Personal Narrative: The Pain

“I think she has depression, something's wrong with her.” I had been listening to the hushed murmur between therapists and my mother for weeks. It seemed as if I was going through the motions with every doctor giving me a full diagnosis less helpful than the last, insisting I take medication regularly to suppress my emotions. Answering the question “What’s wrong?” became more routine than a mailman delivering mail. The truth of the matter was that no therapist would fill the isolation and emptiness I felt inside with their rubber smiles and positive catchphrases. In fifth grade I overcame the biggest obstacle I have ever been challenged with. I was always a hard working student, who was friendly and had many friends. But it takes one nasty comment from a jealous individual for the rest of your classmates to conform

But you know what’s not funny? Being tormented by people you had been calling your friends, feeling sick to your stomach getting onto the bus because kids eyes sunk into your soul like daggers, looking in the mirror everyday and hating every ounce of who you are, and worst of all, not understanding why you were the target board for their arrows of hate. No one understands the pain I went through when I went to school, I was being bullied so often that sitting alone in the hallway between the principal´s and secretaries office was the only place I felt secure and guarded from the evil outside. I sat in that dark, quiet hallway in silence completing my schoolwork for days. Each morning I would scheme new ways to avoid going to school, but you can only fake sick so many times. Teachers and authority all believed there was something wrong with me, they never believed me when I told them how the real story. After trying to get someone to believe me for so long, I eventually gave up and surrendered to the idea that it was just me and my shadow fighting this battle