The Tower

I grew up in a family that didn’t believe in mental health. In the fourth grade my teacher actually had a conference with my grandparents, who were my gaurdians then, to give them a heads up that I may be depressed. While some parents may have taken that rather seriously, I mean depression at age seven-ish is a little alarming to think about, instead it was brushed off, never spoke about again other than snide remarks. I began processing my emotions as a way of coping, I thought things over a million times; Why was I angry? Why did that make me sad? Why is my joy fleeting while others seem to be perpetually in a state of bliss? I remember one of my friends had a therapist, I even went with her one time and I remember thinking, ‘why would I ever come to a place to speak about my thoughts and feelings when I seem to do it so much better on my own?’ I was twelve when I started self-harming, at first it wasn’t so much a release of any kind but instead something I had found on the internet, Tumblr sweet Tumblr. 101 of how to remove a blade from an eyeliner sharpener. I did it at first with scissors, too scared to really do it with a blade, and then I just wondered what the big deal is, I’m still sad. I self harmed for 10 years, the blade scares me now, not because I am afraid of accidently going to far but instead i’m afraid that I won’t regret it. For 10 years it was my sense of control, I lived in a house with too many people, I ate too much, I got too angry, and then I’d find myself in my room patching myself up and feeling… relief. I can not tell you how many times my mother had caught me, from my arms to my thighs, her gaze finding the cuts like magnets before telling me to stop. That was it, just stop, she did not ask why and if she did she didn’t really want to know for fear she may have to face herself. I was twenty-one when I started therapy, a terrifying feeling, going into an office to speak about things that have been repressed for so long from outside eyes and ears. I tell her I want to be in control, she tells me that I have been holding so tightly to conrol that I no longer would know what control feels like even if I had it. She tells me that taking control is my problem not my solution, I have a death grip on everything i’ve ever had; friendships and relationships alike. She tells me things I have thought before, told myself in a soothing hushed voice, but she tells me from the outside, assuring me that life is not a punishment if I do not want it to be. When I leave her office she tells me to find anything, anything, that brings me joy, I tell her I will, I think for a moment as I make my way back to real life, to my home with my mother, that finding joy is stupid, and she is cruel for telling me something I could have found as an inspo quote on facebook. I see the others, waiting for their appointments, I want to tell them to save their money, instead I make my way outside and I look around for the joy that is my homework assignment. The trees are swaying, the sky is beautiful, the people inside are finding themselves in generations of lost people, and I am looking for the joy that I have somehow missplaced in my youth.