Depression starts out slowly at first. As it progresses, it gets worse. That’s when you notice how it starts to change you. I don’t know how it works or why only certain people get it. Something about your brain’s neurotransmitters not producing enough serotonin, and a lack of this chemical can result in depression.
So why do I have it?
Maybe it was from juggling school, friends, family, and the pressure to be perfect. Or at least good enough.You’d think most teens could handle it. Not me though. What the heck is wrong with me? When has daily life become a struggle? When has waking up become as exhausting as running a 5k? When did coming home feel like entering a war zone? When has eating became more of a nuisance than a necessity?
I’d ask myself these questions every day and have yet to find the answers. Every day seemed to go from bad to worse, to even worse. Things got so bad that I quit caring about myself altogether. I started to cut myself. When my mom noticed, she cried and said that I needed help. I just thought, How can you help fix something that’s broken beyond repair?
Anyway, the sadness that took over and seemed to consume my life is how I ended up here, sitting in a room with four white walls talking to a psychologist.
  When I first walked in with my mother dearest, the secretary handed me some papers to fill out. She asks me how I feel, and I respond “fine.”
I’m obviously not. How could I be here and be “fine”?
The first page had a list of things that you’d have to mark a number for if it was something you did or thought about on a daily basis. The numbers went from 1 to 4 in this order: never, sometimes, often, every day. I marked mostly 3’s and 4’s.
The next paper stated to circle all that applied to you. There were things like “feeling sad/ anxious,” “skipping meals or excessive eating,” “irregular sleeping patterns,” “suicidal thoughts/actions,” etc. Almost everything on my paper was circled. Then I handed the papers back to the secretary. A few minutes later I was led to the room with the shrink.
The psychologist said that it appears that I have a bit of anxiety and depression.
Huh. Go figure. Who would’ve thought? Not me.
She then began to ask a series of questions to find out more about me. They started out simple, then progressively got deeper.
“How are you?”
“Okay.” Just kidding. I mean, I was okay physically, but mentally, I needed a lot of help.
I don’t have many secrets but my life isn’t an open book, and there was no way that I was going to tell this person my life story.
Whenever I didn’t answer a question she’d just look at me with her poker face that just made the silence feel uncomfortable. I started to get used to it after a while.
After an hour, our time was up. I didn’t feel any different, but it was nice to have someone to have someone to talk to about my problems.
I’m still not better. In fact, I am a basket case. But I have amazing friends and dreams too big for this town, so giving up isn’t an option. Life is a struggle, and though it might not ever get better, it can be managed.