A Letter to my Dad

There was one day, right after you found out about my depression, and we were talking. And you said, "Pretending is how you know you're getting better." Like because I am pretending, it means I am getting better. I didn't know how to tell you this, but you are wrong. Pretending, and having that vision of me break down, is how I knew that I was getting worse.

I told you it was getting worse, hoping that you would ask more questions. But you didn't. I would have told you then and there everything, had you just asked.

I would have told you that I am suicidal.
I would have told you that I am cutting.
I would have told you that I hate myself.
I would have told you that I can't keep myself together.
I would have told you everything.
But you didn't ask.

I don't blame you though. You didn't ask because you didn't know that you needed to ask. It's because I never really gave you a reason to ask.

Through my entire life, I've been hiding from you. I've been hiding how I really feel from you. Which is funny, because that means that I have been hiding nothing. When you feel nothing, I guess you really just hide... nothing.

I am sorry that I never told you. I'm sorry that I never gave you a reason to ask. I'm sorry I'm not the daughter you want me to be. I'm sorry I'm not the daughter that I want to be.

I'm sorry.

A Letter to my Mom

I wish I could tell you everything.

I wish I could tell you how long I've felt this way. The years of self hatred, depression, wanting to disappear.

I don't like to lie to you. I never have. What is terrible about this feeling is knowing that I have been lying to you for almost 20 years.

I've tried to stay strong. For you. For my siblings. They always needed you more than I did. Or at least, that is what I told myself. So I never told you.

I want to tell you now. I want to tell you that I have wanted to disappear for years. That my depression is worse than you know. That I truly hate myself. That I can't look at myself in the mirror. That I cut myself because it helps. That some days, I really do want to die.

I want to tell you that I need you. I need you to help me. I need you to put me back together, or else, hand me the pieces that I have dropped so that I can put myself back together. I am breaking up and you don't even know. Please see.

Please, look at me. Ask me if I am okay. Because I am not. Ask me if I am happy. Because I am not.

Tell me you love me, even though I won't believe you. It will make it harder to kill myself. So tell me you love me.

And remember, through it all,

I love you.

And I am sorry I have hurt myself and hurt you in the process.

An Experiment in Reparenting

The first time I went to the therapist, I was telling him about my family. One day, I might go into it a little bit more with you... we'll see. But basically, when you are a child and growing up, you're parents are supposed to be there to say things like, "Good job" and "You're so smart!" It's an important part of a child's growth.

Sometimes though, parent's just... don't. There are many reasons for this. The reasons my parents probably did, it that they were kind of busy taking care of two babies to pay attention to their two/three year old daughter. And as I grew up, they always had to take care of the youngest first, I came last.

So my therapist has wanted me to try and do some self-reparenting. Where I reinforce the positive aspects of myself and what I do. Let me just say, that when you hate yourself, this is really hard. I rely on my friends for a lot of the reparenting. I say things like, "I'm smart... Right?" and look at them. And they smile and say "Yes, of course." Then I nod my head and try to believe them. It's more than smarts. It's everything. Pretty, funny, likable, having friends, etc.

It's hard to tell myself that I am pretty when I can't even look into a mirror.
It's hard to tell myself that I am funny when it feels like people hate me.
... You get the idea.

So I try. I try to tell myself that I am smart, pretty, good... But mainly I rely on my friends to confirm this. My hope right now is that maybe if they tell me yes enough, one day I will believe it.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reparenting

A Letter to the Monster Inside

I fucking hate you.

I hate how you make me feel.
I hate how you make me hate myself.
I hate how you make me want to die.

You make me so tired. You make it hard to get out of bed. Hard to take a shower. Hard to wash my hair. Hard to clean my cuts. Hard to take care of myself.

I want to be happy. I want to smile, and believe it. I want to be happy when people tell me I look nice. I want to not hate myself.

I want you to leave.

You are the monster inside of me.

Or am I the monster inside of you?

This is Exhausting (1)

The other day, I had a burst of energy. Good for me. I don't get them very often. So when I do, I try and do something. Something that is hard, but that I really need to do.

This day, I decided to make a note card for an upcoming math test. It took maybe 30 minutes. It looks pretty damn good bytheway. (Go for reparenting! What's reparenting? I'll tell you later, pinky promise.)

So after 30 minutes, I was done with the note card. I was exhausted. I stayed in bed for another six hours. Not moving. Just listening to music.

Meme-Me (1)

Sorry I'm not Good Enough

I don't know if that is the actual name of this drawing, but where I found it is on the caption.

http://eattentiondeficitdisorder.tumblr.com/post/27519045374

I've said this to people before. I've told people that I am so sorry. Sorry that I'm fat, annoying, not funny, cut, hate myself. Everything. And every time I do, they tell me how wrong I am... I don't believe them. That's why I rely on them so much. Maybe their love for me can rub off. 

