I have always considered myself a glass half-empty girl. If someone demanded that I put myself in one space or another, it would have to be introvert. Since I have had depression most of my life, that’s quite natural. I’d rather read than play outside, and I still feel that way.
But since my depression spiraled me down so low in the last five years, and I bounced off the bottom of the well, I have become a crier. I believe that when I was a child, I was told to stuff my feelings down and not cry.
I remember clearly, the afternoon after my sister had been hit by a car when my grandma Lilly came to my classroom to pick me up. I had no idea what had happened, but one look at my grandmother’s face scared me. As my teacher helped me with my coat, my eyes never left grandma’s face, and finally, as I stepped near to her she whispered, “Deanna was hit by a car. She’s in the hospital.” As my teacher helped me with my coat, I began to tear up, but grandma told me not to cry, and she took my arm as we walked away.
I don’t remember much after that. Deanna had a concussion but wasn’t hurt badly. She got flowers and a lot of cards from her classmates, and I believe she might still have a small scar near her eyebrow.
It was my sister, hurt.
But I wasn’t allowed to cry about it.
So I didn’t.