasn’t allowed to heal? After all I only felt worse and worse each day, but I was getting better at pretending to smile, looking some what happy, but it doesn’t fools some all. There others just like me, how they got there; I’m scared to ask.

I tried calling out to God, asking him to heal me, or show me where I belong, but he hasn’t answered my prayers. Sometimes I’m sick of holding on, it’s not helping me.

But maybe I’m looking at this wrong. I’m looking at it from my perspective, and that’s where I go wrong. It isn’t all about me, it’s about the ones who take their time to notice me. God has answered my prayers after all; he has given me friendship, and love.

I have learned that life isn’t just a destination, it’s a journey through time and lessons; lessons that you learn through life, not at the end of life. Every story starts with a child for the future. The child grows up, and then struggles for peace. Finally tranquility is found, whether through death or realization, and child learns their lesson the hard way. From there on, the toughest battle has come and gone, leaving room for growth, love, memories, dreams, and a whole other chapter. Through stories, and morals we heal, God cannot help us with everything, but he can help us help ourselves.
*name had been changed

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This article has 1 comment.

Jewels18 said...
on Aug. 20 2008 at 6:01 am
I can't seem to find much to say about your piece of writing. All I know is that I feel like I know exactly what you're talking about, and I couldn't have said, or typed, it any better than you have. Your words shine a light on exactly what depression has felt like to me, and I commend you for sharing it with others... so maybe they can understand what it feels like, even if they themselves haven't experienced it first hand. Great work. :-)

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