As a kid, I knew I was different. My parents and brother too. But my individual self was slightly out of phase with the rest of the world.
I spent a lot of time alone. Which was fine until I turned 9. I had books and an imagination so vast and limitless that it amazed me when other kids were so…boring. Uncreative.
But one night in 1999 changed something. I guess in a way, that was the end of my childhood. The fear and anxiety that came after cannot be considered the emotions of a child, nor my thoughts those of one.
I wonder now…I thought my depression began in 2009. But maybe…the early signs of it were certainly there back then.
Maybe I was doomed from the start. Destined for dark thoughts from the day of my birth.
It’s strange to think of the things that haven’t changed in 14 years. And sad to think of some that have. I wish I could unburden myself. At least as a child, my imagination was able to get me through the worst times. Now it feels like it is shrinking into Nothing. Which is one of the worst things I can imagine.
I don’t know how to be myself anymore. I started antidepressants a year ago this month, and in many ways I feel no different. Or, at least, not different enough.
I’m trying to rebuild myself from fragments and ashes. Trying to fit together a few pieces of who I used to be with who I am, and who I would like to be. But maybe the time for introspection is later. After I fix all that lies ruined around me.