About my depression.
The first time I tried to kill myself I didn't realize I was depressed. Even now is hard for me to realize I was depressed then; I was a very happy-go-lucky kind of girl.
I was fifteen or sixteen, I can't really remember (or trying to not to) and I tried to OD, is the easiest and less gross way to die by your hand. I did it because I thought life by then was enough, everything you need to feel is already felt by the time you are fifteen, or sixteen. I didn't die of course, I didn't tell anybody about it. Still remember how the stomachache felt, how weird it was to be alive. I wanted to tell to my (then) boyfriend but he was really depressed, he was actively trying to kill himself, he did parkour and always thought of jumping of a bridge using the 'sport' as an excuse. He told me that, and neither him or me, thought that he wanting to die was selfish or a symptom. I should've know then, the idea of someone close wanting to kill themselves was not terrifying or even weird; still isn't.
When I actually realized I was depressed I was 18. It started as me feeling bored all the time. Engineering was boring. Alcohol was boring. Drugs were boring. Sex was boring. People were extremely boring. So I started to do experiments with my relationships, making people fight, making people want me or hate me (some of them still do). I changed careers; Psychology was very appealing, and I hadn't felt that way for a while. The verge of being sad because my dad was rejecting my 'dream' and the disapproval of everyone was enough to make me go throught it. In the end I was convincing enough. I changed careers and thought "this is something that can make me happy". It didn't.
I was wary about having friends so I focused in my studies, and that worked, I was happy. Very happy, I drank, I party, I fucked, I got real high; sometimes I question myself if I was actually happy or I was manic. That lasted about a year. By the end of that year I became close with two people. I had my best friends, but those were my party, fuck and drugs best friends, they kinda still are. But this persons... they have had more influence on me that any person ever (beside my parents, of course). I fell in love with both of them. The first one was a platonic love, a love full of ideas and passion, a love that traveled in book pages and cheap beer, a love that grew through dawn conversations. I wasn't happy, it was melancholy and euphoria. I let my walls come down because they were going to be wrecked anyway. This person made me realize that I could walk the whole planet, to know every inch of earth's ground and still felt empty; it made me realize that looking at the moon was enough. He was right about everything, and even when I spent with him more time that I could, it was not enough.
He killed himself. I guess is no secret. I wonder, somedays, if he was depressed, thinking perhaps that that can make me feel better about myself. But I know he wasn't, he was truly happy, he was complete, so he was done and then gone.
The second one was romantic love. I have never loved nobody as I loved him. And that was mistake. Love needs boundaries. I guess love is a dog, if you take care of it and feed it, it will grow, but if you do not teach him to behave it will bite you. So my dog ended up biting me, and then leaving me. But, it was beautiful, love is. Being in love was amazing. Being in love while depressed, not so much. I messed up, and did stuff that I'm not proud, stuff that I'm trying to not do again (and failing). This person made me realize that it doesn't matter how broken you are, there is always someone trying to pick up the pieces for you. And briefly, I was happy, I was and for it I am thankful, words will never describe how thankful I will always be. It is incredibly hard to write about it because I'm not in love anymore, and all I see was the good he did to me once. And in the end he did very nasty things. I suppose he still loved me but he did not like me anymore.
After person number one died and just after my happiness with person number two faded I tried to kill myself again, this time I combined the overdose metod with Sylvia Plath's sickle. And when it didn't work I entered in state that I still can't get out. Person number two helped me, making bearable the process but when he left I was too damaged to keep trying. So I thought "third time's a charm".
Attempt number three was ugly. I don't remember much. There is a whole week erased from my memory; somedays I think that if I remember something, maybe that will help me, but it probably won't so I let that go. Why I did it? Well, the real answer is I just wanted to. The answer that use with the therapist, my family and friends is I was sick of being sick, I was sick of feeling bad, I needed a solution. That's not a lie.
Life have been terrible since.
My dad died.
And I, I just, can't grasp the fact that he is not going to see me.. graduate. I really don't want to graduate if he is not going to see me do it. There is not point if he is not there.
I'm a mess and I know that at least. But I do not know if knowing makes it worst or if helps me battling. I hate being depressed, I feel that is not real and I am just being lazy and faddy. Is hard being sick and thinking that your illness is not real. But, I'm getting there.
