Fuck being the bigger person, I want to be the smaller person for once.
Everyone has a preconceived definition of depression. At ten years old I thought it just meant sad. Just a fucking fancy word for sad. I bet we all wished it was that simple. I thought someone would wake up and just be depressed, and maybe that’s the case but for me? It was years of endless torment that took years to diagnose. I was 7 years old when I was first bullied, being the only Asian girl in an all-White school. “Black” eyes, flat nose bridge, tanned skin, pretty exotic right? Years have passed and I still have a wound that hasn’t closed yet. A wound that yells, practically begging me to let the pain I caged for so long. Every day I feel something clawing at my flesh to yell at everyone who lent a hand in my torment. I hope they read this, I hope the guilt eats them alive. For once, I want to be the smaller person. Six years of torment, six years of feeling inadequate, six years of being poked and prodded like a fucking circus animal. Those six years were only the appetiser to what the world had in store for me.
I blew out my candles on my 10th birthday, it was the beginning of a terrible tradition. Birthdays are celebrations, laughter, presents, cake, everything a child could ever want. So why did I go to sleep crying? Who the fuck cries on their birthday? On the 10th? 11th? 12th? 13th? 14th? 15th? 16th? 17th? 18th? All those years ruined by a pathetic, salty liquid, and for what? All those years of being called, selfish, a bad person, an attention-seeking bitch. I felt like I was being punished, and chastised for trying to end this life. I didn’t die when I was 14, even though I desperately tried to pry open heaven's gates, but maybe I was knocking on the wrong door. But what did ages 7–13 do? They wanted to live, hold out hope for something, someone genuine. I live now, with a constant weight on my chest, with so many unsaid words. Was I so horrible to the point where you would go behind my back and talk shit? What about me was so unforgivable? Why wouldn’t you let me in? Why did you strip me of the only piece of identity I had left?
It’s in the past now, right? For you yes. For me? Never. You’d be happy to hear everything in my life is fine now. My friends, my family, my career, everything is fine. Yet I still feel unworthy, I still feel ugly, and I still have no fucking idea who I am! And the truth is I do hate you, I resent you so much it’s killing me. I’m not trying to get an apology nor am I trying to disregard your hardships and I might not have killed myself, but let this be a reminder, that you will forever have blood on your hands.
Taking the high road doesn’t mean you can’t be angry. So I sincerely hope you rot in hell.
