Demons.
                                      I feel Attacked.
                                     I feel Unwanted.
                                   I feel like a Burden.    
     

My story begins in fifth grade. My descent started off as normal emotional distress that all people go through at one time or another. Once or twice a week I would feel more down and blue, thinking it was a normal thing and that every preteen went through this phase. What I did not know was that this was the beginning of a six year journey that would test the very strength of my mentality, and the bonds I had created with both friends and family.
                                         Demons.
                                     I feel Useless.
                                     I feel Stupid.
                                   I’m so Uncertain.
     

Fifth grade was a difficult year for me. A week prior to our family trip to Universal Studios, my grandfather lost his battle with Melanoma. It was one of the most agonizing moments of my life. I recall leaving his room to go pick flowers, and when I walked back in he had stopped breathing. I remember his body bag being carried down the stairs by my father and cousins, their facial expressions ranging from emotionless to angry. My grandfather and I were extremely close. My memories are filled with Sunday morning breakfasts cooked at the Medfield Sportsmen’s Club he helped to build, and late afternoon nature strolls through the woods.  He was a walking encyclopedia.  Every question I asked was answered with details and love.
   

When my grandfather died, the thin layer of glue holding my family together disappeared. I remember fake smiles and trays after trays of frozen lasagna being dropped off everyday. My grandmother went into a semi-robotic state, setting up plans for his funeral, cooking every pie imaginable, and scrubbing every counter in the house until you could actually see your face staring back at you on every surface. When she thought no one was looking, her smile would drop from her face and it would revert into something that will be etched into my brain for the rest of my life. Picture a woman, who has never been anything but happy, with tear-filled eyes and quivering lips, staring hopelessly out the kitchen window, oblivious to the world around her, trying to forget her pain.
   

Soon after my grandfather had passed,  I started to have my first “crashes” as I like to call them. I would be sitting in class when all of a sudden a bird would chirp, reminding me of my grandfather's love of nature, and I would burst into hysterical tears to a point where I began to hyperventilate. This happened biweekly. Let's just say my guidance councilor and I became very friendly that year.

                                 Every sentence they speak,
                               is something wrong with me.
     

Then I moved on to middle school, and the problem that I thought would go away just became worse. During the summer before sixth grade I received the worst haircut of my life. Cut badly to an awkward point about my ears, it succeeded in depleting my self-esteem to an all-time low. In sixth grade I had no friends in my classes, causing me to lose myself to myself even more. Each day was a journey into myself and each night was a recapitulation of that same journey.

                       Every thought I have leads to misery.
                                             Demons.
     

The worst grade in middle school was seventh grade. That summer I thought all my problems would be solved if I lost as much weight as a I could. But my bikini body did nothing to raise up my self-worth. Entering seventh grade I felt a little more in control of my emotions. However, thinking I had overcome the “hormones” that were causing all of my problems, I realized I had not even approached happiness.
   

The lowest moment of that year was Christmas Day. As my brother Matthew and I were opening our presents, my mother received a call. My last surviving grandfather had died unexpectedly, bludgeoning all of the happiness from that holiday for my family for the indeterminate future.

                 I don’t know how to handle these feelings.
                                           Demons.
         I feel like I have to hide them, like I can’t tell anyone.
   

Flash forward to ninth grade. My first year of high school. Every week I would have at least two crashes. I would be holed up in my room crying until there were not any tears left in me. I picked apart every part of myself. "You are fat," "you are ugly," "you are stupid," "you have no friends," "why try to be happy anymore?" These thoughts continued on for most of the year.
   

However, when I reached my summer going into sophomore year, my crashes decreased; I had about 4-5 all summer. I thought that I was cured, that I would not have to live with the torment my brain was putting me through. I could finally love myself, and I could finally be proud of all my achievements. I could finally be normal.
                                         Demons.
   

But it all came crashing down on me as soon as I started tenth grade. My crashes happened almost every day, and I became completely miserable. My crashes also became more severe. I would cry and scream, I would hit myself, I would whip myself, I would call myself every bad name I could think of and I would criticize everything I had done or said throughout the day.

                               No one knows my pain,
              No one knows what I have to deal with everyday.
   

 My family also started to notice my despair. I would randomly start to cry, and any comment could set me off to oblivion. Although I am normally a talkative teenager, I started to recede into a shell of myself. My parents grew concerned, my brother was worried, and my friends were scared.
   

 Then one day my intrusive thoughts wandered into a dark territory that was too much for me to handle alone. I didn't feel safe anymore. I knew I needed help and I needed it fast. I made a tremendously difficult but enormously awarding decision. I walked into my mother's room and had one of the hardest conversations I have ever had in my life with her. Years of pent-up emotions came rolling out as rapid as fiery lava flowing down a volcano. I admitted to her that I was defeated, I knew I was broken. I told her of my troubles, of all the things that I had done, all the thoughts that I had, and my day-to-day struggle to control my normal emotions. I cried. I sobbed. I shook. She listened. She hugged. She helped.

                                     Please help me God,
                                make my feelings go away.
     

It turned out to be the best decision I ever made.  I started to go to weekly therapy to learn how to deal with all of my emotions. I have learned strategies to detect when I am about to have a crash, and I have learned how to prevent them. Since I have been in therapy for four months, I have had only a few crashes. I finally feel like I am in control.
     

I did not write this to get attention, or to even win fame or fortune. I just felt it was time to stop keeping my story locked away in the furthest corners of my mind. Someday I want other kids to know what I went through and what I have done so they can help themselves. I do not want anyone else to ever do the things I did. I want people to know that it does get better, and that you are not alone. I want people to know that others do care about them. I just want people to be happy.

                                            Demons.