Once upon a depression


Once upon a time, there was a girl, a lovely and happy six-year-old girl. Her mother would always do anything for her, her father was her hero, and her brother was her guardian. Life was pretty, life was fun.

She was dreamer. She could see the beauty in world, in people. She loved to draw, to express her love for life. She was pretty good at it indeed. Like every other child, she had dreams, lots of dreams. Most of them impossible, but some were real. She would often lie sleepless in bed, imagining worlds of dragons, magicians, fairies, and princes.

She was always called cute, always called precious child, a gift, a princess.

She was smart, creative, sensitive, and selfless. She loved everyone, and everyone returned her love. She was pure, she was innocent.

Her eyes were crystal clear, full of life, mirroring the image of a lovely forest. You could get lost in them, lost in the beauty of the world. When your eyes locked hers, you could instantly forget about the cruelty and the gore.

A year passed, and her brother suddenly started drifting away, fading. He was taking a different path, a path, which didn’t involve her. She was sad.

He didn’t protect her anymore; he didn’t say lovely words to her.

She couldn’t hear the lovely nicknames anymore. No more ‘princess’, ‘angel’, ‘darling’, ‘lovely’, or ‘sunshine’.

When her mother would come home, she would call out for the girl and burden her up with all housework. She didn’t oppose of course, since her mother was tired. When her father would come home, he would just eat and leave again immediately. No one knew where he went. The girl still saw only beauty in the world, and her passion for art had grown. Every Saturday she would go to town in the afternoon, and enjoy two fun hours of drawing and creating new things. She had made friends there, her only real friends. Every week she couldn’t wait for that day to come, so she could enjoy hanging out with her friends again.

Seven years passed like a blur, seven years of grey and empty days, following the same routine. Seven years of loneliness, yet happiness. Her brother had lots of friends, and was rarely home. Her mother and father would leave the house every night, enjoying themselves in the company of their companions. The girl still did housework, but she didn’t complain. In front of her friends, she would pretend that her mother always did everything for her, because it seemed that was the life of every other girl she knew by then.

And she wanted to be like every other girl. Two years ago, her mother called her a failure for the first time, a dumb child. A year and a half ago her father hit her for the first time because she opposed his request. A year ago her biggest dream was broken, shattered. She was forced to attend a school she didn’t wish to, because her parents wanted her to become an engineer. They didn’t let her go to town to visit her friends. She would lie, that she was going to the bookstore, or to buy clothes. Without their acknowledgement, she still went there, and only there she was happy. Her brother started calling her a freak because she played video games and watched anime.

She didn’t get it, was she forbidden to do so?

Her mother seemed to like that nickname, and started using it too, but the girl couldn’t tell anyone. She knew people would judge, they always judge.

Her father sometimes hit her, because he was angry or not pleased by her answer. He yelled at her face. He would fight her mother too. She had started writing, she expressed her feelings that way, and she became shy and afraid to speak. Reading, writing, drawing and listening to music kept her sane. She started hating men, women and started hating herself.

She started cutting her wrists, the anxiety and depression were too much for her, and the fact she couldn’t sleep at night only made it worse. In summer she wore long-sleeve t-shirts with the excuse she was cold. If anyone saw she said it was the cat. She became irritable, everything annoyed her. She cried every night and wondered to herself why she was born. And where was the love?

The answer was long gone. Her family was falling apart, and she knew it. She didn’t enjoy listening to happy music. She liked sad, slow songs; she listened to them on the computer every night, when no one was home. Then she felt peace.

She cried in the shower, her mother called her insane, because she shared a thought. That people deserved to die more than animals. She was the only one who saw how ugly the world was. She didn’t trust anyone anymore; she looked at people with hatred in her eyes. She didn’t care. She would die anyways, right?

Her mother called her fat and scolded her for eating too much. After that, whenever she looked in the mirror she saw a pig, a fat girl with no beauty, no charm.

One day, the time had come. Her mother was angry, yelling at her for no reason, insulting her. Her last words where bitter, filled with hate, as she spat them out like venom.

”Why don’t you go kill yourself, you worthless girl?!”

These words hit the nail on the head. The girl didn’t hesitate anymore; she knew what she had to do. And two days later, with a knife lying beside her, she began to write her last story.

Once upon a time, there was a girl….


By Bryanna Comley Smith


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