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Oct. 23, 2004 Time has been the thorn in my side—and indeed, everywhere else—from the time I was born. I was growing up too fast, they said, maturing beyond my years. As a result, I was catapulted into the melancholy years of teen-hood almost a full year too early. By the time I hit fourteen, I was behind socially, but ahead emotionally: a difficult place to be for anyone. If you were "hot," you were socially accepted—it's no different now—if you weren't, you had two choices: either be a happy-go-lucky loser, or be a dark, deep somebody. I chose the latter. It was fun for the six months I used the Darkness as a charade. No one jeered at me calling me a youngster; no one looked at me as if I was demented whenever I sneered that I didn't care what the rest of them thought. Everyone accepted me as just another PMS-y, moody, teenage girl. I began to feel like one of the rest, another face in the crowd, another link in the chain just like I wanted to feel. I wasn't in the least bit prepared for what happened next. Mary Pipher, the author of Reviving Ophelia, believes that Depression is the result of one of three possible causes: social difficulty, family problems, or both. My problem was social, and was manageable for a little while, but when my problems began to shift from "social" to "both," I went under. At first, I was in denial, still fooling myself into thinking this was still my little façade, my little play of which I was the director. Girls applauded me for cutting myself, and gazed in wonder at my scars…"You're so brave," they'd sigh, "I could never do that…I'm too scared." The cutting got worse, and suddenly, they world either mattered too much or it wasn't worth a penny. I stopped showing off my battle scars: there were too many to show off. My legs were covered with cuts and my wrists with burns and slashes. My mom found out and sent me to a shrink— that's good, I thought, now I'd be able to say I'm depressed enough to see a doctor. I did, and the girls were impressed. I spent two and a half years lying at the bottom of Depression's cesspool. When I finally thought to get up, I found that things were exactly how I'd left them. Depressed was the second cool to Hot. In fact, the flavor of the month was suicide: I would hear the same people who said they could never cut themselves talking about how they would commit suicide if their boyfriend left them, or if their parents wouldn't raise their allowance. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, I laughed. These people were pathetic. All they had of their lives was that meager little sheet of paper that dictated what was hot and what wasn't. I had pulled through the Darkness with some scars and an occasional relapse when things got tough. I had conditioned myself so that the incredible pain of the Darkness would encompass me everytime more than I could handle went wrong, my world would cave in. I still fight the Darkness whenever it chooses visit, but I don't succumb to it so much anymore. It has been a full year since I was seriously depressed. I have learned so much not only about myself, but also about my family and my friends. I have found that the best weapon against the Darkness is your definition of who you are. I am a writer and I am a dreamer. I am an artist. I am a woman. I am human. I am me. I learned that even though my parents "wanted to ruin my life" and "thought I was some sort of machine," they really loved me and wanted only want what was best for me. I learned that I have friends who would give the world for me, and would face the entire human population, and a few aliens, as long as they were facing it with me. My nonchalant façade is no longer just a face. Now, I really DON'T care what they all think. If they could applaud a girl bleeding the pain of not fitting in away, then they should go to hell. The anorexic girls can say that I'd be pretty if I lost weight, the boys can insist that it would be so easy to get down my pants, but I don't listen. Why would I want to look like the world could blow me off my feet with one gentle breeze? I know better. The only demented ones here are them. (Note: These examples are not all from my own past experiences, although a few of them are. The material I have used also comes from people I know and from books such as Reviving Ophelia, by Mary Pipher Ph.D. To my regular readers, an apology for my long absence, my teachers decided that homework was as necessary as oxygen and with that logic, proceeded to suffocate us with it.) ------------ About the author: Ambreen is a somewhat cynical high school student who thinks teenagers are pretty much crazy (herself included). Any questions? Email Ambreen at: stardust_inc786@hotmail.com Tell a friend about this site! ------------ |
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