I once was a boy who sat on the scale of my bathroom weighing my emotions. My parents argued over oven pizzas as my siblings played Nintendo racing games. I shrunk into a small cube stacked neatly on the cold, metal weighing system. My comprehensive inhales brought my mother over to the bathroom door. She could see me sickly and pale, sitting on the floor, thinking depressively. I was too young to be unhappy, but I was too sick to be diagnosed.
This was less purely depression and more towards a taste of what my disease would do to me, but I knew very little in the moment. All I knew was how small I felt next to the buzzing bathroom filaments, flickering brightly like paparazzi camera flashes. This just in… I was a sad soul under ten years old. Headaches marked my childhood like violent lashings to memory. I feel nauseous even recalling this today. I can imagine how wonderful the pizza tastes or the games play when you have a clear mind. I had fireflies transforming to dragons right on my neurons. I was balancing a fine line between life and comatose.
How sad it is to look back on my young self and not be able to whisper a simple diagnosis. I would tell myself that it will be over. The thirteen hour sleep shifts will stop. The pain will cease. My skin will restore color. My life will not be marked by slowly withering away. I really could sleep like I was in a coma, but that was a side effect of my body slowly closing shop. I was just a few clicks away from being bed ridden and unplug-able . If only I could remove some of that weight on a ten year old’s shoulders. Even with the comfort of a mother, I knew she wasn’t able to help. It was by other forces that I became whole. I would find a way to be diagnosed, but I cut too close to death’s palm.