If my pain had a purpose, it would probably hurt less. I know where I'd come from and I know how I got here, but not knowing why I'm still here when I have everything a person would need is extremely ungrateful of me. In fact, it's almost just being a plain drama queen.
The worst part is, depression is such a fucking trend. Every girl around the corner wants to wear this dark persona, each one wanting to out-depress the other. I hate trends, I never follow. Now how did depression become such an attention-seeking tool? Every girl wants to be the “It” girl. If you’re not the “It” girl who has a crazy nightlife and mingle with the “in” crowd, then go left wing (not that it is anymore) and wear this morose personality and hope that it makes you more of a person just because you chose not to be from the other group.
My symptoms tell me that I'm on edge of turning into one sad girl. My father tells me I need help and that my “hippie” phase is not funny anymore. My mother cries because I jolt out of sleep screaming for help. My roommate thinks I'm an alien because I either sleep once every two or three days or sleep for hours on end. My sister told me I'm a freak.
Is this possible? Have I become one of those girls because my parents tell me that I am? Why do they fail to see the normal functioning being that I am? I may not be the touchstone of sanity in our society but I hold down my responsibilities, have a disciplined moral conscience, do my laundry, finish my homework and cook my own meals.
But it seems it’s not what I am, it’s what extras I have, hence what I am too much of. From there I could see that limitations are being set. Instead of being told to shoot for the moon, I am being told to tone down and to behave like a normal young adult. These limitations should guarantee extreme perspicacity. Instead, because daddy is pushing me to speak to a professional, I’m misplaced, not knowing where I’ve made a bad turn.
I am not depressed. Sadness, sorrow and desperation are unpleasant but absolutely common. Sorrow is when I have to watch for my choice of words when speaking to my father. The slightest implication of anything strange could trigger him. Years ago I told him I thought Nixon was a great president and I would have voted for him all three times. An hour later I mentioned that I wished I was born in the 60s, I would have been brimming with purpose. Of course to me it was all wishful thinking but to a father who loves me so unconditionally, I’m crazy.
Sadness is when daddy confiscates all my books on Hitler, Karl Marx and even textbooks which has to do with socio-economics teachings. Desperation is watching mommy break my AC/DC and Misfits CDs, choking on her words, incoherent and red, convinced that rock and roll has driven me to lunacy.
To them, I am a walking minefield. I was sure I wasn’t, until I realized that there are sudden implosions within me and I just want everyone to stay the fuck away from me. At least until I’ve been dismantled.