Depression Alley (StoryADay Post)

So, it’s come to that, isn’t it?

I found myself stuck in a place where I never wanted to be. A mental hospital. I never did anything crazy or talked about how I wanted to kill myself, so this was a first for me.

Still, how was I to know what led me to being in this place?

I’m telling you now; someone HAD to put me up to this, as I would never do anything to myself. I’m not the type of person who purposefully hurts themselves just to make a point. I know I’m better than that.

But that doesn’t excuse the fact that some people decided to slap the words “mentally ill” on my head and send me to a mental hospital, as if I was a danger to myself.

It’s not like I don’t hate myself.

Oh, wait. I do.

I hated how I lived my life, with no parents and being bounced from foster home to foster home. I never fit in. I had no friends. There was also the part about me being kidnapped by some creepy man when I was 10 years old and no one came to rescue me until five days had passed.

But let’s not start, OK? I don’t want to talk about it.

But I should have foreseen the final straw, as I thought about my social worker and how she had told everyone to make my life miserable, as if I wasn’t already living a sad life. She never showed me any kindness, nor did she care that she was hurting me with her cruelty. I guess in a way, she was blaming me for my own problems, problems that no 12-year-old girls should have to deal with.

But how did I end up in that mental hospital, you still ask?

Well, one of my teachers, deciding that he had enough of me putting myself down and saying that I deserved to be bullied (and me telling him to stop caring about the mistreated students, as they deserved to be mistreated by their classmates), he went to the principal and he called the police and social agency. My social worker was arrested for child intimidation, but that didn’t solve my problems.

In fact, it only made my problems worse.

My current foster family, refusing to let me go without a fight, begged the judge to find a place for me where I could get the help I needed and never got. In their minds, they saw me as a troubled young girl with no hope, no happiness, and no future. I would end up dead before I turned 16 years old.

The judge agreed and here I am, in the place where abused children are sent. In that place, they are kept away from their families (lest the person who abused them came from the family). The teachers there are strict, generally when it comes to them making the students talk about their problems, even if the student in question didn’t want to talk about the problem at all.

That is going to be my fate, for better or worse.

I stood up and began to walk around the room where I would stay for the next three years. The room was small, with a set of drawers, a bed, a desk, and a closet full of clothes (which were donated from the Salvation Army. I stared out the room’s tiny window and saw the city quickly passing me by. It was as if the people living in the city forgot that I existed.

But no, I can’t give up now, not when I had been on my best behavior all year. I never caused any trouble in class, did all my homework, and made sure to stay away from the other kids. Even that couldn’t save me from my inevitable fate of ending up in the hospital.

To be honest, I never considered myself to have a mental illness, but I remembered my mother killing herself when I was five years old. She had lost everything she owned to a cruel brother-in-law and was forced to live in poverty. People always said that my mom was crazy and she should have been locked away instead of being allowed to marry my father and have me, but that’s a given. I myself have no idea of why she never got any help for her problems, if she had any problems to begin with.

You know what they day about pride and falling down.

But let’s not start.

As I’m pacing the room, I saw that the bed had a simple quilt on it as well as two soft pillows. I also noticed that there were quotes on the wall, quotes that said, “be proud to be yourself” and “always remember that someone loves you“. I guess someone tried to make this sad place happy by putting positive quotes onto the walls.

FYI, you can’t force a person to be happy; in fact, people who are happy all the time are the biggest sinners of all. Happy people always seem to hide their pain behind a smiling mask. That’s why when that person commits suicide, their family or friends said, “He/she was always so happy. I didn’t know that something was wrong with them.”

If only you know the truth about why they were sad, you would have helped them. But you chose to ignore their unhappiness in favor of forcing them to be happy. You can’t force people to be happy; happiness is supposed to come naturally.

I then sat on the bed, wondering what I should do next. I already know I’m going to miss the school choir’s trip to Santa Cruz, and I’ll never get to sing my solo part before the crowds. I’ll never get to make the people forget about seeing a poor, wretched miserable girl who had the voice of an angel.

But I knew I needed to recover from my years of misery. The question is, though, would I be willing to change everything that made me me?