"You Are Too depressed"

I was 12, but I looked 17.

Smart. Mature. Quiet.

And in everyone’s eyes, I was too “grown” to be struggling.

Too “blessed” to be sad.

Too “young” to be depressed.

From the outside, people thought I had it figured out — skipping ahead in classes, always surrounded by older people, always “so smart for my age.” But what no one saw was how *exhausting* it was trying to survive in silence, being forced to act like an adult when all I wanted was to feel like a kid.

I was introverted, deeply so. My voice barely came out above a whisper. But it wasn’t just shyness — it was learned silence. I was raised to be small. To be obedient. To not talk back or say too much. So I didn’t. I just faded into the background.

That silence made me an easy target.

I got bullied at school.

Laughed at because of how I spoke — or didn’t speak.

Mocked for being “too quiet” or “too weird.”

Then came the catcalling. Older men staring, saying things no child should ever hear — all because I looked older than I was. They saw a body, not a child. And that destroyed parts of me I didn’t even know existed.

Then I’d go home. And honestly? It wasn’t much better.

My dad was barely there. I didn’t know him well, and truthfully, I stopped trying to.

And my mom… well, we talk now. We smile. But there’s a wall between us that I don’t know how to break. I never felt emotionally safe with her. She said she provided, and yes, she did financially — but emotionally, mentally? I was alone. Always alone.

There was no comfort in our home, only pressure.

If I cried, I was told to stop being dramatic.

If I expressed sadness, I was asked, “What do *you* have to be sad about?”

No one ever thought that a child could be hurting unless it was physical.

And even then… they didn’t always care.

I didn’t have friends. Or at least, not ones who stuck around.

Every time I tried to open up — just a little — they’d disappear.

I learned quickly: People don’t like messy. They don’t like pain.

So I held mine in.

And it ate me alive from the inside out.

I was sexually harassed — more than once.

Different places. Different people. But always the same silence after.

No one asked what was wrong. No one noticed. Or maybe they just didn’t want to.

Now I’m 21. And I’ve finally realized something important:

I didn’t get a childhood.

I didn’t get a real teenage experience.

I got a collection of moments that felt like being stabbed over and over — emotionally, mentally, sometimes physically — and being expected to smile through it all.

People keep saying “it gets better.”

And some days, I believe that.

Other days, I’m broke, exhausted, nearly homeless, and still afraid to ask for help because I was never taught how to.

But I’m still here.

I’m still breathing.

I’m still writing this.

And maybe that counts for something.

Maybe this story reaches someone else who feels like they’re screaming inside a bubble no one can hear through.

And maybe, just maybe… they’ll feel seen.

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**If you’re reading this and it feels familiar — I see you. Your pain is not invisible. You’re not “too young” to hurt, and you’re not wrong for needing love.**