| Delving Into The Darkness... |
| There are a lot of things about myself that I keep private. I'm sure I'm just like everyone else. Everyone has "skeletons in the closet," as they're politely referred to. Mine however, are aching to get out. I just have this almost uncontrollable urge to yell and scream and punch walls and cry and yes, even cut from time to time. The "things" to which I am referring are indeed deeply rooted psychological problems, the biggest one at the time being manic-depression, or bipolar disorder, as it's more commonly known throughout the therapy community. I have, for as long as I can remember, been "different." For starters, I have never "known" my real parents. That's not to say I haven't had good parents. I have lived with my grandparents since I was very young. Nonetheless, not having an average, "normal" family has scarred me deeply, more than anyone knows. For years, I kept my mouth shut about how that hurt me, because if I said anything, my grandparents would think that I wasn't appreciative of everything they had done for me. That started my silence. I became fearful of everything I said, wondering if what I said would offend someone. I began to think about everything, analyze everything I said before I said it so as not to offend anyone. For quite some time I didn't even realize I was doing it, and I suppose those were the best years of my life. However, after I realized that what I was doing, being overly protective of myself, was incredibly nonconventional. All the children I ever knew were very big on playing and interaction with one another. I was never one of these children. I have always liked being by myself, whether it was at school or home. After years of being alone all the time, I began to develop social anxiety disorder. Well, I suppose I had always had it to some extent; I just never needed to acknowledge it. I hated being in public places, and I hated being around people; people who could look upon me and find fault. I withdrew and started severe introspection, trying to figure out just what was wrong with me. Psychologists always tell you not to try to analyze yourself, but I personally think they're full of it. Mine was, anyway. In any case, I began to try to understand myself in hopes of making it better. It didn't work. If anything it got worse. After some time I decided that I was absolutely worthless, and my parents didn't dispel any of my theories. It was then that I started cutting. I did it discreetly, so I wouldn't draw any attention to myself. I didn't want attention from anyone, that's why I was doing it. I guess you could call it a cruel irony. After awhile, it got worse and worse. I was on a downward spiral, and there was no one to help me. I started cutting more and more and started talking less and less. For me, cutting was my release. I had never been allowed to openly cry, so I would cut. It was silent, and it got rid of everything I was feeling. After awhile, I was found out by a teacher of mine who then turned me into a guidance counselor. The counselor then in turn called my mother, who after that, put me in therapy. She was not happy about that, and it was a dark cloud that hung over my head for about six months when I finally decided that I'd rather be mentally ill than have to put up with the guilt of trying to get better. Since then, I've been fighting this on my own. For the past six months, I haven't been to one therapy session, and my parents have never mentioned it. It was a little discrepency among immediate family and it was cleared up and never to be spoken of again. I have, however, slowly stopped cutting and I now cry all the time, about pretty much everything. I don't think I'm getting any better, but I think my defense mechanisms are getting a little better. For the time being, I suppose that's all I can hope for. |