Harbinger of my Own Destruction

From a young age, I’ve valued the virtue of self-control.  Even in times of emotional distress, I prided myself on my ability to retain stoic composure. I cried a total of four times in all four years of high school, and never in front of anyone.  To me, emotions were a sign of weakness, of vulnerability.  My refusal to acknowledge emotion rendered me unable to fully understand normative emotions, and therefore unable to fully recognize the significance of my own emotions, which ranged from total apathy to violent self-loathing.  Not until my senior year in high school would I learn that I was experiencing clinical depression.

Normal people experience depression as a passing emotion, a feeling that occurs over a short period of time due to a traumatic or otherwise emotional event before returning to a healthy mental state. However, to some, depression is not a temporary sensation, but a permanent state of mind.  Depression is a medical condition caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain, most often by an inability to produce normal levels of serotonin.  However, other genetic and environmental factors can be attributed to the illness.  My case is of a biological nature; depression runs abundant in both sides of my family, leaving me more susceptible to inherit the disease than most “normal” people.             

Although I was only diagnosed with the disease this year in early March, I’ve come to the realization that I may have had depression much longer than a few months.  Still, while I feel isolated from others due to my illness, I find difficulty in separation the effects of depression from the facets of my own personality.  As an individual, even at an early age, I tended to be more introverted, more shy and less social than most of my peers.  Nevertheless I knew how to be nice and sympathetic, and as a result, I was well liked by most.  However, my reservedness put a strain on both my potential and existing relationships.  I had friends, but I lacked the confidence to initiate contact with anyone new or to let anyone get too close to me. 

My introversion didn’t get better in high school.  While it is common for teenagers to seek acceptance from the rest of their peers, my own motivation for acceptance was derived from fear of rejection.  While at this point I regarded depression with little more consideration than most other people my age, I realized that my own self-consciousness was a much darker entity than the usual desire for approval.  In retrospect, I should have realized that this was the first warning sign of depression, but like most teenagers, I only knew depression as an emotion.  Although I had more exposure to information on mental illness than most due to my mom’s job as a school nurse, I though that the depressive state was something you could “snap out of,” that people claiming to be clinically depressed only did so because they needed to justify their own self pity.  I refused to believe I was that weak.

However, the word “depression” always lingered at the forefront of my thoughts, and toward the end of my senior year in high school, I began to research the disease and watch for and symptoms I may have been exhibiting.  Every day, I would come home from school, both physically and mentally exhausted, and sleep for hours.  I was barely able to complete daily homework and my senior project.  I attributed this lack of incentive to the so-called disease “senioritis,” which allegedly caused seniors to not care about school.  However, instead of not caring, I simply lost the ability to care altogether.  This apathy extended beyond my schoolwork, affecting even my closest relationships.  I was literally unable to feel any happiness even in the company of my closest friends.  Even drawing, my absolute favorite pastime, lost its appeal. 

However, I was most alarmed by the sudden emotional drops I experienced every few days.  While I most often lived in a state of apathy, I would have periods that last for hours when I felt so violently depressed that I lost any will to live, and I often considered self-harm.  I knew that cutting was a terrible habit, but I was desperate for any outlet that relieved my emotional pain.  In one of my worst episodes, I attempted to cut myself using a Swiss army knife, but the blade was too dull to lacerate my skin.  My failed attempt at self-mutilation only fueled my frustration, leading me to tie a noose in an old piece of rope that I kept in my closet.  I’m sorry to say that the only reason I didn’t follow through with my plan was because I couldn’t find anything sturdy enough to hang the noose on.  As the ache faded I realized I needed to ask for help.

My mom was the first person I entrusted my secret to.  It took an entire day of failed attempts before I could finally summon the strength tell her that I suspected that I had depression.  The most painful part of my coming out was when my mom apologized for not noticing sooner.  While I felt guilty for letting her accept blame, I mostly felt tremendous relief now that I had someone I could rely on.  This was one of the few times I allowed myself to cry.

However, coming out was not a one step process; after the initial reveal I later had to tell my mom about my self-destructive tendencies.  After a few months of therapy, I also had to tell my roommate about my condition, but I omitted my attempts at self-harm.  In the future she will most likely learn the whole truth.

I found liberation in revealing myself to two of my closest confidences, but I cannot say I am fully healed.  I remain mentally unstable at best, and I sometimes fear that I am the harbinger of my own destruction.