The Explanation

It started when I was 10. But it didn’t get bad enough to make heads turn until 4 years later.

I was an emotional teenager my freshman year of high school. I didn’t realize it at the time but I was in my only little world and even though my world wasn’t perfect, it was hard for me to understand anything other than what was happening right in front of me. Granted, I had a lot going on at the time. Although I was intelligent. Hopeful. Observant… I was really, really sad. Undoubtedly so. I was unlike the majority of kids my age but just like all the teenagers who i didn’t know existed at the time. I was a part of a select number of people my age who lived with something incredibly dark in the core of their being. We were few but we were always magnificent. We were strong. We were lonely. We were beings with major depressive disorder.

I spent a lot of my free time writing. Sometimes poetry, other times work of fiction. It came very easy to me, letting my emotions that were not tangible flow like a stream through something that was tangible. Somehow it made things make sense to me. Things weren’t so bad when I had a pencil or pen in my hand. Everything I knew about myself, the people around me, the world in general… it only made sense when it was put on paper. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not saying I was any good at it. It didn’t really matter to me. My goal wasn’t to become a writer, to share what I felt with the world… I wasn’t even intending on letting anyone see what I had done. Most days after school I would run to my room, scribble down whatever came to mind, even if whatever was on my mind didn’t come out in complete sentences, and walk out into my back yard with the papers in my hand and a lighter in the other. Behind the barn I would watch the flames envelop my creations. As the paper would get smaller, so did my anxiety. The ashes would float into the sky and drift away. I would never see what I wrote ever again. It was liberating. It was a secret. It was all I had.

No one knew about this life. I didn’t want anyone to know. Lacey was always in control. There was never a time when she didn’t have a smile on her face, and when there wasn’t it was because someone she cared about was hurting. Any problem she had was no more of a problem than what she should wear the next day. Thats who my friends saw me as. The Lacey that didn’t have to be worried about. And thats who I was originally. But I had changed and know one knew who I was anymore… not even  myself. There was no point in having people accept who I had evolved into when I didn’t know who that person was. So i put on a show every day of my life. I went to school, I laughed, I did math, I ate at lunch and I gossiped with my friends. To this day I don’t know how an empty shell of a teenager such as myself could have done all of this without being caught red handed. i guess my friends were so caught up in themselves that they didn’t notice their friend was dying on the inside. At the age, everyone is selfish. People only do things when it benefits them. Seeing me for who I really was didn’t benefit anyone. I was able to continue my life of solitude in my spare time and write my nights away.

As you may have guessed, that way of life didn’t last very long. Not because I didn’t want it to, but because I got caught in my own lie of a life. One day I was told by my parents that they had read my diary. The diary I had written in every night for two years. The diary I knew they knew I had but had trusted them enough to not hide it. I felt as though they knew how important it was for me to have the outlet I had in writing. But that didn’t matter because they were afraid. They were afraid at the fact that they no longer saw their daughter in me. They were afraid cause I stopped talking to them, stopped spending time downstairs and more time in my room, and my laughter had become a rarity. They and read my diary and seen all the thoughts I had written down and i could no longer hide behind my paper shield. It was over.

Freshman year I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder, anxiety disorder and bulimia eating disorder. It was the day that my illness was called what it was, an illness… and it changed my life forever. Most of it for the better. However the day my parents betrayed my trust in them was the day I vowed to them and myself that I would never write again. At least not in the way that I had before. I stayed true to my promise and never wrote in a journal again…

Until this week.

Welcome to Lacey’s freshman year of COLLEGE (secret) journal. I live in kind of a messed up world, don’t say I didn’t warn ya.


One comment

  1. sammieleelee · December 15, 2014

    I totally and completely understand dying inside, while your friends just walk around with their perfect lives. I’ve found that most people don’t really want to know the sad truth, so they’ll believe the lie you tell because it’s better than the worst thing they can imagine. I was there for everyone in their time of need, but when I needed someone it seemed like my problems weren’t significant enough or valid enough or they just generally didn’t care. And then you become a really REALLY great liar and you don’t even know who you really are anymore. It’s very hard to grow up and mature in your teen years living like this. I feel so incredibly young sometimes, but at the same time insanely old.
    I also understand when your parents betray your trust. I went through hell and back with mine, and it took almost three years – and a whole bunch of therapy – to be okay again.
    You write so eloquently! (I would’ve assumed you’re 25 or so by your writing style alone!) Its a shame that you ever stopped. Please don’t let your past with your parents influence your future with your writing.
    You are not alone. ~S


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