I have put a lot of thought into my life and who I want to be when I grow up. I’m 15, turning 16 this December. My time is running out and so very fast. I feel imprisoned by the promises I’ve made to myself. I want to become a writer- a successful author- but getting there is harder than I could’ve imagined.

At an early age, we are pressed to come up with what we want to be in life. Sometimes adults make those decisions for us and we’re not able to escape the web of sticky lies. All I’ve known throughout my life is my love for the arts. I went to all of my sister’s musicals and plays that she was in. I was in a few myself. I broke several crayons spending my days drawing when I was younger. I strained my eyes reading in dim light with a nice cup of warm tea on my nightstand every night. 

And it’s not like I’m bad at these things. I’m improving my art every time I draw. I can now draw eyes and lips and noses and faces. And more. 

I can now write this article with ease and without the need for an outline. I just started typing what I know, what I think, what I feel. It isn’t easy to put into words. 

I started reading chapter books right away. Easy ones, but for a first grader, reading chapter books was thought to be an accomplishment. Especially with no prior interest. I was above the expected reading level. 

A gifted kid, so to speak. 

But then I got older. I realized what I wanted to do in my life and what impact I wanted to make. I wanted to make stories. I needed to. An author. An artist. There are so many possibilities in this field. I promised myself that I would do good in school. Be the top student in all my classes. Kind. Open minded. 

Life hit me like a truck. Over covid, depression rooted itself in my very being. It started to grow more than ever. It wasn’t very prominent for the remainder of my sixth-grade year. But it was there. Lurking. Waiting. Getting ready to pounce. Seventh grade came and went. It was a blur, mostly. I remember long conversations with my history teacher. And my poetry club advisor. One time I wrote a poem and my teacher said very bluntly that there was a time when she was there too. 

At the time I was slightly confused, as I only wrote what I knew and felt. Which was like a puddle. A mere annoyance, barely worth anyone’s attention- but there. Later, going back and reading my poems, I realized what she was saying. Depression-though not able to be seen clearly at the time- was there. At first, I thought I was just writing fun poems. I guess not. 

  Eighth grade was a long year. It seemed never-ending. It seemed like no matter what was done, the sadness was firmly rooted and the branches of depression started growing out of my mouth and my eyes and my ears. Like the blood I was losing was my happiness. Necessary, but leaving. That’s the best way I can describe it. Gruesome, I know. 

Long story extremely short, I ended up attempting to take my own life more than once. The day right after school ended, I was hospitalized and sent to a mental institute a couple of hours away from home. I was there for ten days. Put on anti-depression meds. They helped and that was the first time I can truly remember being at peace. 

The day I left, I had a therapy appointment. I instantly connected with my therapist. She diagnosed me with Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD) and Major Depressive Disorder (MDD). She thinks I might have Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) and I’m getting tested in August of 2023. 

I often think about how this could affect everyday life. I get pointed at enough just for being a lesbian. Sometimes by friends who think they’re being hilarious. So what’s to stop them from doing the same if I am diagnosed with ASD? What’s stopping them from treating me differently even though I’m still the same person? 

These thoughts often come to me at night when I’m trying to enjoy a peaceful night’s rest. I distract myself because I have no reason or need for them. I watch a movie. I read a book. I write. I draw. I listen to music. I play solitaire. I fidget with dice.  I go through old sketchbooks and stare at past art. 

I only have a couple of years until I’m legally an adult. Two years until I go off to a college I’ve been wanting to go to for three years and counting. And after that: London. The only thing that could keep me in this prison of memories is a job animating cartoons and movies. Acting, perhaps. No. Maybe not. 

If I’m being frank with you, I’d cut off everyone that I know now. Move to London. Restart. No one knows me. No one knows my baggage. I could be whoever I want to be. 

I often romanticize that life. That’s why I have been thinking about switching schools. To me, going somewhere no one knows you gives you a chance to do what you want with yourself. Perhaps even be yourself. I try to, but days I’m calm and simple are the days my friends think there’s something wrong. Nothing’s wrong. Just tired of a whole charade. 

I’m tired of a lot of things. 

One of them could be me. 

Maybe. 

I don't know. 

I’m just here. I just exist. But I promise there’s nothing wrong. I’m okay. Mentally, I’m a little low. But it’s not like that can’t be fixed. Some people make a full recovery after dealing with depression. Others have to learn to coexist with it. I’m probably going to have to learn to coexist with depression. I’ve been struggling since fifth grade. But until sixth grade, it spent its time shrouded in the light instead of the darkness it needed to flourish. 

People deal with different things. I broke a promise to myself. To be top of my class. Kind to everyone. Always open-minded. 

What do I do now?