A Little 'Bout Me

you want to learn more about me

you want to see through my eyes

feel the pain that overwhelms my body

but honey, I love you too much to ever wish you to become me

oh whoa dat me

My name is Karissa. Growing up, I dreamed of being a singer. And an actress. And a novelist. Honestly, the list would grow and grow, to a point where it seemed never-ending. Not so much because I believed that I could obtain all of them, but rather because I wanted to be someone else. Somebody different than the shapeless, murky blob staring back at me in the mirror. I wanted an escape — a different life, a whole new perspective on things. 

I wanted… happiness.

——

Reflecting on my childhood and young adult life, I have no memory of ever, truly loving myself.

Sure, there were fleeting moments of pride in my singing ability, or a small blush and smile gracing my face upon someone complimenting my strawberry blonde locks. They never kissed my skin and eased into my soul with a comforting hug. As quickly as they came, they always left, and followed by them were whispers of darker thoughts: “You’re worthless; you’ll never amount to anything; who could love or accept a vile, ugly, fat, despicable being like you?” Those were the moments that snaked around my body and squeezed, and squeezed, and squeezed until I would lose any trace of my being.

The shadow of misery, darkness, depression — whatever you want to call it — is perhaps the first solid memory I have. It would sit with me during school and scream at me that I wasn’t smart enough to learn the lessons. At recess, it lured me into dark corners to wallow in self-pity, wishing others would ask me to play with them, and sabotaging any chances I had at making friends. At love, it would yell the loudest. Its one mortal enemy was something it desired to keep the furthest from me. I’d listen to it in songs, watch it on television shows and movies, with a distorted lens that someone else needed to save me. Their love would cleanse me of all the scars, marks, burns on my tainted body. If only their lips would dance upon my body, heal me with the outpouring of the purest thing in humanity. 

I didn’t find love until my early twenties, and in the midst of my insecurities and jealousy and nonexistent self-worth, I ultimately, and unconsciously, almost did everything in my power to push it away. How could he want to hold my hand? How could he look at me, and not count all the ways my form, my personality, should repel him? I’d even list it for him, just to make sure he knew it all. My words fell on rocks, unmoving in love’s pursuit of me. While love from myself never seemed near enough, he somehow pushed through enough to weaken me. My invisible walls crumbled.

——

my wounded soul heard your song in the twilight 

and breathed a sigh of relief knowing my life was about to ignite

I wish I could say self-love followed his appearance in my life. Sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of her behind a figure, or feel her soft hand on my shoulder and tighten slightly, in reassurance. I was too scared to face her head on, though; in truth, I still am. Along with the shadow, she walks around closely behind me wherever I go. If I listen ever so carefully, in the hush of the wind, I swear I can hear them arguing over possession of me.

It’s almost weird to think that anyone, let alone depression and self-love, would fight over me. To think that I am worth having a life-long, all-consuming battle — it’s a form of selfishness that I’m not comfortable accepting. It’s the very thing that I’ve been conditioned, all of my life, to reject entirely, even hide from at all costs. It leaves me feeling numb. It punches the air out of my lungs, filling my body with light-headedness, where all I can say meekly is, “Me?”

They are both my lifetime companions, with beauty in such different, mystifying ways. Self-love is a low, gentle hum of a song from your past. She’s a blanket smelling of home and future and nature. Her body is soft and can form easily to your own, with no pressure to sink into her embrace or squirm away from it. Like a mother, her arms open wide for you, and she waits patiently for you to come back home. Depression is quiet too, but her words sting and pierce your skin much more deeply. Whatever self-love says, depression’s single phrase will find its way into your being, and take the shine out of your eyes, paint your insides a terrible black. She smells of smoke and rain, urging you to crawl into bed with her and cry yourself into dreams, where escape can also be found. She’ll force you into her twisted clutch, and gradually tighten and harden, like bars in a prison, all while faintly chanting prickly roses into your ear until you bleed.

To live with both is a heavy burden, where often times, depression wins. I so long to officially meet self-love and have her presence become my everything. I want her to take her place at the throne of my palace, and kick out depression into the rainy street, with no place to seek refuge. However, that isn't reality. These two beings sometimes have to forever rage war over a soul. This is life — good and evil, right and wrong, living together. The power shifts and there’s turns and rough patches, and it’s nearly unbearable. 

Love in all forms provides life, a reason to live, a hope.

With my story, I hope I can offer a reminder that depression doesn’t have to win the war.