It's Hard to Keep a Secret...

When it's written all over your body.

http://gangstercupcakeprincessautumn.tumblr.com/post/31580460415

And it is. You have to cover the secret. With long pants and long sleeves. Bracelets and watches. No off the shoulder shirts, that might show too much. And after really bad days, sometimes I have to hide the gauze bracelet. I don't want to hide. I want to be able to wear tank tops again. But I know that if I don't hide then people will say I do it for attention. If I did it for attention I wouldn't be hiding it. 

Covering the Mirrors

It's come to the point where I am covering up the mirrors I have in my room.

My full length mirror, hanging up near my closet, has been getting a pretty interesting treatment recently. I've been writing on it. Things that I feel, things that I hate, things I tell myself. It isn't a good mirror.

"Just do it, No one likes you, I hate you, HELP, worthless, stupid"

 Like I said, not a good mirror.

My other mirror is right above my sink. I don't really look at it. When I wash my hands, do my bedtime routine. I try to not look in the mirror. I hate who I see there.

I'm going to cover them now. Be back in a minute.

All done. Now all the mirrors are covered in blankets. I don't know if this will help me or hurt me. But right now, it feels like a good decision.

First Time Cutting

The build up to my first time is probably the most important part of this story. But the hardest to put into words.

I remember, for weeks, looking into the mirror and not recognizing myself. I could stare at that person and think, maybe, maybe it is me. I would move my hand to my face, and the person opposite me would do the same. But that person wasn't me.

For weeks, I didn't know who was looking at me in the mirror.

One day I decided to make it obvious. I decided to cut "ME" into my thigh.

If I do something to myself and see it in the mirror, then the person in the mirror is me.
And it worked.
For a little while... For about a day.

Then I spiraled. And I started to cut even more.

My Story

Through going to various doctors and therapists, I have found that I have had undiagnosed depression since the end of elementary school/beginning of middle school.
I have not been happy with myself. Ever. I've gotten really really good at pretending though. People always said that I was "so happy" and "so confident!" That was never true. I have hated myself for so many years.


So. Many. Years.


I have been harming myself since I was very little. But it was things that would be okay for a child. I would bruise my leg when I was in elementary school. Bruises were okay, they meant I was playing and having fun.

In middle school I continued the bruising and started playing tic-tac-toe on myself. I would scrape my nails against my skin and write things, play games. I would make myself bleed. But, "It's only a game."

In high school I found a socially acceptable way to harm myself. I joined the swim team. What? How does that help you hurt yourself? Well let me tell you! For practice, you do this thing called circle swimming where there are multiple people swimming in one lane. You swim right up next to the lane line. Those lane lines are sharp. They can scrape, bruise, and make you bleed if you swim close enough. And I did. Getting out of the pool can cause bruises to your legs, arms, even stomach. You just have to put a little bit more effort into it. And I did.
In high school I stopped eating as much. I just didn't see the point of it. So I ate maybe one serving of food a day. And on the weekends, well I didn't eat at all.

In college, things got worse. I started biting myself. I would swell, have bruises on my arms and hands. I very clearly remember the first time I cut. The reason behind it. I'll tell you sometime. In college, I finally went to the doctor. Where they were surprised, because I was happy, bouncy, quirky.
In college,  I really had a problem with eating. I was eating one serving of food every other day. Don't get me wrong, I love food. But I really just couldn't do it. On the weekends, I would binge. I would make myself sick. During the week, I eat almost nothing. I don't know if there's a word for what I do, I just know it is unhealthy.


It isn't hard to pretend when you've been pretending for so many years.
Surprisingly, what was hard, was finally admitting to how much I was pretending.


So now I have a therapist and am on medication. It's a work in progress. I don't feel like the medication is working. And I am barely making it to the therapist. Sometimes, life is just a little bit too hard to handle.

My Family's Story

Severe Depression runs in my family.

From my mom's side, almost everyone has it. All of my uncle's and most of my cousins. Definitely my grandparents. Depression doesn't run through this family, it bleeds.

From my dad's side, a few people have it. Some of my uncle's and some of my cousins. Definitely my grandparents. Depression takes a leisurely stroll through this family.

My mother has had severe depression since she was in high school/college. I know that she has always had a hard time. She's been taking "happy pills" for as long as I can remember. She's wanted to run away from the family. I didn't understand this, until I did. Running away seems like the perfect answer.
My dad has had situational depression since college. He has severe migraines, some weird neurological problems, and just plain bad luck. Technically, it's impossible to inherit bad luck. Unfortunately, I inherited his bad luck.
My sister has been diagnosed with depression since high school. Apparently she was suicidal at one point. Mom got her help. Now she's in college, and doing great.
My brother... I love my brother. He has some severe disabilities and diabetes. Lots of issues can arise from having very severe disabilities. So really, my brother is basically predetermined for everything.