The more I think about it, the more I wonder- how did I get through my grade school years alive?

For the past hour or so, for some reason, I've been looking at this website dedicated to young people who have committed suicide because of bullying. How did I get there...? There was a link on some YouTube video, I don't remember which one. The comment I saw over and over was, "Bullying is a part of life, kids today are too sensitive and they just need to put up with it. It's nothing serious." Right. Tell this to the sensitive kids, the ones who cry when their pet inchworms die, or look in the mirror every day and want to tear off their faces in exchange for prettier ones. Tell the kids who understand the gravity of words that the ones they're hearing have no effect. No, it's not just a part of life. It happens to a lot of people, maybe, but that doesn't make it a rite of passage.

Most of the time, I do my best to put my grade school years behind me. When I think about walking through those halls, I get a sick feeling in my stomach. I don't like remembering what happened over the course of those eight years, and I really don't like remembering the person I was back then. Thank God my memory for detail is terrible. Even so, and even though six years or more have passed, there are things I can recall with astonishing accuracy. A kid in my gym class (who now goes to my college), after picking teams for volleyball: "Oh man, we're gonna win!! CARRIE's on their team!" Knocking over a box of pencils in the fourth grade and cringing as the popular girls yelled at me for being a stupid clutz. Farther back, in second grade, the popular girls building a Beanie Baby house out of cardboard and telling me I couldn't help. I think that's when it all started. The best "friend" who turned on me. The guy who made fun of me for eight years for being short and called my brother a retard to my face.

The last person later apologized. I've forgiven him now, especially since I realized that he's one of the shortest guys I know and has some learning disabilities himself. Clearly, he's had some self-esteem issues for a long time. I understand now that the people who made fun of me for every conceivable flaw- being short, having an imperfect family, being terrible at sports, reading all the time, liking cats, being in the "smart classes," not bothering to fit in with the popular kids- probably had similar self-esteem issues. I get it, and like I said, I try not to reflect on it too much. Do I forgive them? I guess so. I never really stopped to think about it. It's not their fault, after all, that I was an incredibly sensitive kid who took everything they said to heart. (Sensitivity... it's belittled and ignored, an embarrassing trait that makes boys sissies and girls whiners.) Regardless, I don't think I'll ever understand being so deliberately malicious to someone else. Whether someone is particularly vulnerable or not, it just doesn't make sense to me. You make someone feel terrible about themselves, you feel guilty afterwards (maybe), and what does it get you? A temporary nicotine patch for the self-esteem addict? I forgive these people, I think, but I hope their memories are better than mine. I hope they can remember the look on my face when they threw who I was/am/was back in my face.

It's not like I needed help, remembering. My hair was always flat against my face, my dull face with its ugly acne, the crooked teeth in my mouth that never smiled because I hated my stupid teeth and my face and my body. My unathletic body, too short, too round, too flat in the wrong places. Sometimes I look in the mirror and all I can see is her, the Old Carrie, with her halfhearted expression that probably didn't fool anyone. She's never going to get a boyfriend, be loved by someone, be accepted, be happy. Even though I know it's not true and I'm not her, it didn't happen, I can't seem to shake her off. I've never worked up the courage to try out for a sport, and I only went to one floor flag football game before finding an excuse to disappear from the field. I turn away when a boy calls me beautiful, because the Old Carrie knows that couldn't be right. There is a part of me that believes, no matter how talented or pretty or smart or normal I get, I will always be her, this unlovable thing who writes in her pink glitter diary about how much she hates her life.

Knowing these things, hearing stories about teenage depression and suicide don't surprise me. They're terrible and awful and sad, but I understand them. I wish I didn't, sometimes. When I think about the eight years I spent hating the person I was, or that other people said I was, statistics like these make sense.

http://blog.okcupid.com/index.php/2009/10/26/mofo-and-other-mysteries/

Strange source, I know. But regardless of their origin, the numbers are at once startling and comforting

.

Seeing the second one, especially, makes my heart freeze up. What if I hadn't been just short and nerdy and kind of weird? What if I was a lesbian? What if I had a disability? What if I had been abused? As it was, reading my old journal scribblings is still gut-wrenching. These days, I can't believe I was ever so hopeless, although if I close my eyes, I can bring back everything I used to feel. And I get it.

Sometimes I feel like the people who met me in high school or after only know part of the story. I was talking to a friend yesterday about why I want to go into counseling, and we were talking about how there's such a stigma around mental illness. Probably because depression still falls under the category of "illness," when 20% or more of people experience it during their lifetimes. That's part of the reason I decided to write this- I'm tired of hiding the parts of myself that people don't like to see. For most of my life, I haven't been able to call myself a happy person. That's how I know not to blame my now-occasional "moodiness" on something external. I don't know where it comes from, and I don't know why. Maybe it's because I was that sensitive little kid who got attached to inchworms and books and people from all over. I've never been able to completely turn off that part of my brain that thinks too much- I remember telling my mom, when I was 8, that I knew what the meaning of life was and that mine should be used to help people. I think that's why artists and writers and extremely intelligent people are prone to depression: the thoughts that inspire them are the same ones that take over and won't let them rest. Maybe it's because depression runs in my family. Maybe it's because of various extenuating circumstances. Whatever the cause(s), I've only recently learned how to be happy, or at least stable, the majority of the time. I've been to counseling before. I've taken antidepressants, for a brief period of time, although I'm not sure they helped more than they hurt (more on that some other time, perhaps). I've hurt myself on purpose, physically and emotionally. And while I've never attempted to take my own life and can now say that I never would, I've given it more than just a passing thought. The scary thing is that 55% of people have done the same. 20% of the people walking around on the earth today have felt the way I've felt. Again, I really don't know whether to call it disturbing or comforting, because it gives rise to both in me.

