TRIGGER WARNING: THIS WRITING CONTAINS LANGUAGE OF SELF HARM AND ISSUES RELATING TO MENTAL HEALTH
I could remember the countless times when I pictured what I would and would not do with my own family. What I would instruct my kids in the future compared to what my family taught me. I was taught to be myself if I did not overstep any hierarchy above me. To keep my head down if the benefits did not outweigh the punishment. People could only imagine how messed up my own mental health got over the past years. If I could not speak my own thoughts, express my own mind, to people who were supposed to make me feel comfortable with myself then I would find other ways to do so. I did many things to myself that my younger self would be ashamed of, but I never would have thought that the little girl would grow up to a point in life where she felt alone with so many people around her.
Depression is something that is unconventional. It is something that people sometimes cannot describe. From the age of 11 to around 17 I was something. Something that was so powerful that it made me doubt my worth and goals. I did not want to die but wanted to feel something in my control, so I did just that. I felt the cold razor ripping my skin as if it was butter. I saw flashes of my childhood within each cut, destroying who I was in the process; the little girl that was once enlivened with life was now forebode with the idea of living. Each stroke against my skin was like painting a canvas and my own blood was the paint, the hue changing from the pressure of each penetration. I made myself feel pain that I caused. Pain that only I have control over. It was something that I was not used to, as if it would get all my thoughts in place.
The idea of commitment did not excite me; I did not want to promise myself that I would get better if I knew at that moment I did not want to. My old self was bound by my own mind simply because I could not express myself in a way that was healthy. I gave up my old habits of reading, drawing, playing basketball, painting, and so many other things. I would write and write when I had no one to listen simply because of the fear of judgment, the fear that I was becoming “too much.” Some of the writing consisted of yelling and anger, others were about sadness and pain, but all of it was merely about my own fear of being in my own skin. To look in the mirror and see a grisly, young, biracial girl who did not know who she was then. When the writing did not work enough, I would paint, and those paintings were my own story, my own autobiography during the dark times of my adolescence.
Most artists would call their work original if they had the idea first. Not me, no I took references and molded it to my liking; something that would fit my situation. I made numerous paintings and drawings yet none of them really stood out to me. That was until 2020 hit and my “depression” increased very quickly.
Since the pandemic, all my paintings have had meaning. Whether or not it was from references or not, they mattered. The first painting specifically was the start of my story. It showed that as a 14 turning 15-year-old girl was struggling. That she did not even think she would make it to 18 years old, here I am today proving otherwise. The painting symbolizes that at the age of 14 I was melting; that I did not know how to help myself because I feared how people would react, specifically my parents. During this time, I was just mad, indignant because no one saw me. People looked at me, but they did not see me. They did not see that their daughter, granddaughter, cousin, sister, and friend were not even there. As if it was a phantom playing my part and behind the shell there was nothing left.
The strokes of each brush and each curve tells the start of my story. The new beginning of a young girl saying goodbye to her youth. I wanted people to like the new me so badly, but at the same time I did not want to change because of them. My painting shows my mentality dissolving. That the burns from the wax are scars of my own during that time. That the face melting is my own identification being questioned. My pain was not noticed, and they were invisible if nobody knew, but I did. I knew that I was hurting and was in pain but never sought help. I thought things could not get worse, but they did. Most people say that life is like a rollercoaster; filled with ups and downs but always moving forwards. For years I have been waiting for my uphill and for years I was met with despondency.
At the age of 16 I was still lost. I was entering my junior year of high school, worrying about college and what the next step would be. Though I still held onto my own secret that I was in agony. That I was growing into my own skin but still felt out of place. That my head did not match my own body and for the simple fact that I felt alone.
