Ever since I was twelve, perhaps even before then, since before I can remember, I used to think I could change the world; I wanted to make a difference in people’s lives. I wanted to become someone like that… But the more I tried the more I was shunned by the very people I wanted to help.

The more I was ‘bullied’ the more I retreated until I felt like I was backed up in a corner surrounded by monsters ready to kill me… I wanted to die… Yet my strong sense of moral kept me from doing it myself. I strongly believed and still do that suicide is an unforgivable sin and though I know I’m a sinful person, as all people are, there were still lines I refused to cross.

I dreamt of the day someone would reach out to me, help me… I wished for it on the stars every night and I wished for it on every coin I tossed and I wished for it every time I saw a butterfly hoping it would carry my wish to far away and hopefully to someone that will be willing to take on the challenge of ‘fixing’ me… As if I was broken… I truly believed I was…

I felt empty… I felt like I was a bother for everyone around me. The few ‘friends’ I thought I had… It felt like I was only hurting them with every word I said and with everything I do… It felt as though I was in the wrong. So I stopped talking… I stopped trying to ‘do’ thing and instead started writing, reading, and watching movies and dramas – the sadder it was the better I ‘felt’.

But every once in a while there will be someone that is able to break through my walls I had built around me, they get me talking, they get me out of the house and back into the world!

I for a while it would all go swell. That is… I must have said something wrong again… I must have done something wrong again… Where? When? Because suddenly they would stop talking to me as much as they used to, they’d start ignoring my messages and with every ‘friend’ I lose this way the deeper the abyss at the edge of the cliff got. And so, the longer it takes for the next person to pull me back up into the ‘light’ just so that they can unknowingly dig me a deeper grave!

Psychologists would call this depression. They’d prescribe medication and suggest regular sessions to ‘talk’ it over with them. They would say the first part in getting better is admitting you have ‘it’ and then secondly ‘asking’ for help… But when I asked for help… No one is ever there to hear me, and those that are don’t seem to be listening or they just can’t hear…

Do I have ‘depression’? I have refused this for the longest time, I found things I like to do , that makes me feel ‘happy’ so I can’t possibly have ‘depression’, can I?

I smile! I laugh! I love! And I ‘feel’ both joy and hope! Is depression not the lack of ‘positive’ emotions like these? ~ I DO NOT HAVE DEPRESSION!!!

But then… Why do I feel so trapped?

Recalling something my dad always said; I must wonder…