Scars

Although it’s been years, sometimes my scars still show.

Of course not physically, my body is way too strong for that.

But mentally, I’m not really sure if my scars have had time to heal, or rather, I’m not really sure if I’ve been treating them correctly. Would it be better if I told others about them? Would they see my pain and help? Would they tease me, taunt me, and misunderstand?

In middle school, I feared the teasing, taunting, and knew I would be misunderstood.

So I stayed silent about the mental scars I had:

The slashes of guilt I felt from being unable to help my parents during their constant fighting and long work hours

My younger brothers and I lived with my parents in a small house tucked away in El Monte. By 4pm, my brothers and I would be home from school studying or watching tv. We then had about three to four hours every day to ourselves before our parents came home with their feet dragging, heads lowered, and backs aching from another strenuous day of work. I knew they were hurting, but I didn’t know how I could help them. I was too young to work, and I didn’t want to let them know that I worried for them. So instead I kept to myself, while they bickered almost every other night about finances, chores, and their long hard days.

and the pricks of pain I felt when the boys in my classes called me “pizza face” during passing.

The transition from elementary school to middle school was supposed to be a new start for me. But I was beside the same peers on a bigger playground. And at this age, boys began to tease girls instead of chase them. I constantly felt insecure about my personality and appearance. My closest friends were starting to get boyfriends, while I was starting to get teased about my acne and always sad mood.

These thoughts, these wounds, would burn inside me. I felt the only way to relieve myself of the pain was to open a pathway for these thoughts to spill out. I began to cut my wrists.

I don’t think it was a call for help. It just made me feel good, or at least better. Similar to the mental scars I carved, I remained silent about my wrists.

But, of course I told Wendy. She was my best friend.

At first, she understood and consoled me.

But the following year we became distant. We had different schedules. We hardly saw or spoke to one another. And soon, I found a new friend, Allison. Allison and I had so much in common. When I talked to her I felt safe, we were going through the same problems. It wasn’t my intention to replace my former best friend, Wendy. It was middle school and things were constantly changing. I tried to remain close to her, but soon our friendship snapped.

The end of our friendship began with a MySpace post.

She posted on her wall, “It sucks when you treat your best friend like gold, and in return you’re treated like shit”. Ouch. Her words pierced like daggers straight through my heart, as I read this online. She posted it for everyone to see and to pass judgment on me. I couldn’t believe what I had just read. I immediately called to confront her. I asked why she didn’t tell me this in private, instead of putting me on blast. She replied accusingly, “I didn’t want you to go all emo on me.” She embodied my worst fear;the fear of being misunderstood.

I never spoke to her again.

During eighth grade, I felt an immense weight on me. The slits on my wrist were not enough to relieve me of the pain I felt; the loss of a best friend, the guilt of being unable to assist my family, and my disconnect from the students around me. I began to plan my ultimate relief.

My younger brothers and I spent a lot of time together. They were both fairly younger; old enough to understand that our family was struggling, too young to understand why. I tried to keep my hurt hidden from them. But it was often difficult because I was their only caretaker while our parents were away at work all day. They soon noticed the scars on my wrist. I tried to hide them. They’d tell me to stop, but I didn’t listen to them.

One day after school, I calculated the hours I had until my parents came home. 1…2….3…4…5… hours until one of them would come through the doors. Now was the time. I walked into the kitchen, grabbed a knife and held it up. I reasoned this was the only way I’d be able to help my parents. Without me, they’d have one less child to care for, pay for, and worry about. Without me, no one would feel I would bring him or her down with my negativity. I wouldn’t be someone’s verbal punching bag any longer. This was the right decision. Tears streamed from my eyes; silently at first, but then I got louder. One of my brothers came out of his room and shouted at me to stop. I yelled at him to get back in his room. I didn’t want him to see me do this. I knew I wouldn’t be able to hurt myself with an audience watching, especially my younger brothers. Soon, my youngest brother came out and saw my brother and I bawling. My youngest brother saw the knife in my hand and knew of my intention. They begged me to stop.

They told me they loved me. They reminded me about all the times I helped them, with their homework problems, their friendship problems, and our family problems. At that moment, I listened,

I understood,

and I stopped.

I began to see that hurting myself, committing suicide, would be a rash and irresponsible decision. I began to think about the pain I’d bring my brothers, my friends, and my parents. It was almost a selfish act. Here I was, wallowing about my life when I have two younger brothers who idolize me. How could I let them see me like this? What kind of role model would I be? How would they feel? In that moment I was surrounded by so much love from my brothers. I couldn’t leave them like this. I have to stay for them. I have to get through this for them.

This was my turning point. Afterwards, I stopped hurting myself. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not only that, I couldn’t let my friends continue to do it to themselves. I had so much in common with my new best friend Allison, right down to our wrists. I was the one who introduced her to the malpractice, and it was now my time to help her stop. By the start of high school, we both stopped.

Allison and I reasoned that we both had a pretty decent life. We had a family that loved and cared for us. We allowed ourselves to become lost and overtaken by the sadness we created for ourselves. We had many things to be grateful for, and we had younger siblings that loved and looked up to us. We couldn’t do this anymore.

We’ve remained in contact over the years, even when we went to separate high schools and colleges.

In college, I felt more comfortable talking about my battle with depression through hearing the stories of other students. My new friends in school faced the same fears, pressure, and vulnerability I felt in middle school. I didn’t feel alone and I didn’t feel ashamed anymore. Instead, I felt comfortable enough to embrace this part of my past.

I opened up to someone else about my battle with depression. During a daily phone call with my longtime boyfriend, since high school, our conversation took an odd turn. After sharing with one another the highs and lows of our day, he began to complain to me about a friend he knew who was going through depression. I then began to share with him my own experience, before I met him. He was silent. Then he asked, “Why would you do that to yourself? Why couldn’t you just be happy?” I was shocked by his response, by his insensitivity. Instead of offering me words of understanding and encouragement, he pierced me with words of disbelief, shock, and misunderstanding. I knew I couldn’t surround myself with anyone too narrow-minded to accept mental illness as a serious condition. Not surprisingly, our relationship ended.

Many times my relationships with people once close to me, end with misunderstanding.; misunderstanding the real me I spent so long hiding from others. I decided to share my story with depression because I want to erase the stigma, erase the long and tired chain of misunderstanding I’ve received from my friends, my lovers, and family. I want others to read my story, relate, and learn to embrace their depression as I have.

#facingmentalhealth