When did it start?

It was just a bad day. It was just a bad week, a bad month, a bad phase. I would not let sadness pull me down, but before I knew it, where had the time gone, why did I not feel better, when did I lose so much weight, when did the dark bags form under my eyes, when was the last time I did not stay awake all night, when was the last time I did not feel so tired?

When did the depression start?

I cannot pinpoint the moment when I drew away from my friends, pushed them away, pushed everyone away, locked myself in my room, curtains closed, covers over my head, homework forgotten, school did not matter anyway when I was too tired to even think.

I cannot pinpoint the moment when I stopped caring about going outside and seeing the sky and doing my schoolwork and going to dance practice and seeing my friends and talking to my family, I cannot remember when I stopped caring about who I was and what I did and what I looked like and who I talked to and who missed me.

I cannot remember when I started to feel that maybe I was useless and worthless and unwanted and stupid and a bother and a burden, and I cannot remember when I started to believe my own head, and I cannot remember when I became so stuck in that negative head space that all I could believe was my mind’s own lies, and they weren’t really lies if I believed them, right?

And so I believed them and I internalized them, and I crumpled up any sense of self-confidence and I threw away any sense of self-worth and I destroyed any sense of self-value, and I truly hated myself, and I hated myself so much that I didn’t care, and I found that the worst hatred is really apathy. And I was so apathetic, I didn’t care.

But that was a lie because I did care because I wasn’t enough, and no matter what anyone told me at that time, I wasn’t enough, I didn’t deserve their words, I didn’t deserve anything, I didn’t deserve happiness or safety or stability or peace and quiet or anything at all except more darkness and more pain.

I remember when the darkness became too much and I needed more pain so I took sharp edges to skin and painted my own skin with my own life-giving ink and it was destructive and dangerous and stupid and I knew all of that even though I was so numb and uncaring but at least it made me feel something, anything, because I had forgotten how to feel, and the physical sensations of pain were better than nothing at all.

I remember when even the sensations of cold and hot and dull and sharp and pain were no longer enough, I needed more because I had nothing left, nothing in my heart, nothing to look forward to. But what is more when you are empty and everything around you is empty?

I remember when I started thinking of ending it all


About periwinklenightshade

I am a university student who looks at the sky and speaks the first sentence that comes to her head - and each sentence is then the inspiration for writing. I have always wanted to be writer, and I hope my poetry prose will touch the hearts of my readers. And I hope that my activism speeches will bring out the fighting spirits of everyone who sees them. View all posts by periwinklenightshade

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