Our imagination, our dreams are always what we wish could happen, but never does. And we all wish that our dreams come true, even though we know that they never will. Our dreams are always impossible, and that’s exactly dreams, for we always want something that we can never have, and are ever ready to sacrifice the lovable, adorable things that we do. In the end, only one thing can be stated, we never know what it is that we truly want.
The problem was never with others. It was always me. Me, myself and I. I could blame it on others as much as I liked, my parents, my relatives, my friends, but the one person I could never lie to, was myself. It was like a dark cloud, ever-circling around me, full of dark, negative energy, and it coming ever so closer to me. My parents tried therapy, and I tried, heck I really, really tried, but to no avail. I just wouldn’t become better. Often the feeling caught up with me that perhaps my depression was causing others harm, but I would just push it away, cause it hurt too. My friends, the ones who had always sought my company, tried to help me, and then left me, one by one. But on the other hand, I was only too glad to see them go, these false people, who like you if you are the biggest bully in town, and then abandon you in your time of need. Nothing would make me feel any better, and all this help that I was supposed to be receiving, which was supposed to make me better, the back of my felt as if they were actually doing more harm than good.
Being Indian, a lot of my time was always dictated towards studying, and this trauma of mine started in my grade ten. Anyone who is Indian, or at least of Indian origin, knows that grade ten is one year nobody fools about, as they affect your studies for the future. I myself had always been pretty serious about studies and was almost always top of the class. But, my level of studies dropped drastically, simply because my brain absolutely refused to gain even a word from my books when I sat down with them. My parents started to feel tensed and worried, evident from the pain their faces’ portrayed whenever they looked at me. I felt shame every single time they did, and no matter how hard tried; they would never give me solitude for more than two minutes. My dreams, day and night, always involved me or someone else getting over whatever it was that was bothering them, but my, and everybody else’s’, efforts went in vain.
I still remember that drowning feeling. The water so cold, so freezing it felt as if my feet were just turning into ice. I tried to swim up as a reflex response, but I had filled my pockets with stones as a precaution. I did not even know what me do it. I can still feel the fear in my chest as I had stood on the rooftop, looking down at the pool from up 5 floors high, thinking about how much it would hurt when i hit the water. On the contrary, the fall didn’t hurt much, but the temperature did. Slowly, slowly my lungs started to take in water, and slowly my eyes started losing consciousness.
The next thing I know, I am in the hospital bed. I slowly look to my left and see my mother sobbing in my father’s shoulders, fat tears leaking out of her eyes. They both rush to me when they notice I was awake, and start hugging me, kissing me. And it was that moment that I understood. I hadn’t been becoming better because I was not helping myself. Something had caused this sadness, but I was the culprit, for when everybody was trying to give me a pick-you-up, I had been dragging myself down. I told my parents a fake story, told them that the window had been open and I had slipped out. They believed me. They simply wanted to hear and believe any story which didn’t involve me trying to do something so horrible to myself, and to them. And so I lived. My life became much better from that day on. I had understood one thing, negativity kills, and so I always tried to be positive from that day onwards. And before I had even noticed, my life, just like my mood, was always in a state of improvement.
