My cousin committed suicide last Easter, and it gave me a glimpse into the earth-shattering chain of events that occur after something like that. I’d often thought about it, but never contemplated it. What I’d do, where and when. I was diagnosed relatively early, and placed on anti-depressants in middle school. I was in group therapy for many years as a young child ( < 9 years old). I didn’t have a great childhood – I never knew my father, he died when I was 1. I was always the fat kid. My mom remarried, and he was an alcoholic emotional abuser. I got sick with a rheumatic illness in fifth grade, which would have killed me if not diagnosed. My treatment of prednisone caused me to balloon, gaining 60 pounds in the first two months I was on it.
I was miserable. Going into high school, I dreaded it. Thankfully, I was never bullied because of my weight, but I developed a very dark sense of humor and covered my anxiety and reclusiveness with self-deprecating humor. And I’m still dealing with that to this day. I have no idea where I’m going in my life, but I know that living with depression has been a grueling battle from day one. I still have days where I have no idea how I get out of bed. I have broken into tears from the spiraling train of thoughts that go through my mind. Will I ever be -truly- happy? Why do I choose to go on? And the answer is, I don’t know. I doubt I ever will.