When I Turned 8

It all started when I turned 8. The feelings had always been there, hiding, lurking, a quiet static that could be heard in any moment of silence. I just hadn’t noticed them yet. I’ll never know if it got louder or I simply got better at hearing it but I only noticed it once I turned 8.

The first moment it really started to set in was when I was on the playground. It was 3rd grade and I had 2 friends at the time. The three of us were outcasts and only really had each other. I was playing and I had managed to run a short distance in an amount of time I deemed appropriate and I felt proud of myself. I turned to my friend, whom I had onky known for a year, and said the phrase “If I died right now I’d be happy.” She looked so startled.

I think I realized it then, the quiet pain I carried with me, it wasn’t something that everyone had. I lived my whole life thinking that everyone was battling with themselves, barely struggling to keep afloat amidst feelings of doubt and guilt. I realized that there was something wrong with me. I didn’t know the name for it, but I would come to know it as Depression. That feeling that I am wrong, in everything I do. No matter how much I get done or how hard I try, I’m wrong.

In my quest for peace, I searched for reasons to justify my life ending. I wanted a reason to say I had lived enough to give up. I had felt this for as long as I can remember. I went on like this for years, and -as always- things got worse long before they got better. They did get better.

I reached 5th grade. Things only got worse. The storm before the rainbow. The program I had been in since 3rd grade was regarded as the highest and best program to be in. The gifted program. It kept anyone who was deemed “smart enough” apart from the rest of the student population. They told us that we should avoid “basic ed” (kids not in the program) because they were beneath us. Yet somehow, we were constantly reminded rhat we weren’t doing as well as them. It was an impossible standar held above our heads at all times.

Punsihments and beratement were common. We’d stay in from recess, get yelled at, and were often told that we were going to pass middle school. On a particularly bad day, one of the teachers tipped over a student’s desk because it was “messy” and he was upset because kids were talking. You’d never see a room with more crying 10 year olds than my fifth grade classroom. I had known all of these kids since kindergarten, we were all in the same group for years. So once I left the program that year, after things got too bad for me to stay, I had no one.

I was alone, when I got out I was completely alone. I cried my first day out. The kids were different, the workload was different, the teachers were different, even the parts of the school I saw were different. Making friends, as always, was an ordeal. Many kids didn’t like me and since I joined so late in the year, cliques had already been formed. I managed to befriend quiet people, anyone who would spare a smile my way and wouldn’t make fun of how easily I cried.

However, there was one person whom I never should’ve been friends with. I won’t go into detail here, as I’m sure this is too much for this site, but she took advantage of my trust. In this way, she ruined me for life. What she did has forever changed how I look at friendship and relationships. I struggled even more after that, I was angry. Angry about the rotten luck I seemed to have.

I was angry for a long time. When I got into middle school, I wanted things to be different. I wanted to be happy. I felt like I was invisibl, unseen, and uncared for. A feeling I’m sure many people share. I decided that things would be better, I would be better. I was going to lead my own life. It all goes back to when I first realized that there was something wrong with me. A kid, who felt alone and ashamed and wanted nothing more than to disappear. I realized that during that time I spent in anger, I also learned who I am. I am kind, and caring, and smart, and funny, and afraid, and sensitive. I learned that being me was okay. I picked up every piece of myself, shattered on the floor, and arranged it all into a portrait. I decided I wanted to be me.

When I turned 8, I never knew that the discovery of my mental illness would lead to so much change in me. I never imagined it would bring good with the bad that it caused. As I stand here now, 16 and unafraid, I know myself. My compassion, which comes from my understanding of pain, is by far the best part of me. I care so deeply that it hurts. I am proud to be this person.