I am electric. That’s the only way to describe it, electric. I can feel this shock-educing power within me, but I can’t care enough to do anything with it. I can’t do it, because everyone tells me they’re helping me, when they’re really pushing me down. I feel like lightning, but I never strike. I just stay in the sky, surrounded by dark storm clouds. Because in order to strike, I know that I have to hit the ground. I can see them; I can see all the other lightning bolts rain from the clouds and burst with the impact of the ground. They leave gaping holes in the soil, tear up deep-rooted trees and disturb waves with an electric shock. I could do that, too. I could make an impact. I know this, but I can’t bring myself to care. All I can think about is the pain of hitting the ground. I don’t want to be hurt anymore.
I can suddenly hear the muffled voice of my mother calling me.
“Wake up!” She shouts from downstairs, “It’s time for school!”
“I’m awake!” I shout back in a less than convincing voice as I rub my eyes. I look over at my window. Sunlight leaks through the shades in bright lines. Why does the sun always have to rise? Why can’t it just go down and stay there? Why can’t it just leave me be for once? Why is it that no matter how many times it goes down, it always circles back? I wish I were like the sun. I drag myself out of bed and try to tell myself that I’m prepared for a new day, a routine that never works.
“Hurry up, Catherine, or you’ll be late,” my mother says sharply as I walk into the kitchen, “and don’t forget your pills.” I wish she wouldn’t do that. I know I have to take my pills. I’ve swallowed so many already, even though they don’t do anything. The pills are only there to contain my disorder and make it less of a burden on the people around me. I don’t understand why my being depressed is treated like a burden that the people around me have to “deal with” while they don’t know how it really feels to be the way I am. But despite all that, I still nod and do my best to get ready as fast as possible.
I wave goodbye to my mother before setting off for the bus. The crisp morning air seeps into my skin, making me wish I had dressed a bit warmer. Upon reaching the bus stop I see a small pack of familiar peers acting as foolish as ever. Two of the boys kick at the dirt and laugh at their own awful jokes. Another boy is making two girls visibly uncomfortable while flirting with them. I bet he thinks he’s god’s gift to women. The flirty boy looks up at me and smirks. He starts walking towards me and gets uncomfortably close.
“Hey Catherine, you’re looking slightly less tired and depressing today,” He snickers to himself. I back away from him and do my best to hold my tears in.
“Come on Josh, That’s not funny. Leave the poor girl alone,” One of the girls says.
“What? It’s just a joke, come on,” Josh laughs.
He laughed. He laughed. He laughed. I’m a joke. I’m a joke. I’m a joke. Poor girl. Poor girl. Poor girl. Poor, poor, poor girl. I begin to tremble and I kneel onto the ground. The tears start coming and I know they won’t stop any time soon. Why do all of you assume things about me? Why is it that when someone with A.D.D. screws up it’s totally fine, but when someone with depression screws up they’re just a lazy piece of trash? I know I’m a joke. I know I’m always tired and depressed. I know. I know. I know. Why am I not allowed to forget for just one moment? That’s all I want. Why can’t I just have that one single moment where I feel like I’m actually truly alive?
At this point, the girls have managed to drag me onto the bus and are now shouting at Josh who is sheepishly sitting in the back. Everyone’s asking me what’s wrong. I don’t know what’s wrong. Stop asking me. I don’t know.
When the bus finally gets to the school, I get off as fast as I can. I can feel the weight of my disorder slowing my pace down as I get closer to my first class. At least it’s a weight I’m used to, though. I’ve become so accustomed to it that I’d probably feel like I would just float away if it weren’t there. I walk into my class and half the class looks over at me. They must already know that I broke down again. They probably pity me. I don’t want them to, though. I’m so sick of people looking down on me. Why can’t I just be seen as their peer for once and not just “that poor depressed girl”? I sit at my desk and hope that class will start soon, even though I didn’t do my homework. Last night I just wanted to make myself feel safe and relaxed, so I didn’t do any of my work. They’ll probably yell at me again. Because god forbid I put my mental health above schoolwork.
I snap out of my rant and look over to see a group of boys snickering; they’re Josh and his friends. Josh looks over at me and takes his right hand to his left wrist and makes a cutting motion. All the boys laugh. And then, I do something I never thought I would ever do in my life. I stand up. I feel a spark. I walk over to Josh and glare down at him.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to have a depression disorder? I don’t think so. It’s not the same as being depressed. It is waking up and feeling like you don’t have the will to go on. It is wishing you could scream and cry, but being too afraid to do it. It is the feeling of not being able to care about your life and your future but wishing so hard that you could care. I cry for hours every day and sometimes I don’t even know why. I have wished death upon myself countless times. Does anyone wonder why people with depression seem to only hang around other people with depression? It’s because they’re the only people who can understand others with their own disorder. Literally no one else tries or even takes it seriously. You all treat it like some sick joke!” I can feel sparks flying. I can feel myself speeding closer and closer to the ground. I roll up my sleeves to reveal scars that were given by my own hand.
Josh’s friends look at him, nervously waiting for his reply. “W-well,” he stutters, “I think it’s good for people to make fun of themselves sometimes.”
I am hurdling closer to the ground. And I know it’s going to hurt when I get there, and maybe people will hate me. But it’s worth it. Yes, I can feel it. I can finally feel myself making an impact. I can feel my electricity finally burst as my fist collides with Josh’s jaw.