Little bit about me.

Keep in mind I’m not normally this depressing. But this was written when I was rather depressed so it might come off that way.

I regret things; everyone does at some point in their life. I regret disappointing the people I love. I regret not telling certain people that I love them. I regret being a failure at everything I do. We all fall down at some point and we are supposed to get up and try to do better, I however, just seem to fall deeper and deeper. I may climb back up a little bit but every time I do I fall twice as much as I had climbed. Mind you this is not a oh pitty me my life sucks. I have enjoyed most of my mistakes though I know I shouldn’t do them again. I take things as they are and try to better myself, but when I do my family seems to think the choice I have made is a detrimental decision. My grandparents, both of whom I care about very much and strive to be like in my own way, see me and want the best for me but if I don’t do it their way then they see it as me screwing up my life. Sad thing is as much as I love them, they hardly know who I really am.
Let me tell you the basics about me, because you wouldn’t understand how I’ve come to be the way I am with out me telling you. I was seven or eight when my father died, and before him I had experienced the death of family members before. After he passed away I gained an understanding of how life is. We are here and we make impacts however small it may be on every person we have met in the time that we have. A year or two later my mother and I were moving in with my mother’s boyfriend. I was in fourth grade at the time. I didn’t fit in that well but I did make some friends. Time went on and by sixth grade I was a very different person. I experienced another death of a close relative, my father’s mom. My cousins and I called her Nanny, she wasn’t anything like my mother’s parents she was just honest. She didn’t sugar coat anything and she was the nicest lady on the planet at the same time. My father’s side of my family pretty much fell apart after she passed and only recently have started to reconnect. At thirteen I started to harm myself my parents and I did not get along and I was bullied by tbe kids at my school for dressing the way I did. The bullies didn’t bother me much they pissed me off more than anything, it was the way my parents treated me that got to me the most. My mother did not play the roll of the parent my stepfather did. He would be the one that punished me and both of them would yell at me when giving me a lecture. It was the way they twisted my words and the way they made everything my fault that got to me. I would try to explain myself and they’d turn everything I said into something else. They said I was a selfish, self centered brat that only cared about herself and didn’t give a dam about other people. They put me in therapy when the school found out that I was cutting myself, but when it came time for me to tell them why I felt the way I did they would tell me I was wrong to feel that way. The therapist would tell them they were wrong and try to get them to talk about why they talked to me the way they did, but they would just lie and say they didn’t know. They eventually pulled me out of therapy because things seemed to hit a hiatus. However, they would only get worse as I got older, and at one point durring a yelling session between them and I when I was in my freshman year of high school I told them that I still cut myself and that I did it because of them. My mother just rolled her eyes and told me I was stupid and walked away.
My depression got worse and worse until one night when I was sixteen and my parents and I were just finishing up with dinner. It was the end of summer and I was going to go back to school soon, and that night we got into a really bad fight. They told me that if I continued living the way I was I was going to be nothing but a failure at life. That I was going to be nothing. That was just average and that I did everything half assed and I would end up being one of those bums on welfare. After that fight I took a bottle of Amitriptyline to which I was prescribed for migraines and half a bottle of sleeping pills. The only thing I remember clearly after that is saying, “Don’t worry, I was training with master Yoda.” That was in response to “Are you okay?” After that the trip to the emergency room is just a blank. The doctor asked if I had done it on purpose, and I told him no. My parents knew I had lied but took me home anyways. Time went on and I became numb to everyone and put on a fa├žade that I was fine. I became used to being used by people; weither it was friends or lovers that did so. I just lived because I apparently couldn’t even off myself correctly, and the only things that kept me going are; my grandparents, my close friends, and work. My grandparents are blissfully ignorant of the fact that I’ve been depressed all of these years or that I’ve even tried to kill myself. My friends have helped me get my mind off of things when the weight of all the crap I carry in my mind gets too much to bare. And work helped me to get away and escape. It forced me to focus on things other than my home and my love life.
I am nineteen now and I no longer live with my parents. It still kills me to know that I will never be what they want me to be. What kills me more is that now my grandparents see me as my parents see me. They ask me why I moved out and tell me it was a poor decision. I don’t tell them why, I just say it’s for the best and that I’m going to be happier. They just say it’s a bunch of nonsense, but what’s done is done. I still have depression issues as well as anxiety problems. I deal with it in ways I know how to. As I said before I have regrets concerning my family, and at this point I don’t know if I will ever resolve them. I hope that I will but hoping has never done me much good. Please note that I write this not for pity or sympathy, but just to set my mind in order because today I feel very reminiscent of that night when I was sixteen. This is just so I can think and evaluate.