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To have felt pleasure in pain by Anonymous I cannot recount the thousands of things that have influenced my depression with one measly pen and sheet of paper. However I can tell what has progressed through me within the last 6 months time. Also I can relate exactly what I have been diagnosed with by the psychologists I have allowed myself to visit. My first therapist was Anna, who I had a strained doctor-patient relationship with for the simple fact that my paranoia got the best of me and I was afraid that she hated me. Then, at one of our sessions, she told me that because I wore big pants, all black, and had every color of the rainbow hair, I was asking for trouble. This statement went against every moral fiber within my body, so I stopped seeing her indefinately. I stopped therapy all together for a year, and things with me greatly fluctuated, my moods especially. This past fall my mom thought it best that I started seeing someone new, so that was when I met my current psychotherapist, Evan. For some reason I could get along with him better. Maybe it was because he was male (I always seem to trust men more; maybe because my paranoia had lessened, I'm unsure). Around the same time I became friends with a guy named Tom. He was also depressed, had sexual identity issues, didn't believe in organized religion, and fought the taunting at school daily. We had a lot in common, so we became fast friends. Things went downhill, slowly but surely. I had been slashing myself with razors, pins, glass, anything sharp, for quite sometime. And with Tom, my monthly cutting progressed, mostly due to the fact that he did it too, so that gave me the false security that it was normal. I have so many scars, most of them simple lines, but I also have the word hate, a heart with an X through it, and several upside down crosses all over my body. The blood and pain made me happy. It sounds pretty scary, but this is not a rare occurrence among people who suffer from depression. Most of them also find a certain peace in self-mutilation. I had been snowballing for near ten years when one day, following a fight with my parents, I went into my bedroom in a rage. I took my oldest, most reliable razor blade and proceeded to slice my wrists. I moved to the bathroom, locked the door and attempted to finish. My mother discovered me. That ended that and I didn't bleed too badly, not enough to actually die. My parents were very saddened by it all, and it was planned that I would be in lock-up. After my 'brush with death' I decided to take my life back. I'm working up to it, but all of these new emotions are alien to me. I've always suppressed every feeling other than sadness. And now I feel alive; it's scary but I think I can manage. Retaking your life after depression is a lot like going through chemical rehabilitation; you have to take it one day at a time. So far I have ended my mutilating relationship with Tom, and successfully stayed 'clean' so to speak, since January. I have begun doing things on my own, and relaying my emotions to those whom I'm close to. Like I said, It isn't much, but I'm taking it one day at a time. Top of page Webmaster: wulff@ratatosk.net |