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It's a weird feeling to be scared of
your own two hands – only when this fear was evoked deeply within
me did I become aware of the power in which they held. These were the
hands that made my bed, drove me to school and back along with various
other mundane tasks – yet, in reality, they were so much more. They
had the power to choose whether or not I would wake up the next day –
and sometimes, being in a deeply depressed state, I couldn't honestly
say I always wanted to. Death, it seemed, was simpler than living.
All of the anxiety and negative feelings that relentlessly filled my
mind could be gone – just like that, with just a few simple
actions. I think it's important for me to make a distinction here,
however. It wasn't that I wanted to die, necessarily, it was just
that I didn't want to continue living in the state I was in.
On of my more notable nights, I ended
up on a depression forum. I ventured into a thread in which people
spoke explicitly about their desire to die – however, whether it
was for religious reasons or what not, they had chosen not to take
their own life. Rather, they were waiting for the end of the world to
happen in 2012 – not only were they waiting, but they were
passionately anticipating it. I should have clicked off the page
immediately, but my depression kept me fixated upon the thread. When
I told my counselor the next day, she said “this is the kind of
depression people get hospitalized for.”
I was scared numb after she said that.
How had I gotten to this point? How had I morphed into a simpering
young person full of zest for life to that of a besotted teenager?
There was so much in which I didn't have the answers to, and so much
in which my depression was preventing me from seeing.
