My name’s Alexander. People call me Alex. I’m 24 years old and have a decent enough job. I’m relatively smart, popular, fairly confident, extremely funny, good with girls, good with guys, and have lots of tattoos.
I also self-harm.
Until that sentence, only four people knew I self-harm: my mother, my best friend (who found out by accident), my brother (who also found out by accident), and my doctor. I know there’s a stereotype of those who self-harm, but I don’t fit it. If you knew me, you wouldn’t for a second think that I do it.
I’m the type of guy who always needs to be doing something: movies, parties, nights out with friends, or just kicking it with some beers and some video games. However, I’m tired. So, so, tired. It’s no one’s fault but mine. This isn’t a reflection of the people I spend my life with, but when you have such a big personality, the people around you expect you to keep them entertained all the time.
The truth is that I’m a master of disguise. I’ve crafted an intricately impressive facade. Every person I know or have met thinks I’m extremely happy, when the reality couldn’t be further from the truth. That guy that makes your day brighter often has the deepest darkness shrouding him. That person that puts a smile on your face is cutting his leg so that his mind, just for a minute or two, concentrates on that pain and not the pain inside. The person that has just turned the music up and poured everyone a drink is crying themselves to sleep at night, and you don’t even know.
Depression doesn’t care if you are smart or dumb, rich or poor, funny or boring; it can take over absolutely anyone it wants to. So if you have that “go to” guy or girl for your problems or someone who always provides a quick fix of humor, take the time now and again to check that they are OK.