The next puzzle piece was a picture of a person with no head but in replacement had roses growing. Besides my actual art skills progressing it showed that my own mentality was also enlarging. Though I was still disoriented, I did not know who I was, what I wanted to do, and how to tell my family my own struggle. The biggest problem of all is I did not know how to stay clean. Not drug wise, but as in self-harm free. It was as if I could not make it past the six months mark. It was a cycle; month one to two was easy, I felt guilty, so I did not inflict harm. Months three to four was still easy but still a little resistance. I felt myself fighting the urges every time something bad happened, but I still felt in control. Months five and six were the worst. It was when everything backfired, and I could not hold onto myself anymore. It was as if my body took control and not my own intellect. That I was just there in my own body screaming to stop but nobody listening, not even myself. So, the one time in a few months I was left with scars, old and new ones, and I would cover them up but at the same time I would not. I wanted people to see that I was beating my battles, but also that I needed help. Though I contradicted myself as every time someone asked if I were okay, I would cower away, again afraid of judgment.
My painting shows a person who was growing but still did not have the mentality and maturity to their wonderful life. That they were still in clouds of dysthymia and did not know how to come down. In the end everything came full circle.
For someone who is struggling, numbers are always important. There are pros and cons with counting when you have depression. You can count the growth of how far you have come, but you can also count the number of times you relapse into whatever addiction you struggle with. In my case I chose to not count anymore. It helped me regain trust within myself and those around me. I started to focus on my own mentality instead of worrying about the feelings of those around me. I focused on rebuilding and replenishing my own reality and not a façade.
The last painting shows me, not characteristically or abnormally but me. The painting drips with paths and journeys. Some started in the past, some started in the middle, and many started the moment I put paint on my brush to the canvas. I may not have made it in my bedroom, filled with reminders of my own downfall, but instead in a high school art room. A room that brings light into the room when the subject is too dark. When I first stepped into this room during my senior year, I felt welcomed, felt that I could be myself and breathe. So, I did, I breathed and expressed the final piece of my story in this very room.
The illustration shows a person from the chest up, and a full head. It shows facial features and roses and plants growing on top of the head. The background is a bright blue sky with light clouds. The plants wrap around the neck and grow continuously. The reality behind this representation is me finally accepting who I am and what I went through. That my depression is a part of who I am and that I am not ashamed of it as it taught me who I am, who I will be, and who I was. I am still learning, still strengthening, that is why the painting is not full. My head is not whole because that is not the truth. The flowers grow continuously as do I. Something so beautiful can also have an ugly side, and that is what the flowers are. There are always two sides to a coin, and you cannot get the full picture focusing only on one side.
Today I am 1 year, 1 month, 18 hours, 34 minutes, 10 seconds, and change of being self-harm free. Last year, during September, my mother told me a story. She told me that a young girl who she once knew was depressed. That she would harm herself and knew why she was depressed. My loving mother explained that the little girl did not have such a childhood as I did, that she did not have people physically there to help her through her mental battle.
My mother continued the story with tears in her eyes and her hands clenching as she remembered the event as if it were yesterday. She continued explaining if nobody were going to help her then she would help herself, so she did. The little girl admitted herself to a mental hospital for three days and when she came out, she was the same person she was when she went in. The only thing that was different was that she had a goal set in her mind, and that she would grow up and have a loving family who knew nothing about what she went through until the time was right. She had a goal that she was going to get better and that she promised herself if her children were under the same circumstances, then she would do everything to understand her children instead of bullying the thought out of their head. The little girl grew up to get through high school, taking night classes and day classes to catch up. She stayed strong, and the days she was not she would pick herself back up and begin fighting again.
Despite all the pain she went through she remains sympathetic towards those who hurt her. My mother explained that those who are strong-headed and determined will be alright in the end. The little girl did just that; she grew up to be a strong woman and found herself. When she was at the age of 25, she gave birth to the most stubborn, rude, baby girl on the planet. The little girl grew up to be my mother who is powerful, adamant, and kind-hearted. For her I am grateful and for her I will fight for myself. Without her my story would be incomplete.
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