If you happen to walk into our classroom, you’d probably notice the most talkative and energetic girl in the room, that’s me.
You’d see me endlessly chat about irrelevant events and little things in life. You’d see me crack a joke every minute or so, low-key doing my best to make everyone in the room laugh or smile. You’d see me hang out with my friends carelessly laughing about whatever topic we could think of. You’d see me enjoy the rest of my day like everything in my life was perfectly in place. You’d even see walk home with the biggest smile in my face, not a hint of misery, not a hint of despair.
And then you’d see me at home. And at home, I was different.
At home, I was neither talkative nor energetic. At home, I was lying down on my bed for hours doing nothing. I was just staring at the ceiling, contemplating the relevance of life, of my life. You’d see me verbally abuse myself as I criticize my own failures and every bit of my own imperfection. You’d see me cry out of nowhere, soaking my already tear-stained pillows, letting myself drown in the insecurities that have threatened to get a hold of me all day. Sometimes you’d see me shout and cry in pain, sometimes I’d cry without a sound. And then you’d see me go really dark as I enter the bathroom and have my regular routine of self-harm. You’d see my empty eyes that are silently yet desperately calling for help. You’d see my wrist that’s shivering, not from pain, but from fear. You’d see my hopelessness and irrationality and at the same time, you’d see me justify that what I just did was a way of dealing with all the pain, or that it was a form of punishment for all the troubles I’ve caused by being alive. Then after a while, you’d see me stand on my own and wipe my own tears and blood, because just like yesterday, nobody came. You’d see hope in my heart die as another day has passed and again, no one has noticed. Again, no one cared enough to notice.
Finally, you’d see me open my bag and take out a canister of pills because they’re the only thing that makes me sleep at night. You’d see me give out a defeated sigh, and close my eyes, and sleep again with a broken heart.
This is who I really am. I am someone everybody frequently misunderstands.
I am someone nobody wants to talk about because I’m too sad and lonely and sensitive. I am someone nobody wants to be with because I’m too overbearing. I am someone that many will often fail to notice, or choose not to. I am someone who is easier to ignore than confront. I am someone without a face.
I am someone and I am something.
I am depression.
And I can be anyone.