Damage

We're all a little damaged.

Everyone in front of me has some kind of baggage, some kind of damage, some old scratches covered up in fresh paint. Some of you have written poems about it. Some have shared it with a close friend, and some have never let it out. Some have forgotten it entirely.

But it's there.

We all know it so constantly that we fail to notice its effects on each other, like we're painted black and blue but we're only seeing skin tones.

The time was right, I thought, to talk about mine a bit.

Diagnosis: 9 years old - Everything is making this kid cry. A fetal ball was my fighting stance. Seemed like my only goal was making my weight match my IQ. Of course, these days, that'd be a good thing.

Diagnosis: 9 years old

Diagnosis: Can't stop crying

Diagnosis: Highly intelligent

Diagnosis: Can't identify with other students

Diagnosis: Major Depressive Disorder

Lucked out being the smart one - most kids couldn't spell the name of the pills I started taking.

I couldn't tell you how long I was in therapy. I can tell you that it happened Tuesday afternoon. Every Tuesday afternoon. And I can tell you that it was getting tense, trying to convince the more skeptical of my classmates that I was at a "doctor's appointment".

These days I laugh in the face of anyone who asks me if I wish I was a child again.

We're all a little damaged.

And some of us try to wear it like cosmetics - to show the world the empty glow of our hollow-eye-shadow.

I have a simple message to deliver - to anybody who will hear it.

Stop trying to diagnose yourself to be different. Being Bi-polar is not a fashion statement. Depression is not a buzz word that means "attend to me, peers" - It's sitting awake at a computer screen at 3am holding a fucking knife to your throat, eyes burning red, shirt collar soaked in tears cried out because you force yourself to keep going. You just can't bear to give anybody another reason to be disappointed in you.

You're accessorizing yourself in the choice methods of the suicidal - and while you wail for attention to your glittering malaise - another father has hanged himself with your necklace. Another mother has cut her wrists with your cufflinks. Another scared teenager has used your shoes to step out into traffic. Another human being has swallowed 30 doses of what you're selling and has died in foaming convulsion while all eyes rest on you.

We're all a little damaged.

We've been there. We've done it. We got the t-shirt.

But none of us actually want to wear it.