I just have to be honest with you right here, right now, and it’s not going to be nice. Or easy, for that matter.
I hate you.
I hate how you cling to my shoulders, demanding my attention when I’m trying to do normal college girl things. Like when you insist on riding along when I go out with my friends, reminding me every five minutes that you think I’m ugly and worthless. I hate how you cling to my neck, making my entire back and my shoulders physically fatigued. I hate how you read too far into situations, convincing me that people think I’m weird or stupid. I hate it when you tell me to cut my hips because feeling physical pain is better than feeling nothing at all. I hate that you tell me that after I cut, the scars are ugly, so I’d best never do it where people can see them. I hate it when you tell me that I’m weak for giving in, but then convince me to give in yet again. I hate the stress headaches you give me from telling me all of these things. I hate how at the end of the night, you make me think about all of my mistakes during the day, keeping me awake until two. I hate how you suggest I do everyone a favor and just **** myself. I hate how you give me nightmares about my greatest fears becoming a reality. I hate how you sit on my chest in the mornings, making it nearly impossible for me to drag my aching, weary body to the shower to wash your black fingerprints away from my neck.
But let me make this quite clear to you:
You do not own me.
I may be stuck with you, and it may be a daily struggle for me to do normal things, but you do not control my life.
Sometimes I wish other people would understand what it’s like for me. I wish they could see your black, blobby figure hanging on my back. I wish they could see the knots in my shoulders that have your fingerprints all over them.
I wish they didn’t see you as a lie.
You are very real.
Mental illness is something society frowns upon, did you know that? You are the reason that I have to lie and say that I’m ‘just tired’ or I ‘am a little bit sick,’ when my physical appearance portrays my mental turmoil. If I told them the truth about you, I’d be treated as one of two things:
1. Crazy
Or
2. A liar.
So I hope you understand my dilemma, Depression. I hope you understand why I resent you so very much. I hope for my sake, and for everyone who cares about me, that you will not break me down to the point of taking my own life.
I hate you, Depression.
But that’s okay, because as long as I hate you…
You don’t own me.
Sincerely,
Sarina Kay Cassell