I was the weird kid

For as long as I can remember I’ve been depressed, more or less. When I’m leaning more to the “less” I’m very sensitive for both positive and negative emotions. I’ve heard from my parents that they once found me crying, sitting by myself, over something trivial like my grandfather not having any games and that I felt bad for him. I couldn’t have been more than 4-5 years old. Sure, it was sort of cute, I guess, but I was emotionally torn enough to sit and cry instead of playing with the other children. It didn’t do any wonders for me growing up.

I think I was quite of a hassle as a child. In the upper teens I was full of rage against all of those who’d done me harm growing up, but later I understood I couldn’t have been very easy to be around. It wasn’t the other childrens’ fault they thought I was weird and I don’t blame them anymore. With that said, however, they were really, really mean, and I wonder why the adults didn’t do anything or react more than they did. Being a depressed kid, without even knowing what was wrong, made me feel (and be) terribly lonely. I was weird and very few wanted to spend any time with me.

Many times I’ve thought about how the adults handled the situation. The first time I noticed something was wrong I was six. As early as six years of age I was systematically excluded and as early as six years of age I started to hate myself for being different. As early as six years of age my depressions started to sprout inside of me. But no one reacted.

I don’t know how many times I’ve been to meetings where I, my teacher and one of those who bullied me agreed that he’d stop teasing me and I’d stop being so sensitive since my crying and tries to say something back only made it worse. He was allowed to walk away and I would have to stay and, shamefully, promise I would stop caring when they teased me for.. well, everything they could think of. I’ve spent so many hours locked inside a bathroom to escape the world outside and there have been so many times an adult should’ve done something. Through 4th and 5th grade I was so tense I got migraines several times a week, but this didn’t make anyone react, either.

I didn’t want to tell my parents about what was happening at school. I still don’t know how much they actually heard from my teachers. I have a vague memory of us talking about me exploding with anger once, but then it was the same story again. “Stop being so sensitive, you know they won’t stop if you react on it”. And that was that. I don’t know if it was because they didn’t know, if they didn’t understand or if they didn’t want to understand or see what was happening. It made me not wanting to tell, regardless. I was ashamed of how complicated I was and that “it always was something with me”, so I pushed through even if my self hatred, the bullying and later on the starvation and self harm was about to kill me.

It would take until the middle of 6th grade until someone saw me, and with the gentle push from that someone, my mentor, I contacted the school psychologist. The mentor had been through things herself, making her extra observant for the struggle no one else saw. I thought that things would change now, now when some adults saw me. But it wouldn’t be that easy.

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