Depression sucks. Like, really sucks. I'd never been officially "diagnosed" until a few years ago, mostly because my parents didn't want to believe it. Of course, Dad doesn't want to believe anything is ever wrong unless he is the one who declares it needs to be fixed in the first place. Then again, if he felt there was something wrong with me at any point, I would have been shipped off to the hospital without a thought, told to "man it up and deal with it", or completely ignored because it isn't that big of a deal to him.

So, there I was. 7 years old. Angry as HELL that I was always being punished for things that my brothers did. I went to anger management therapy for a short while, but even though my therapist knew I was depressed, she didn't really do anything to help. There went my trust in therapy. I was adopted and had issues with that. My older brother was the problem child, so my dad shoved every problem he had onto me. If older brother does something wrong, OBVIOUSLY the younger children are gonna follow, right? -.-' No. Wrong. Then my younger brother was the perfect child, so I should have been more like him. Get perfect grades, do everything that is asked of me when it is asked, perform like a monkey in the circus, etc etc etc. I'm not either of my brothers. I like class, but I like my own way, too. I like school and learning, but I'm not the smartest at all of the topics we had to learn. It didn't really bother me until his comments got worse and more regular. I mean, come on. No 7 year old cares that much about getting perfect scores on everything unless they have a parent pushing them. I certainly didn't. I wanted to dance, I wanted to sing, I wanted to read, and I wanted to learn about things that interested me. I didn't want to be belittled for not being good enough. I didn't want to feel like I was worthless. I didn't want to feel like my parents regretted adopting me. And yet, I did.