I’m Sorry I’m Not Normal

"I am in depression," My voice was merely a whisper.

My mother didn't hear me, and a part of me didn't want her to hear my words dipped in weakness. But I stood in front of her, seething with rage. But the real emotion that wrapped me in a suffocating grip was something else.

Heartbreak.

"What is the matter with you, dammit?" My mother said, irritated. "Why are you acting like this?"

"I am in depression!" I said out loud, my voice in desperation for her to understand me, to hold me so tight that my broken pieces would stick back together. But all I saw, in her eyes, was confusion and indifference.

"What do you have to be depressed about?" My mother asked, her voice was coated with a thick layer of disbelief.

Her question rendered me speechless, and with a heartache. "Why can't you be normal?" She asked and left my room, leaving me with my jaw touching the floor in shock.

After having such a meltdown, instead of swooping me in her arms and just holding me near to her, she wanted me to be normal.

'Why is it that, to prove how messed up you are and how psychologically disturbed you are, you have to breakdown in front of them? Why can't they just help us when we shout and cry for help?'

My eyes blurred my vision as another anxiety attack rippled through me. I fell down on my knees, clutching my head in pain and in need to be empathized.

"Why can't you be more understanding?"

I whispered softly and for the last time before I drew two deep lines on my wrist.