When we flash by to any childhood memory, we tend to go back to those where it’s familiar, heart-felt, and where we felt safest. Waking to those Christmas mornings, where we woke up to the most delicious and concentrated smell of bacon. Running during those sun covered days where we refused to go anywhere if it wasn't outside to escape the monogamy of the classroom and create on your own venture. The playground didn’t do it, apologies to my beloved slide. I can’t say I felt close to those memories; the most emotionally sharp and clear have been in my early childhood. I can’t say they've been the best, but I can say they've made me cherish every bit of who I am now. I can make any event substantial, but I can’t make all of them memorable. The ones that haunt me and characterize my person now are the ones that will stay with me for years to come. I can say I truly do love my life now, but it has changed. It’s just taken those fights between my family, dark days, and massive demotivation to become who I am. I can’t live on all the good times because those aren’t the ones that have defined me. My way to go back to the worst and best memory that I hold I need to show what tore my family apart, but left in itself a tiny little part of happiness.
I buried my sullen, tear-drenched face into my pillow. Another fight had broken out and the dreaded “D” word came out once again. Divorce. Nothing could be done for my internal agony, as I became the most unsettled person in the house. Not even the feeling of my sister stroking my hair could calm my soul. This was more than any injured heart; this was a loss of stability and reliance to me. This was another of the moments I thought life was over. As my moans subsided, I didn’t know what was hurting. I didn’t have many people to rely on besides my own family, and they were slowly falling from my grip. All the emotions I had invested there were what mattered. I’d always taken it that way. The darkness that stays in the corner of your room as a kid grew, but I kept the hall light on.
My mom never drove me to dance practice, or made treats for my class on my birthday like most others, she just existed; depression took a toll on everyone, but it hit me the hardest. My mother promised me many things, and not just ice cream if I got an A+, and took me several places. Her depth seemed limited, she never sounded sincere nor did she have great emotion with what she said. She was the poison in my life I could never digest. The times I would spend with her were short, and they usually ended in her yelling and going back to her bed, while I hid my tears behind my rooms’ door. The only person who would show me the true kindness of a mother was my father. He wasn’t around much because he had a lot on his plate, taking on both the mother and father role, and taking care of three young children. The depth and flow of his voice brought me the most comfort. My father never offered a solid piece of advice, but in his overpowering voice, he’d tell me life was worth living and it was for enjoying. My mother was abusive with several things – her emotions and her actions. I was innocent, but I knew my mother wouldn't change, so I had to change her. I would pray every night for something to change, that I could just have a normal life. I held onto my faith every moment I could until every string broke inside me, I’d never let go. I was too young to know what it was, but I knew she was sick, very sick. She wasn't like other moms who said they would spend time with their children. She didn't show us that she loved us; she didn't even acknowledge us for the majority of the time. There were days, even weeks, when she would only come out of her room to go to work and the second she got home she would go straight back to her bed. My mom passed down many characteristics to me, her nose, her laugh, and her depression. After a long and victorious battle, it awakened through the ashes and rubble and silently slipped into my life again. This time it was not through my mother, it was through me. Filled with excitement for the future, I was blind to the gradual darkness that overcame my mind. It was patient, stealthy, and just as unforgiving as before. With every passing day it added just a little more pressure. It was too late when I finally felt it, it had control. I was unprepared. The white coat told me “it” was depression when I was seventeen. The hardest part of my depression for me is not have a real reason to be sad all the time; my life has gotten better since I was a child. My mom is getting help for her depression and she’s better, but yet I’m under its influence for the majority of the time. I feel selfish for being depressed because there are so many people whose lives are worse than mine but yet they seem happy and always present a smile on their face. I’m not better yet, it is and it will continue to be an uphill battle until I am at full stature. I have realized, no matter how sullen my heart was, there were better times ahead. No matter what became the worst things in my life, there was always a new horizon. If you put my life into a satirical perspective, my worst experience came and sucked the life out of my innocence. I chose to live my life through the emphasis of bad friends, mistakes, and things out of my control, because the good never characterized me quite so well. We always see heartbreak, loss, and death as an awful thing. But in the words of Peter Pan, “to die, live, and love would be an awfully big adventure”. It isn’t until something pure cracks ahead that the light is let out, that our new adventure begins.