My Mental Health is Slowly Fading Away
A short memoir about my struggles with depression and anxiety.
I was 15 years old the first time I told my parents I was going to take my own life.
Another crazy fight that stood dangerously close to the borders of domestic violence had just erupted between them, like many times before. The story was too familiar.
Scared for my mother, I intervened.
I had taught myself it was my duty to always stay alert for any signs of what could become another physical confrontation between my parents so I could put myself in the middle and break it. It would take me many years to eventually learn what the term PTSD meant.
I was a protector. My brain was not instinctively wired for violence — unlike my father, who immediately took my need to look after my mother as a disrespectful challenge against him.
He grabbed and threw me into my bed, keeping a hold of my limbs, so I wouldn’t get up. He screamed to my face as we wrestled for a while.
When I finally got a hold of myself and broke free from his grasp, I said the words that probably haunt my family to this day. I threatened that I would kill myself because I hated my life, and it was all their fault.
