I don’t read books- I devour them. From the first sentence to the last, I can barely turn the pages fast enough. Sometimes, when I can tell something important is going to happen in the story, I have to hold my hand over the paragraphs I haven’t read yet to keep myself from skipping ahead. Do you remember when Harry Potter fell into the Pensieve in Dumbledor’s office and became immersed in Dumbledor’s memories as if they were really happening? Yes, I know that was the absolute dorkiest reference I could have ever made, but reading is kind of like that for me. I fall into the book. I become so engrossed in the beautiful words that I’m not ready to come out again once I’ve finished the last page. It’s funny… after I’ve ravished the book from beginning to end as quickly as I possibly can, I will then go back to the front cover and slowly search for any words that I haven’t yet read. I read the title again, the author, the copyright, the printing history. I wade my way through the acknowledgements and the dedications, and relish every word about the author inside the back cover. Even though I couldn’t ingest the story fast enough, I’m never ready to let it go once it’s over.

Sometimes I feel like I have rushed through my life the same way I read my books. I was so eager to grow up, that as soon as I could get away with it I put on my “big girl” face and pretended I didn’t know how young I was. In some ways, I believe I was forced to age as quickly as I did in order to make it through. Everyone always tells me what an old soul I am, that I am wise beyond my years. But I suppose when you’ve experienced pain so deep it doesn’t even have a name, there’s nothing else you can do but grow up. I think I’ve written a bit about my depression before. I’m too tired to dig through my archives right now so I’ll just start at the beginning, I suppose.

It happened quickly and without warning, a few weeks after my fourteenth birthday. School was out for a week, and during those seven days I morphed into someone I no longer recognized. Nothing about my life made sense anymore. I stopped talking to my friends, I completely changed my wardrobe, I started listening to different music, I dyed my hair. None of this was out of any forethought or premeditation. Everything seemed to happen on its own, like I had lost my grip on the person I thought I was, and this other person was now in control. I had no idea why I needed to do those things, but that was just it- I needed to do them. Something scary was changing inside of me, I could feel it looming big and dark under the surface, and I was doing everything I could to run away from it. But as the months went by, I slipped further and further into a major depression. I was absolutely terrified of what was happening to me. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew that it hurt and that as hard as I tried, I couldn’t explain it or understand it. That’s when I started cutting myself. The relief of finally feeling a pain I could comprehend, something that forced me to remember I was me again, was beautiful. The problem was, as much as it helped to make sense of the pain inside me, I knew that cutting myself wasn’t normal. The fact that I could see how much I needed to do it made me feel crazy. But the more I tried to stop, the more everything inside me overwhelmed and consumed me. I guess I was unconsciously looking for a more “normal” escape from it all, so when the opportunity arose to try drugs for the first time, I was all for it.

The first time I got high was the most surreal, transcendent experience I had ever had. I always tell people that it was like I had had a headache my entire life without even realizing it was there, and one day someone handed me an aspirin. My pain completely disappeared. I could breathe again. I didn’t have to think or feel or understand… all I had to do was be. You can imagine how things went from there. With such a perfect remedy out there for my pain, how could I not do it? It was between fighting the dark, often suicidal thoughts that flooded my mind constantly, and doing something that I knew was dangerous and illegal but that helped me. It helped me. That’s not a justification, it’s a fact. It got me through, for awhile anyway. Until, like any unhealthy method of coping, it became a problem of its own.

I’ll write more about this later, but I want to stop here and tell you that I am not trying to whine about what a difficult life I’ve lived. I grew up as a smart, privileged suburbanite and although my life has not been without its challenges, I know that I have been extremely lucky. My parents are good people who loved me and did what they thought was best. And even though I disagree with much of the way they dealt with things back then, I don’t see them as anything but two people who were as lost and confused about life as I was. In no way do I believe I am entitled to your pity or sympathy because I believe my life was more difficult than yours. What this is for me is owning those experiences. I am shining a light into the dark places that I have been ashamed of, doing my best to understand them and weave them into now in order to give strength to the woman I have become. As I have said before, I’m not writing this for you anymore. I’m doing it for me. Just like I rush through the words of a really great novel, I have barreled through my life with barely a sideways glance. Now that I know how things turn out for the main character, I can relax, go back to the beginning, and luxuriate in the details.

I know where I am, I just have to go back and figure out exactly how I got here.