When I was eleven I told my mom I hated myself, and I wanted to kill myself. Immediately she told me to never say that again or I would end up in a mental hospital like my uncle. So I never said it again, at least to her. I’m now seventeen, and I can’t move past this.
When I was fourteen, I got addicted to cutting, and when my parents found out all they did was tell me not to do it again or they would take away my phone.
I kept doing it.
At fourteen I also started a secret depression Instagram account and made friends on there with similar issues. In retrospect, it wasn’t a healthy thing for me to do, but at the time it was the only way for me to say what was happening to me. A friend found it and told my parents, they then took away my phone for a month, internet for three months, and Instagram for four. We spoke a bit about my feelings, but once again they just assumed a punishment would solve my issues. My feelings would go away. They asked me if I wanted to see a doctor, I told them I did. They said they would “look” but nothing happened.
Fifteen was a year where after leaving home for four months and being the happiest I had been in four years, I discovered that for me, home just wasn’t a good environment. After I came home, I began self-harming again and it was that summer after they found out again that they finally said they would find a doctor. They did, and I’ve been seeing him for a little over a year now. However, my parents are ready for me to be done. They think that I’ve been doing therapy for long enough and I should be fine now! I should be happy and I… I know that I will always be the disappointment. Because I self-harmed, because I have depression, because I see a doctor for it. I rant about people who don’t understand depression and such, but in reality my own parents are those I cannot stand in this world.