Flicker Pain

[5] hearts on sleeves

I learned the hard way that when you wore your heart on your sleeve, it was bound to be torn.

Last semester, I was naïve. That naivety was nothing in comparison to how I used to be – but it was still prominent. In my creative writing class, we were given an assignment:

Write a monologue.

There were no rules dictating the length, or even what the monologue would be about. My emotional side took over, and prompted me to write about the weight I carried on my shoulders, through the eyes of a wounded man.

All of us – we sent our monologues to the teacher. The next day, she approached me and one other student.

"You see that star on your paper?" She asked softly. I nodded hesitantly.

"I want you to share this with the class."

I should've seen it coming. I should've seen the pieces fall into place. A goofy grin somehow formed on my face. I was eager to be recognized for something, as anyone would have been. My peers only saw me as the girl who refused to speak, so this was my chance to show them what I could really do. I worked with other students as we reviewed our monologues, and my heart beat proudly. I picked someone – not myself – to read it when the time came.

I was too naïve.

Everyone's eyes looked over at me.

The boy whom I'd chosen – he began to read:

"What is it really?

You see, it's different than you think, depression, that is. It's not wearing all black clothes. It's not having piercings and tattoos. It's a disease. It's painful. It's challenging. It makes you feel like you never want to leave your bed; never experience what the outside world has to offer. Why should you? The world has never done anything for you, has it?

The people who have it; they're different. They're treated differently. The depressed kid is the one who everyone leans away from in class. The depressed kid swears that he doesn't care; he never wanted their company anyways.

But in actuality, he does. All he ever wants is to admit that he's not alright; that things have happened in his life. Things that no other kid he knows has experienced. Things that no other kid should have to experience.

But you know, depression is subjective. Everyone makes you feel like you haven't got a right to be depressed. The conversation always goes a little something like this:

I feel like a failure. "You're one of the best students I know."

I feel alone. "What happened to all of your friends? You have them."

I just feel like my life is just...wrong, and pointless. "Well, you live in a nice house, have clean clothes, and have food, and that's better than what a lot of people have. Your life really isn't that bad, so why are you upset?"

See? The richest man in the world could be depressed and no one would care because of what he has. He hasn't got a right, now does he?

Or, if the person you're talking to is feeling even more unsympathetic that day, you'll get hit with something like this:

"Well, if your life sucks so much and you feel so bad all the time, why don't you just go see a therapist?"

See. A. Therapist.

Of course it never crosses their mind, that it was hard enough to reveal how you feel to them, before they suggest talking to a complete stranger. Why would they? They're not the depressed ones. They're not the ones who're afraid to trust.

It's us. We're the ones who are afraid of being branded mentally unhealthy by doctors and loved ones. We're the ones who are afraid of the padded room; being a threat to society.

So what do we do, the next time someone asks us if we think we need help?

We smile, shake our heads, and respond with a resounding "No."

I should've seen it coming, I know I should've.

I should've expected to see nothing but fear from everyone, from then onwards.

Hearts on sleeves, it never pays off. That's why you keep it close.

* * *

Fun fact: That is the actual monologue I wrote for my creative writing class, and that was exactly what happened to me when I shared it. Depressed people aren't people to be afraid of, and isolating them even more makes them sink deeper into that depression.

If you see a kid, and you know that he/she has depression, give them a hand. Believe me, they need it.

xoxo,
twyla