My 22nd birthday in 2017 would be the most depressing day of my life. I have no recollection of that day regarding the food I had, or the gifts and messages I received. Instead, I remember clearly the thought occupying my mind on that day: I wished my life would have ended. I reprimanded God and my parents for bringing me into this world without any consideration of my will to be born. I failed to find a single reason to celebrate my birthday since I was not satisfied with how I was living. At one night after that cursed day, I placed a kitchen knife on my wrist, about to let its blade cut my skin. Startled with the coldness of the blade touching my skin, I finally comprehended my mental state. Depression and suicidal thoughts of 2017. They are now remembered as a single chunk of an event, marking a transitional point in my life.
It took a while for me to see that I was going through depression because I wanted to believe I was fine. Although my days would start and end with tears (which surprised me with its ability never to dry), I could not acknowledge the fact that I was not okay at all because I thought I did not deserve to experience depression. The only thing I was struggling with at that time was that I started to question my parents’ words and felt like I was dragging myself into a prison cell whenever going home. It seemed too trivial to be regarded as a “problem,” compared to those who have abusive parents or were sexually assaulted. I did not even have a quarrel with my parents. Instead, I was merely starting to think that I was an independent being with my own desires and perspectives different from my parents’. Having never imagined myself disagreeing with them, I felt shameful, guilty, and angry about myself. Then, these emotions suddenly arrived at one single idea: I was worthless, and so was my life. Still, I told myself I could not dare to have anything like depression and was just being dramatic.
However, after that night with my hand holding a knife, I could not neglect my state anymore. Since these feelings and thoughts were new for me, a new type of action should be performed: asking for help. I had been inclined to solve problems by myself, not wanting to burden others. However, for this case, I knew I had to reach out for help. I went to a mental health center at school and met a therapist in November. Until February 2018, my therapist provided me a space where I could safely face and let out my emotions about my parents and my life. She assured me that children commonly experienced depression when they intended to separate themselves from their parents. As I gradually appreciated what I felt without any judgment, I did something I had never done before: I was talking back at my parents. It might sound rude, but it means that I started to express my own thoughts verbally. My parents seemed to be confused at first, but they eventually adapted to this changing me. As they were also seeing me as an independent adult, I was slowly feeling
less depressed day by day.
It was the toughest time in my life, but, ironically, depression gave me a chance to reflect on who I was and motivated me to change it. From a girl who hated her life, I have become a woman who loves herself. After depression, I no longer underestimate my feelings however trivial they may sound to others because I know the toxic effect which ignoring them can bring. The relationship with my parents will be an everlasting conundrum, but I now hold a belief that my voice will always
have a place at home and my parents will try their best to listen to it. These changes encourage me to be an adult who respects oneself and who knows how to take care of oneself. And, the change begun from the time when I was at the most bottom.