Some might say it was inevitable, my future. Others say I chose wrong. My family doesn’t approve.
I don’t care what my family thinks.
I left them a while ago, technically speaking. All up until freshman year, nothing was more important than studying, A’s, honors courses, recommendations, perfection, knowledge. I had the second highest GPA in my eighth grade class, already taking several courses beyond my years. I achieved maximum credit on all tests and assignments, always seeking opportunities for improvement. I was the golden prize of my family, the trophy to show off. But there was a problem.
I was quiet, and didn’t have many friends. I didn’t have time for going to the mall like others did, or indulging myself into any artistic forms of pop culture. School was more important. But with my lack of social participation, my teachers saw me as awkward and strange. I ate alone at lunch, worked in my own corner during study hall. I never raised my hand in class to answer a question, and only sought instructional help after school, free from prying eyes.
Over time I drifted into a deep depression. I saw how others my age found happiness in what they did, whether it be dancing, singing, drawing, helping others, or just being themselves. What I did was learn. And I did not find joy within heavy textbooks or mathematical equations. I began to wonder why I tried so hard when I gained nearly nothing from my efforts. It seemed to me that knowing the area of a trapezoid was hardly applicable to my daily life, and pointless to know how to find (A = 1/2 [b1 + b2] h). What I had once focused my entire life on now seemed frighteningly unimportant. This was not the future I wanted.
It was the one my parents did.
With my lack of interest growing, my grades began to drop. I went from all A’s to B’s and C’s. I stopped participating in extra credit. I didn’t study for tests anymore. Eventually my teachers and—specifically—my parents began to notice. When asked why my performance levels were suddenly so low, I replied with a simple shrug. Soon after I fell to C-‘s and D’s, my mother decided to have my mental health tested. In due time I was diagnosed with clinical depression.
When a survey I was asked to take showed signs of suicidal thoughts (apparently answering “Do you ever experience thoughts of death or suicide?” with the box marked “Yes” is not a good sign), I was placed in an institute for “mental recovery”.
Here’s where my story begins.
March 20, 2014
8:00 a.m.
Everything here is so white. Not that I like darkness or anything, but the brightness of this place is practically blinding. You’d think if their goal was to make us happy they’d add in some colors or something. Not that it matters, I guess. I don’t know how long I have to stay here, but it shouldn’t be too long. It’s not like I attempted suicide or anything. Although now that I think about it, I wasn’t too far off.
Last night could’ve gone better. Since I was placed here under medical recommendation, my parents didn’t have much of a say in it. But on the way here, father had been strangely quiet. Mother, on the other hand, wouldn’t stop asking me questions. “Do you really want to die?” “When did this start?” “Don’t you care about us anymore?” “How are you going to manage your schoolwork now?”
If I could’ve slapped her I would have. Unfortunately, the seatbelt kept me held in place, on the opposite end of the car from where my mother sat. Later when I realized I had wanted to hurt my own mother, I was afraid. I had never wanted to hurt anyone, not really, much less my own mother. The thought that somewhere inside my mind I wanted that seemed far too real.
