I told my best friend I was diagnosed with depression, an anxiety disorder, and ocd 

when I was 13. 

Three months after trying to kill myself. 

I will never forget how her pupils swelled to the size of quarters when the words left my mouth. 

“But you don’t even look sad.” 

The words shot through my spine, it stung.

Laying everything on the line, only to be discarded like the leftover Chinese food on 

garbage day. 

“But like, why are you even sad?” 

Im not sad, I am dying. 

Everyone tells me that I should be happy, I live a 

good life. You’re right. 

I have no right to be sad. They are people starving, children diagnosed with cancer, 

and I have the audacity to exclaim that I am sad. 

Maybe the doctor got the diagnosis wrong, because 

a girl like me, can’t be depressed. 

 

I used to to love painting, but now I can’t remember the last time I saw any color besides the red I 

paint to my wrists. 

On my 16th birthday, countless people told me that they 

love me. I gritted my teeth and smiled, as they all lied to my face. 

A chameleon camoflouges to its environment to protect itself from predators. 

This smile, my camoflouge. 

Maybe if I just keep pretending, 

ill be able to convince my disease I am ok. 

Maybe I’ll be able to convince myself I am happy. 

Because a girl like me, has everything to be happy about. 

 

I am sorry that my eyes aren’t as sunken in as you imagined. 

I am sorry that I am too pretty to be sad. 

I am sorry that I am not depressed enough for you. 

 

My father let tears fall when he asked me why I despised myself. 

He claimed it was a cry for attention. 

I did not spend sweltering summers, 

wearing sweatshirts, dehydrated, 

with the sole purpose to hide the crimes I committed to my body. 

My forearms covered in life sentences. 

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that I’m not qualified enough to be sad.