Depression is a complex disease. People don't really know how it's caused or how to cure it entirely. I don't even know how I became depressed. It could be because of my mom's death or because I'm ugly. Or maybe both.
I go to bed early, like usual, so I could have plenty of time to cry. Sometimes I cry about how embarrassing I am in public or how I've never had a boyfriend or something stupid like that. In this case, it was something embarrassing. Very embarrassing. I slam my head into my pillow and cry some more. The smell of overly perfumed sheets make me choke on my screams, but I don't care. The tears continue to drip from my eyes. The scene earlier today at school keep replaying in my head.
I had no one to sit with at lunch today because my only real friend Skyler was sick. Everyone liked Skyler. She was the type of girl that could talk to anyone and be the best of friends with them. Luckily for me her real personality and mine were almost exactly alike. Besides the fact that I was an awkward lump and she was a social butterfly. I sat down at the lunch table and opened my milk carton to take a sip. I start to think that lunch couldn't be that bad, even without Skyler. Until I reached for my apple. My hand knocked the milk right in-between my lap. I immediately stood up from my chair to realize that the milk had dripped between the legs of my jeans and on my butt. I ran straight out of the cafeteria with everyone watching me, trying holding back my tears and into the office. Right when I walked through the double doors, the fat wrinkly curly headed lady from behind the office glared at me then glanced down at my jeans.
"Aren't you a little old to be wetting your pants?" she said with her stupid nasally voice.
"It's milk," I tried to say defiantly but my voice cracked. My face felt to be getting warmer. "Can I borrow some pants?"
As the lady rolled her eyes, she disappeared into a door beside the counter and then came back later with a pair of sweat pants obviously too big for me.
"The only pair we have. Don't wet them," She shoved the pants into my hands and walked back behind the counter.
I try to stop myself from thinking of the memory. But you can't stop thinking about something when you're trying to forget it. It's like someone inside my head keeps replaying the thought, taunting me, laughing at me. I scream some more into my hands and curl my knees to my chest. Although I purposely have the telly on at a loud volume, I remind myself that I need to keep my voice down incase someone in my household heard me. I wonder if anyone actually can hear me but chose to ignore me. My breaths became ragged.
The sweat pants from the office were on my floor. I get out from my bed and sit on the floor next to them. I find myself angry at them, like they were the reason for my embarrassment. My hands fiddle with them and find a slight hole at the bottom of one leg where I start to rip it in shreds. It was surprisingly easy to tear it apart. Probably shitty material pants that the cheap school bought. I continue to destroy them until all that that left were little squares of what used to be pants.