Depression, Sex, and Relationships - 13 years old.

According to the Anxiety and Depression Association of America, the average onset of persistent depression is 31 years old. It also states that major depressive disorder is the leading cause of disability between ages 15-44. I suppose I got an early start. 

2005 was the last year I could remember being happy. I was 12 years old and spent most of my days playing outside with my two best friends, Samuel and Julian, whom I've known since I was 6 years old. We had our own little world. We mainly sat on Samuel's porch in front of his apartment building, next door my house. Between our places was a small area of bright green grass that's now been made into a parking lot. There was more than enough space for the three of us to act like complete idiots. One of them asked, "do girls fart?" with the utmost seriousness and genuine curiosity. That moment perfectly captured the nature of our friendship. Though I'm no longer friends with Julian, Samuel and I have remained close to this day. 

This was my favorite year. I didn't care about how I looked nor if anyone liked me. I was oblivious to insecurity. I was only 12. My only entertainment was playing freeze tag, dodge ball with pebbles because we didn't have a ball, and riding our scooters up and down the block. I was the fastest kid on my street -- able to outrun the other children, even if they were on a bike or a scooter. I held that reputation for a while. This was the last time I felt like I was the best at anything. 

One day, I developed a crush on one of the boys up the block, William. I was, however, nowhere to be found on his radar. He had his sights set on someone else. It appeared that every boy on the block had their eyes set on one girl in particular. Her name was Leslie. She was a year older than I was, and had a figure more developed than mine -- semi-hour glass shape, cute tomboy couture, light skinned, and medium length wavy black hair. Insecurity reared its ugly head and suddenly I felt...less than. It wasn't just about this one boy who didn't like me back. It was about how it felt impossible to escape the unceasing way she was inserted into every conversation. My childhood group of friends were all guys, and it seemed that not a day would go by where I didn't hear about how pretty Leslie was.   

In the years leading up to this point, the only compliment I ever received was how pretty my eyes were. It was nice at first, but then I slowly realized that's all anyone really noticed about me. I was now 13 years old and found myself wanting to be sexually appealing. I wanted to be told I was pretty, to have the male attention that Leslie was getting. Was my hair too nappy? Were my breasts too small? Brushes broke off as my mother tried to do my hair. I barely filled out the training bras my parents had bought. My clothes were unflattering and I didn't know how to do makeup yet. Why did no one call me pretty and why did I feel so unattractive all of a sudden? I even gave Leslie a nickname -- Black Widow. I envied her for her ability to draw boys in and drop them when she pleased. I couldn't bring myself to befriend her because the envy grew too close to hatred. In reality, Leslie was nice and easy to talk to. It would've been nice to have a female friend. In my head, though, she was just competition in a game we never decided to play. Over time, my jealousy and insecurity would soon transform into mixtures of desperation and self-loathing. Within one year, everything would change. At 14, touches to my breasts became as casual as having a conversation.   



*Disclaimer: Names have been altered to maintain anonymity.