I believe it started at the end of eighth grade. At home, my mom announced that we’d be moving to Lima. I stood there in the kitchen, blinking. Of course, I think I knew it would’ve happened; my father had gone to a job interview in the States for the job in Lima. it was almost certain that he would get the job. Still, I hoped and prayed every night that we wouldn’t go. But at the same time, I was looking forward to it. It’ll be a good experience; you’ll make friends; you’ll be able to start a new chapter in your life and you’ll have a better education than in Canada, was what I told myself.
In Lima, my mind finally became the most dangerous place I had ever known. I began to refer to it as ‘The Mafia’; it would drown me in countless thoughts and wouldn’t let me go. The thoughts themselves made me cry myself to sleep for the first few nights; I thought of home, I thought of my seemingly perfect life in Vancouver. My thoughts ranged from nostalgia and homesickness to self doubt and bullying. That little voice in my head, the ‘Mafia’, was satisfied. But not enough, though.
In school, everyone knew what they were doing; they all had an established routine. I didn’t. I got lost, got confused with the material, was stubbornly shy and was on the brink of losing it. Math was the main problem; all the formulas and material were much more advanced than in Canada. It all didn’t make sense. I’d stay up late with my dad trying to make heads or tails of the homework, always crying in the end hoping that at least one day it would all make sense. With no routine to keep me busy, The Mafia used this vulnerability to fuel itself even more.
The Mafia had consumed my thoughts so much that I couldn’t do anything without it coming back. At school, if I didn’t understand something, I couldn’t properly communicate. The Mafia used that to its advantage. At home, I would cry because I didn’t understand the material. It used that, too. Any time I was enjoying myself, it would say things like What about that thing you said? or These people aren’t your friends; you barely know them! even things like He doesn’t like you, he’s just being nice out of pity because you’re pathetic!.
I should probably add that through this ordeal, I never flinched. I never asked for help. My facial expression didn’t show anything wrong, so my parents didn’t suspect anything. That made things so much worse. Every time that I didn’t ask for help when I could’ve, The Mafia would just get worse. I didn’t tell my parents because they had their job to sort out, the house, the move; all that stuff. They didn’t need to worry about me if they didn’t have to. Strangely enough, I wasn’t suicidal or fully depressed, either. It was just something different.
However, with every day that I spent here, every moment that made me feel like this could potentially be home, The Mafia lost its power. I made new friends that made me laugh and I surrounded myself with my passions like music, English and art. My family and I slowly began to settle in and get the move organized. It all began to feel very home like. Over Christmas break, my older siblings visited from Canada and we spent a lot of time together. We went to the beach and The Mafia never showed up once. I laughed at that and became so happy and free. Then, we all went to visit Vancouver. I was so excited to see my friends and so happy to see home.
But the excitement didn’t last very long; everything felt wrong for some reason. Everyone felt so different and that was weird, seeing as I was the one who had to start from zero in a new land. It wasn’t that I had been forgotten or left out, it was just a strange sense of unbelonging. I’d hang out with them, but soon realised that we were different now. It didn’t bother me as much; I knew that they still loved me and that we would still be friends. However, I still found myself doubting our friendship from time to time. But The Mafia never came to torment me through this period of doubt. I thought about it on the way back to Lima and when school started again. It wasn’t until now, in August, that I realize why The Mafia had stopped bullying me after the break and why everything felt strange in Canada; I had become so accustomed to Lima and spent more time with my friends there that Canada was the stranger now.
Looking back at it, I should’ve asked for help or at the very least talked to someone. Had I gone for help at the beginning, this whole thing would’ve been over a lot faster. I thought I could get over it by myself, but really I was just afraid of asking for help and how my parents would react. I think that a lot of teenagers go through this at some point in time; they think their family and friends are too busy for them, or they’re afraid that they won’t understand. Bottling up your emotions and acting tough just because you’re afraid of something is, honestly, not worth it. I’m no therapist or whatever, but I know for a fact that asking for help is never a bad thing and that your family will never be too busy for you.
Was this a mental illness? I don’t know. Should I have gone for help? Definitely. But as much of a horrible experience that this was, I don’t regret coming to Lima. I love the people here and somehow I can relate more to them than my friends in Canada. I have made friendships that will last a lifetime, memories that will never fade and have become a different person than that scrawny 14 year-old in Vancouver who thought she was this and all that. So, not a bad year.
