I was twelve the first time I felt depressed. I still remember it clearly: the sense of heaviness, of hopelessness, of just feeling so sad. But I was unable to articulate why.
In retrospect, it was obvious why. I was at public school for the first time in my life. None of my friends from elementary school were in any of my classes. My body was changing. I wanted my mom.
I feel lonely. I don’t think that anyone understands me. My cousin Melissa and I are in the same grade and in the same school for the first time ever. We have always been relatively close, but now when I ask her if she wants to do something this weekend, she says that she is going to the mall with her MOM, so no, she can’t hang out. I envy her for having a mom and a dad and two sisters and four grandparents.
My dad writes me letters sometimes from prison. They always end with huge rows of X’s and O’s with a silly word like boojillions next to them so I know he loves me a whole bunch. I wish he lived at home with me and my grandparents.
My grandfather notices that I’m sad, and he says things like, “Cheer up, would ya?” My grandmother tells me I can always talk to her about anything, but I know that’s not true. I have started spending whole class periods crying in the office of my very kind guidance counselor. But when she calls my grandmother to suggest that maybe I need some professional help, she is told that “We are handling it at home.”
Except we weren’t.