Maybe my close friends already know or have pieced together these things about me. Maybe they haven't. Since I'm not the kind of person [anymore] who tells her life story to anyone who will listen, I usually don't share these details unless I feel like it's necessary, whether for my own relief or to help someone else. I thought about making this post private or protected, as I've done with some posts before. This is definitely personal enough to qualify. However, I realized that this would defeat the purpose in writing it. Yes, it was therapeutic to write (thank you, ever-patient Xanga), but more so than that, I wrote it with a purpose in mind. The stigma about depression and mental illness is not going to go away any time soon if no one is willing to talk about it. Maybe I'm not starting a movement here (or maybe I am, you never know- that would be great). What I am is one person who is willing to be honest, in the hopes that maybe more will follow suit.

And now, for the positive note on which to end this thoroughly depressing topic: I'm getting better. At least, I think I am. It felt strange and incredibly uncomfortable and self-indulgent to write all about grade school, which I think is a sign that I've begun to move on from those years. I got through them alive, and I'm proud of it.While I think I've adequately shown that they still affect me, and while I believe that the past in general is important and impactful, I don't let the person I used to be control me anymore. It's so hard sometimes to think of myself as a grown-up, as someone other than that girl stuck in those painful years, but I'm beginning to recognize all of the ways in which I've changed since then. I've become a better, more stable person, and the amount of growing I've done (even in the past year or two!) astonishes me. I hate to remember the Old Carrie, but when I can think about it objectively, I realize how unlike her I am. I'm trying not to let her have such a hold over me as she used to. In fact, the song that plays on my site (not the public one, for some reason) is "Move Along" by the All-American Rejects. It's been that way for over a year, I think, and it's still relevant every time it plays.

I acknowledge my past. I remember it when it's beneficial to remember. I try to forgive and forget the worst parts. I turn the things I've experienced into lessons I can learn from. I acknowledge that I can be different from now on. And I move along.

Fine then, fuck you!

[not intended for anyone who would actually be reading this, because God knows he doesn't give a damn]

"Superboy and the Invisible Girl
Son of Steel and Daughter of Air
He's a hero, a lover, a prince
She's not there...

I wish I could fly
And magically appear and disappear
I wish I could fly
I'd fly far away from here...

Take a look at the Invisible Girl
Here she is, clear as the day
Please look closely and find her before she fades away"

~part of Superboy and the Invisible Girl, from Next to Normal

It's quiet. My dad and brother are out for a long walk, my mom is somewhere in the house. And I'm here. Quiet. I don't want to listen to music, talk to anyone, do anything but breathe and maybe write a little. I don't really want to think, but I can't seem to help it. I'm just sitting here, alone, not sleeping or eating or reading or doodling or acting on any other muted impulse I may have. I just want everything to stay still.

I've come to the conclusion that unless I do something wrong or don't meet expectations, I'm invisible. And partly it hurts, and partly I'm okay with that. When it hurts is when they argue, endlessly, while I'm in the next room and can hear every word they say and either they've forgotten I'm there or it doesn't matter. There's not very far I can go anyway. I hear every gory detail, lives laid out raw for others to examine and judge and reject. I don't know if my overhearing means I'm meant to judge too, but it's not what I want. The truth hurts, and usually I prefer even hurtful truth to a more pleasant facade, but really, do I need to know everything? When I'm okay with it is when being invisible gets me what I want, which is to be alone for hours on end during which I don't have to pretend to like interacting with people. I don't have to try to smile if they can't see it anyway.

I don't know whether it's a phase or a mood or a result of being back home, but I kind of hate everyone and everything right now. It's not quite that strong-  I don't have enough energy in me to feel actual hate. It's something quieter. It's a soft shattering of the hope left in me, a gentle, gradual break in my heart. I'm losing my faith in humanity. What always used to define me, gave me meaning, made me stand out from everyone else- my optimism about people and life in general- is fading away. It's sad and scary as I'm watching what has always defined me slip away, but nevertheless, I'm letting it go. I want to say that it will come back, but I don't know. I hope this isn't just a part of getting older. I want to see faith (if not always feel it) when I sit in church, and not just see people desperately grasping at something to give their lives meaning. I want to see families that love each other and not wonder what they're hiding, how that could possibly be real. I want to believe people when they say their intentions are good, and not conclude that they're just lonely or desperate or otherwise completely selfishly motivated. I know these things aren't always true. I know there is love and hope and kindness in the world. I just can't seem to see it much anymore.

I don't know what this means. I do know that it hasn't been this bad between my parents for awhile, or at least, not that I can remember. I know my brother is getting worse every day, and it is painful in the deepest part of me that I can't do anything about it, and that maybe no one can. I know that I feel like I used to: numb, vaguely worthless and solitary. I know what's happening- people are falling apart; the evidence is in front of my eyes. What I don't know, is why.

I can function. I can act like everything's fine and talk about anything but and focus on the little details to avoid thinking about these huge things. Maybe that's what everyone does- I don't know. It isn't real and it doesn't feel right or honest. But right now all I want to do is curl up with the comforting and familiar and not think about all of this. Reality can wait. I'll be sitting here. Quietly. Until someone notices.