Elastic Heart [ Kim Kibum ]

Chapter 1: What is Depression?

Dear Jonghyun,

You may wonder, reader, why I write my journal as a diary, why I refer to a man called Jonghyun rather than to you. That's a long story. And it starts here.

I wasn't an average teenager- but I wasn't average in a positive way. Many people would look at me and think- nothing. They would think nothing, because- well, what was I? Nobody knew me, not that I minded. It was my fault for not putting myself out there, for keeping myself cooped up in the back of the classroom with a notebook in my hand rather than share my answers with a partner. But nobody knew that I danced when I was alone, that I sang, that I liked to change my voice around, that I liked to play and draw and discover other talents that I had. Some people knew of my drawing skills when I took a class for it, but that was it. They knew me no more.

So, I was above average secretly. I did so much, but people didn't know that. They didn't know I spent hours at a time dancing, singing as I drew, singing as I wrote.

See, I was perfectly fine until college. There was a bully in high school here, a bully in high school there, but who isn't bullied, really? It's heard not to be picked on or teased as a simple kid, a nerdy kid, a popular kid- anyone. Teenagers are mean. The world is mean- so be careful as you're walking around, okay?

Going on, I decided I would move to America to go to college. I wanted a fresh start, because my shoulders were heavy from high school and I didn't want to be there anymore.

--and I was diagnosed with depression.

Now, what is depression? I asked myself this question a lot as my doctor was running through the diagnosis, as I'd begun to live the rest of my days with warning to be careful. I'd always seen depression as something poetic. It wasn't my personal opinion; that's just the way is was presented to me. It was beautiful, the media said, the teenagers said, the world said, and I thought- fantastic! I'm beautiful. I'm depressed, and I'm beautiful.

But that's not how it felt.

Putting depression into words is kind of difficult. I'm a writer, so it should be easy. My vocabulary is not as expanded as I would like it to be, but that doesn't get in my way. I can put depression into a few words: dirty. It feels disgusting. The media never really shows what's going on through the tears and black make-up on the cheeks of teenage girls.

That isn't depression.

Take a handful of dirt, for example. Pour water on it, and it becomes mud. Let it dry out, and it's dirt again. It goes through phases, but does it change? No. It just becomes dirtier and dirtier, collecting dust as it goes through cycles of drying out and soaking up water.

I cannot go anywhere with that metaphor. Can you, readers? Find out what depression is for me. I'm going to bed.