Not

When I was thirteen, I was fiery and awful. I was a hell of a teenager to manage. Sometimes I think I was stuck in puberty for a decade. And when I was fourteen I got silent and sad. And progressively sadder right up until some miracle occurred maybe two months ago. And I always, always thought, I brought this on myself. I can’t sleep or concentrate or go a day without crying because I’m a bad person, and I’m not really good enough. And then I went to therapy, like actually went. With the right person (she’s so right). Twice a week, one hour each time. And the thing is, feeling bad was never my fault. And depression is never, ever someone’s fault. It is the outside world’s fault. And it takes a whole lot of talking or time or something to realize that.