It is worth it.
My life can be easily divided into pre- and post-depression. However, there is only so little I can remember from pre-depression, most of them already leading up to the actual period of depression. What I do know though is that if I had not survived depression and entered the post-depression chapter of my life, would not be enjoying life as I am now. I, for one, believe I know nothing about life until I had survived depression and came out of it a better person. There is a reason why I tend to look at people with that slight smile when they complain about the unfairness of life. Kids, there’s no enemy greater than you.
Here’s one of the reasons why I’m glad I survived depression and stopped myself before I could damage myself permanently: my brother. I think people will find it odd that for what felt like a long period of time I had resented my brother quite a lot considering how much I talk about him. Frankly I think I’m one of those people lucky enough to have a very caring and protective elder brother who buys you double cheeseburger at night just because you’re craving for one. If that’s not love then I don’t know what is.
But yes, that happened, once a upon a time. Puberty does that, it seems. It makes you awkward, makes you prone to fits, makes you overreact dramatically. You see, between the two of us, he had always been the more favoured one, the more memorable one. Heck, some relatives outside the extended family don’t even know I exist. It has always been him they pay attention to even when I’m the one with more achievements that parents are proud of. I’m the one with honours, the one with medals and trophies, the one who can play an instrument and know smart stuffs like history and science and English. But I’m not the one everyone likes. I’m the weird one, the strange one, the oddest one in the family. All was well until I started using my head and stopped being the clumsy eight-year old.
Life changed when my grandmother died. I was barely nine. Thoughts of death can do that. My grandmother’s death brought an imbalance to an otherwise perfectly tailoured life. As I began questioning the point of life, and imagine having such thoughts at the age of nine to eleven, I began becoming distant until I no longer knew how to interact. Did I have friends? No. I had classmates I treated like inferiors and minions, for the lack of a better term. I sought acceptance from the wrong sort of people. I went against the norm to be different, to gain attention. I ruined my perfect good girl image. I stopped being the top of the class and I became one of those that get into troubles and fights and get called to the principal’s office for causing trouble. How I managed to keep those from reaching my mum only attests to how good of a Slytherin I am.
Did you know how young I was when I started questioning faith? Ten. When I became an atheist? Eleven. When I made an oath to leave this family the moment I can? Twelve. When life became a huge screen of blank? Thirteen until sixteen. Oh, there was a lot of stress and anxiety attacks. It comes with depression, I suppose, although to be honest I never knew what I was going through until I got my copy of DSM last year. I thought it was just something that teenagers go through, that it’s a part of life. Should have realized I’m the only one in this part of the community who went through it.
When did it stop? I can’t remember. But I do remember recovery starting when I began writing and immerse myself in a self-created world. I began distracting myself from the real world by writing fantasy epics like Kritiker, Kreuz, and Vergessen. When I started Verita Nascosta, life took a brake because it made me realize something: I am not satisfied with life AND I want something out of it. I want a better life, a life that doesn’t exist only in my head, and if I continue letting the outside world control me, I cannot have that life. All the friends I had were from the Internet. So I put Verita Nascosta aside and began answering to offers of friendships in the real world. I had just transferred to a new school then, and while I’m still not likeable, I was able to gain some friends. The summer that happened after though is when everything went back to square one and the thoughts became attempts. That one moment I thought I did right by opening up ended up with me getting hurt badly.
In retrospect, it isn’t the words of how I was still the old me, but rather the rejection of my person, the unacceptable me. I don’t know how that could still be said considering the progress I had made. Nevertheless, everything went back to zero and all my efforts gone to waste. The letters started then, and the voices appeared, and for a year life was like that. The voices were my saving grace, and Stef was there to remind me that I was accepted, even if only to a small group of people. The Umi with the small u became a capital U.
It was only when I was transferred to a new class with no one knowing who I am that I was able to restart my life. The letters stopped, the voices disappeared, and there, finally, Umi can breathe. Then Stockholm was born and life became better for me.
Reconnecting with people is difficult. I went through days and weeks and months of thinking of how to start conversations with my own family. I still fret over family gatherings and get anxiety attacks when going to events on my own. I still have my tendency to withdraw from anything that requires socializing. But I am able to hold conversations now, and start them even. I can answer back with more than just a nod or a yes. I am able to banter with my brother while still capable of talking about our careers, to talk to my dad, to have meaningful and also silly conversations with my mum. I can even talk about my friends to my mum, and now, with her introduction to the world of the internet and facebook and Glee and tumblr, we can talk about fanfics and the fandom.
If I had not let myself imagine the day where I can talk to them back when I was twelve, I might have been dead as young as fifteen or sixteen. I was just a step away from the kitchen. While I still have my strange obsession with knives, I no longer have the urge to hurt myself. Knowing that I still have dreams to make reality grounded me to stay strong and firm.
I still have my vulnerable moments, but we all have that. That’s what makes us human, what makes us alive. Pain is part of life, but so is recovering. Wounds heal. You just have to let it.
