Within A Cutter-Edited

In 1999, the United States surgeon General issued a report stating that 3.5 million American teens suffer from depression. Yet a shocking 80-90% of teens suffering from clinical depression go undiagnosed and untreated. If left untreated, depression can lead to suicide. Depression is a mental illness. It is caused by low level of neurotransmitters which include: norepinephrine, dopamine and serotonin. Depression is a chemical genetic illness which can be treated by anti-depression drugs, and also talk therapy. Unfortunately, so many of the signs of depression go unnoticed and therefore teens go untreated.
My name is Ashley and I am 16 years old. I was diagnosed with depression a few years back. My personality and behavior over those long years never came to me as depression, until the day my life almost ended. I have been a cutter since 7th grade and from that day, my life was in suicide hell. Here are some bits and pieces or my story from past to present on my road to recovery.
For my whole life, I have always been shy and quiet in from of everyone including my parents and family. I was a happy girl; always singing, drawing, and hanging out with friends until one afternoon I found a secret within my heart. I didn’t know what over came me, but I just kept scratching at my hand. Harder and harder I would scratch until I saw the stain of blood dripping on my leg. The day felt different after that. I wasn't as nervous as I use to be and I was calmer. I realized then that this is what I was hiding all along. My fear of pain was no longer on my shoulder and all my stress lifted from me like steam.
8th grade came along and I didn’t cut ever sense 7th grade. I fell in love with one of my guy friends that I have known since 5th grade. It wasn’t until the summer we finally went out. I liked him a lot, but he didn’t care as much. My friends and I would hang out with him all the time at his house. Though when my friends weren’t there with me, Jonathan acted different towards me. I felt embarrassed and filthy by the way he treated me. He would mentally abuse me; calling me names and looking down at me. I felt ashamed of my body, the way he used it as a joke. I felt that my looks, my being was my fault and that he, my best friend would except me back if I punished myself.
Every night I would cry myself to sleep, picturing is face and hearing his voice everywhere. My friends did nothing to stop him with his devilish actions with me. I felt so alone and un-cared for. I can remember taking my pocket knife and guiding it along my wrist. Faster and faster I would carve, until I could feel the burning sensation run up my arm to soother my broken heart. My body calmed down and I stopped crying. Cutting myself that night was like medication. It helped me feel alive again, stress free and unafraid of anything.
9th grade was quite different. My nerves would build up every time there was a large crowd. My eyes would never stop wandering and I could barley focus on my studies. My love for singing and drawing begun to fade and I feared the outside world of my room. Mornings would come and go and I would always stay in my room staring out my window. I would never have fun except to cry. My skin was pale and my facial expression was a broken smile. I would cover my pain for all to see and pretend everything was ok. Not once would I crack a smile to show my joy. I was secretive, but not once did anyone notice the change in myself.
Red hair with needle like nails, holds me close to her pale white body and sings me a death song. Her hair wraps around me like a blanket and the scares on her face leek the pain I have feared. Ever sense I let the joy of blood in my life, she has never left my side. Her name, though I never should speak of it Zantagona. She is my devil half. A friend by myself to hold my hand through every cut I made. She’s a monster, a friend, a devil, a destroyer or myself. She hates all and loves pain. Only Zantagona can cause the pain I feel. She never comes out in the light, but she does hover above my bed site every night. Glaring, humming my doom. “The night you end your life, I shall be beside you, holding your hand,” is what she’s speak in tough to me. A deadly sin she was, but she was apart of me.
10th grade finally rolled around and life then was no different than it always was. I would still cover my scares and hide my pain with a fake smile. My hair was always down and my cloths were always to big. I had such a low self-a-steam that I couldn’t dare look in a mirror without crying inside. Depression became worse for me and my life, like Zantagona said was soon to end. Long story short, I believe it was May 17th, the day red and white lights flashed at my door. The events that led up to my attempt is a blur, but my feelings are not. I was crying harder than I ever cried. My boyfriend of 17 months finally spoke the words I was a friend to hear.
“I don’t love you anymore,” he stuttered. His voice was low and calm. My mind was as blank as a black board, except for one written cure. I hung up the phone with him and dragged my feet to the kitchen. There, on the counter was my medication. I grabbed my bottle and my purse with my favorite soda and chips. My dad was sitting on the couch as a passed hoping he wouldn’t see me. My sister was playing a game with her friend on the computer I believe, but I don’t really remember.
I sat still on my computer chair and stared at my pills. Reaching for the bottle, I could feel my muscle pull back, but I kept reaching. I poured out into my hand the sins of death. 10 pills laid there. My mind kept saying no, but my heart was broken into to many pieces for me to care. I was shaking and confused. I called my ex boyfriend to say “I love you” and to hear him say it one more time. He knew something was wrong and hung up the phone. Behind my back, he called my mother at work and the ambulance. Neighbors gathered around my house at the right second the ambulance arrived.
I was rushed to the emergency room where I had to drink charcoal. I was asked millions of questions, but all I wanted to do was sleep. I had to name events that led me to commit suicide and my feelings that were going through my mind. My parents were so blind sited to what I done. I can remember them yelling at each other and at me. Pain, fear and sadness wrapped their face. Around 1:00am, I was admitted to Aurora Health Care for about 1 ½ weeks. I met new friends who were just like me. I learned to ways to cope and was put on new medication. Every month I went to see Dr. Sharen, my therapist and share with her my feelings.
Today is Thursday, October 19th, 2006 and I am a survivor of depression. I am still on my medication, but have graduated from therapy as a success story. My days are so much brighter and my nights are no longer a nightmare. A smile is all people see and joy is all I ever talk about. But don’t forget, I still do have flash backs to those cold nights and sunny mornings where I’d just want to die, but death is no longer my solution and I am finally free from depression.
The pain of severe depression is quite unimaginable to those who have not suffered it and it kills in many instances because its anguish can no longer be borne. Roughly 2 thousand American teenagers between the ages 13 and 18 attempt suicide every day and roughly 4 thousand of them will die by their own hands this year alone. Though the healing process of time and through medical help, most people survive depression. I ought to know. Like I said before, I am a survivor.1