Who knows of the darkness out there, the true darkness, not the one that comes in the evening, but the one that snuffs out not just light, but, hopes, dreams, loves, and needs in a grasp that is somehow impossible to loosen? I'm not speaking of the thing that we fall asleep to, not the absence of light, but the absence of life. The feeling in the deepest corners of your heart and mind, the thing that may sneak up on you when you're not expecting it, or perhaps hangs as a cloud over your everyday life, having always been there, and never leaving.

You may watch movies of people with depression, like Winona Ryder in Girl, Interrupted. And it might be genius to you, or saddening, or wonderful that they can portray it so clearly. I did enjoy the movie, but looking back, I feel more like Elizabeth Wurtzel in Prozac Nation, a book of many more highlighted passages than any school book I've ever had. It wasn't so much of an accomplishment for Winona Ryder's character to be healed, Jesus, did she suffer from this depression from the very beginning of her life? As I recall, not. Not that her depression wasn't as good as Wurtzel's, or bad, or whatever-well, okay, I think it wasn't.

I don't know why, I guess I just don't give enough credit to people that HAVEN'T suffered with depression most of their lives. I don't think it's such a big deal when they're successfully treated. They're not like me, having been depressed ever since I can remember my feelings... I suppose it's only back till fifth or sixth grade, but all the same here I am 7 or 8 years later, still suffering from the black faceless monster. It never goes away, despite treatment.

And it's not that I haven't been treated. Throughout most of my elementary life, my family went through family therapy mainly because of my sociopath (heh, that's MY definition of her, not a med's) sister. I never talked about myself then, I don't know why, probably the same reason as when I got older, I didn't think I had much to say or that any of them really cared to hear it. I started seeing a therapist in 7th grade after my school therapist learned of my numerous suicide threats. (Unlike Wurtzel at that age, I really attempted a few times. I tried to hang myself once, melodramatic child that I was, and I also took a steak knife to my wrist, unfortunately I didn't like blood, and several times I tried suffocating myself, and would breathe at the most inopportune times.) I never opened up to them, who knows why... same reasons, I suppose. And I really didn't feel like I had a good enough reason. Well, that ended soon enough, and then in 9th grade my best friend Kristy and I were depressed together, and one day decided we couldn't take it any more. We had a bottle of tylenol, or some pills, and told our school counselors that if we didn't get help, we would take them. I then spent 5 days in Miller Dwan Medical Center, which was quite an amount of time, since the highest majority of actual ATTEMPTS (remember, I merely threatened) were in and out after one night. I still didn't really open up in group therapy. I didn't like people to know about me, since so little had happened to MAKE me depressed. Finally, fourth day there, one of the women told me that they hadn't really seen an improvement in me, and I had better shape up, because they could only hold people up to seven days for depression, before having to send them to an actual home. An actual home. And my days were running out. I don't remember how I "shaped up" or anything, but I do remember that I had been very polite and well mannered the entire time, and I guess maybe I was just an all around nice kid, nowhere NEAR as messed up as the other ones. Not on the outside, at least.

They put me on Zoloft, and trazodone for my sleep problem. Unfortunately, the zoloft must not have been strong enough, because sometime that winter, God it must have been January, I went to a day treatment center for depression and other problems. I don't remember why or how or anything. I was still subdued there, and had a hard time talking about my feelings. I still had no reason! That lasted a month, and then I was back in regular school again, and that spring I resorted to cutting myself. Zoloft still didn't work. I did therapy and everything, and I quit finally about two years ago, maybe, and yet here I am still unable to open up about my problems. I stopped taking Zoloft on my own, God knows why, I guess I lost faith. I haven't really been cured, but at least now I have more "excuses" to be depressed, many more. I don't even want to get into them right now, just know that they're there, and they're somewhat real. I don't put all my blame on them, though, because even if I DON'T think about them I still feel enwrapped in utter darkness, even in my day to day life. I don't know if I can be happy with myself. I don't even know if I want to... Well of course we all want to be happy, I guess I'm just so tired of waiting for it to someday happen that I often want to give up this crazy little thing called life and drift into the unknown as I always have wanted to.
Thats all for now...
Anne