Famous female author, Joan Didion, wrote “The Santa Ana” to educate readers about the reactions of the LA population to the notorious winds in the area. She writes about how “The winds show us how close to the edge we are” (Didion 47). Every person has a different metaphorical wind that forces him or her to fall off of their own personal cliff, and mine is depression. Depression is a commonly misunderstood mental disorder. Some people even use it as a description or an emotion, for example, “Oh my God, last night I was feeling super depressed,” which downplays the seriousness of the illness. It doesn't help that the topic of mental illness is taboo in our society which results in very few people truly understanding what sufferers of this disorder
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All of the things that had given me a sense of accomplishment just felt like chores that needed to be done. When it started, my depression was only minor so it just sucked the joy out of everything I did. Then, in freshman year, I wasn't just feeling the lack of happiness, but also persistent sadness. Something as simple as not understanding a homework topic that everyone else immediately got would make me break down in tears. Of course it seems like an overreaction when I look back on it but at the time it was the last straw on this camel's back. Situations like that started to happen one or more times a day and I had no way to calm down or feel better. That's when my self harm started. At first it took me ten minutes of psyching myself up before I could use a dull Exacto knife to make a wound that wouldn't even break my skin. Then, like any other addiction, what once made me feel satisfied and relieved wasn't enough anymore. I started to make more and more scratches. Experiment with weapons. Push harder and harder. Every time I found a way to improve my cutting, I would feel so exhilarated for a week or two. Then, once again, it wasn't enough. Self-injury is a slippy slope of addiction and mutilation which I've been my own victim to for four years, unable to control my own need to feel something other than
All of the things that had given me a sense of accomplishment just felt like chores that needed to be done. When it started, my depression was only minor so it just sucked the joy out of everything I did. Then, in freshman year, I wasn't just feeling the lack of happiness, but also persistent sadness. Something as simple as not understanding a homework topic that everyone else immediately got would make me break down in tears. Of course it seems like an overreaction when I look back on it but at the time it was the last straw on this camel's back. Situations like that started to happen one or more times a day and I had no way to calm down or feel better. That's when my self harm started. At first it took me ten minutes of psyching myself up before I could use a dull Exacto knife to make a wound that wouldn't even break my skin. Then, like any other addiction, what once made me feel satisfied and relieved wasn't enough anymore. I started to make more and more scratches. Experiment with weapons. Push harder and harder. Every time I found a way to improve my cutting, I would feel so exhilarated for a week or two. Then, once again, it wasn't enough. Self-injury is a slippy slope of addiction and mutilation which I've been my own victim to for four years, unable to control my own need to feel something other than