Sixteen
Sometimes it was screaming,
and crying
and smashing plates.
Other times it was a quiet numbness
and, "Oh my God, why am I not dead?".
Some days I was happy,
the Prozac kicked in,
and I was able to go the whole day without losing it.
A dark cloud loomed over me constantly.
A reminder that I had a disease
and couldn't escape.
Sometimes, depression was falling
into the deep end of the pool.
I was drowning
and could not breathe,
yet everyone around could.
Sometimes, it was curling up in my closet,
hiding from the universe.
Other days it was taking a five-hour nap
because facing reality was too complicated.
Some days I would eat a lot,
others nothing at all.
Depression; feeling way too much
and nothing at all
at the same time.
It was constant
visits to the doctor,
convincing them my suicidal thoughts had gone away.
They hadn't.
That suicide contract taped to the refrigerator door
was a constant reminder of, "Oh right, I can't kill myself".
Depression was mascara-stained pillowcases
from crying myself to sleep.
Nails that were hardly existent,
because I had managed to bite them down so much.
It's sweatpants and an old tee shirt
because I didn't feel beautiful in anything.
Finding the energy to pour milk on my cereal
was a struggle.
My mother constantly worried.
My father can't recognize his little girl.
My little brothers had lost someone to look up to.
Every day was a reminder that I had fallen
nine steps backwards.
Knowing the rest of my life would be a turbulent cycle
of sadness and fear.
I plummeted into a deep darkness,
a place, few have ever been.
Depression was not being able to take it anymore
and at the age of sixteen I tried to take my life.
Despite my greatest efforts to leave this earth,
God was not ready for me to enter his kingdom.
It dawned on me that I should have been dead.
My calculations
and stashing pills were no match
for God's greater plan.
I was supposed to be here.
Tears rushed from my eyes
and in that one moment
I had never felt more alive.