Every day I wake up with a feeling that I dread. A feeling of hate, exhaustion, and pain.
Every day I force myself to roll out of bed, feeling physical pain as I do so, though I know it is psychological.
It feels entirely real.
I go to school every single day, repeating all of the same mannerisms. I walk to my first class, I sit. I walk to my second class, I sit. I walk to my third class, I type. I walk to my fourth class, I sit. I walk to my fifth class, I sit. I go home, I sleep.
I feel a weight on my shoulders every day as I sit in five classes, the information my professors are teaching me flying over my head as I mentally panic.
I think about home. About how I could drop dead right where I was sitting and how comfortable that would be. I think about how people would react if I died. I wonder if anyone would look at me if I screamed. I wonder if my teachers see the emotional turmoil I’m going through.
No one notices. I get by, my family believing I’m completely normal and happy. My friends never notice a thing. My teachers don’t seem to care.
I attend Student Council meetings like an average person, design posters, do my homework, fail my classes while I used to be a straight A student.
I do all these things, desperately trying to be the person I was before this thing found its way into my life. Before depression took over.
Now I barely do anything. The writing that interested me no longer does so. Nobody could pay me to draw like I used to. Even the television shows I once loved bring me no enjoyment.
I pretend.
I wear a smile all day and try to be the person I’m supposed to be; a normal teenage girl when on the inside I’m wondering if I could commit suicide.
Most of the time I tell myself to just wait until I graduate. I need to make my parents happy, so I wait until May, when I graduate.
Then I tell myself it’s not real. I haven’t really been dealing with depression, a burden not only me but my mother has had to experience.
I’m a drama queen.
I was just being bullied, that’s why.
I’m thirteen, I’m going through a phase.
I’m not happy.
I’m just stressed.
I’m lonely.
Grandma died.
Great Grandma died.
Great Great Grandpap died.
School is too hard.
It’s normal after r**e.
I’m going through the stages of grief.
I’m sixteen, this is normal.
I don’t have any friends, this is normal.
I just broke up with my ex, this is normal.
Maybe it’s a seasonal thing?
Google says seasonal depression is real.
But I don’t have depression.
This is just me being a drama queen.
I must be trying to get attention.
Maybe it’s because I don’t have any friends?
I’m seventeen, I’m probably just scared about almost being an adult.
I can’t breathe.
I’m self-harming again.
This is getting worse.
I can’t do it anymore.
I cry myself to sleep every night.
STOP!

I’ve run out of excuses. This never ending pit I seem to be sinking deeper into every second of my life will never go away. Thank you, cruel world, for picking me to be like this.
The world couldn’t have picked someone who had a reason to have depression.
No, it had to pick a teenage girl with two fun brothers and a sweet sister, and parents who would do anything for her.
It had to pick a teenage girl who had no good enough reason to be depressed.
I wasn’t abused by my parents.
I was given all the love I could have been given during my childhood.
For some reason, I had to be the one chosen.
The one chosen to live through this s*** that is labeled as depression.
Depression has ruined my life.
Don’t let it ruin yours.