The first time I ever felt depressed was when I was 11 years old back in 2004. I was staring down at my bathtub surrounded by dark and cool white walls that resembled what I’d imagine to be like an asylum. Not much air flowed through the room in addition to it being lifeless and dull that one’s voice could echo across the room.
As I faced to look outside past the barred windows, everyday seemed pretty grey. Regardless of whether or not the weather was nice, I wasn’t really allowed to enjoy much of it. Hence why everyday was easily a very dismal day. But this day was different. For once, I felt a sense of melancholy which then turned into a void.
My soul felt exhausted as if I’d lived much longer than someone my age. No feelings, just emptiness like a barren wasteland. Yet, I couldn’t understand why for many years after that. These thoughts and feelings never really stopped. Like poison, they sunk back right in to rot my mind, body and soul.
I knew that I couldn’t afford medical attention. Even if I could, I was too shy to talk about my problems with anyone let alone a professional. Five years pass until I hit my final straw- or so I thought.
I was tired of peer pressure and other not-so-pleasing circumstances that come with being impoverished. So I stood yet again, hovering over my bathtub, but this time, I wasn’t alone. I came with a small kitchen knife, debating whether or not I should just plunge it into my gut.
At that moment in my life, I saw the faces of everyone I cared for flash before my eyes. I walked to the kitchen to return the knife. As each year passed, I slowly started to understand myself more. I was still depressed, but never diagnosed as such.
While I did face similar issues as I got older, I survived every one of those episodes with more experience. In a sense, it was all a work-in-progress to build resolve in fighting through the trials and tribulations that have yet to come my way.