My mother was a little psycho. She had a good heart, and to the outside world, she was a wonderful human being. People respected her for her profession and for the humble woman that she was. But she was the opposite of me, her daughter.
She never liked to take any kind of responsibility at all. To hide her incapabilities, she abused me mentally. She also used to physically abuse me when I was a little girl but as I grew up, I started yelling back at her to protect myself.
After that, she slowly reduced hitting me. Out of a hundred, she was nice to me 5% of the time. She wouldn’t allow me to see my Dad since I clocked 12 and she had said it many times that she hated me because she could see my Dad’s face whenever she looked at me. Why would she blame me for her own mistakes?
All these led to me feeling empty over multiple situations, overthinking, crying out loud on pointless issues, becoming sensitive, staying away from social gatherings, losing myself, and blaming myself every time for every damn thing. That was how I’ve been living my whole life. This was my major phase of life. Yes, I battled depression for years.
My depression wasn’t a total sad phase, I used to be happy and normal at times but lost myself pointlessly to various situations. I had severe family issues and that tiny reserved circle I owned faced problems all at once and my college days were not pleasant as well.
All these together got me frustrated and I had to deal with depression. It was hard. Very hard. I had people around me telling me I have changed a lot and I just heard these repeatedly from every single person around me. I knew and felt I had changed too, I thought it was due to that frustration I had but negativity grew abnormally in me.
I could remember that I cut my hand when I was 16. Not because of some lover, but because of my marks. I wanted to destroy myself. I tried to hide my wounds. Didn’t tell my mum because I just realized how stupid it was. After all, all she ever cared about was marks and the only source of happiness I relied on was getting good grades until my grades started falling more than ever.
After two days, my mom got to know about the marks and she beat me at the same spot. I endured the pain but, my sleeves had blood stains on them. She thought she was too severe and treated my wounds but, I never told her that I had cut my hands back then.
I still have the scars. The first time I felt the need to seek help was when I was 19, in my 200L days at the University. “But what can a 19-year-old be depressed about?” My mum blurted and raised her brows at me, with an expression I could interpret at a glance. That night, I cried desperately and I wanted to die, but I was too scared.
Eventually, after some months when I resorted to self-harm, cutting myself wherever there was skin, just name it, my skin, thighs etc. My mum was forced to take me to the hospital because I was losing it. My stress levels were always over the roof and I got chest pains regularly. My scars could attest to my mental illness.
My depression became the wall that stood between me and everyone; everything else. It felt like a dark cage, from which I couldn’t escape no matter how hard I tried. Just existing became a task so painful that I didn’t want to do it anymore.
My four years of university were a living hell for me, everything became mundane. I didn’t have the energy to attend classes anymore, never wanted to go out for fun, and gradually gave up on the things that I loved. Friends felt like foes, talking to anyone became a struggle that I purposefully avoided.
The stigma around my changing behaviour didn’t help either. Taunts of me having mood swings, acting like โI’m having my periodsโ etc. Were what I had to hear regularly. And ultimately, it led me to believe that I was alone, pathetic, and worth nothing. Add to that bullying concerning physical appearance, made me think that I was what was wrong with this world and that I probably shouldn’t exist. So I put on a mask so that at least those taunts would stop.
I kept having regular onslaughts of suicidal thoughts, just that since I’ve been a scaredy cat my whole life, I didn’t dare to do it. And so, neither did I have the courage to seek help. I was so badly into it, that my depression became normal for me. Genuine happiness was a far-fetched idea, and anyways who gave a shit, right? I didn’t need help, I was perfectly fine with my deteriorating health and absence of any sort of love or care. I didn’t need anything or anyone in my life. I pushed the best people in my life away. I would live inside my cage, as long as it would let me. Fuck everything else.
My Dad visited on several occasions but Mum never cared. She remarried and that was when I knew that I lost. After my degree, I moved far away from home and got a job online while I continued searching for an on-site job. And as for love? I don’t think I’d ever love someone when I never loved who I am. Again, I would live inside my cage, as long as it would let me. Fuck everything else!
