Depression has taken all that is good and pure within her and has twisted it into an evil twin, destined to bring about her destruction. In the quiet moments, she no longer has peace, she has chaos. The normally unconcerned innocence of late summer replaced by devastation over the perceived rejection of a friend. She has sorrow and regret and shame ready to swallow her and worthlessness, telling her that she deserves it.
But what is driving this thinking? Why have depression and anxiety been allowed to pound and pummel her into submission? Something inside her is broken, deflated, absent and requires healing. Realization dawns as the highlight reel plays back from her childhood. Every time she would make a mistake, she would cry in frustration, determined to be perfect--for mistakes are not steps in a process of learning, to her. They are a weakness and a sign of failure, her failure, proof that she isn’t good enough. She will never be good enough.
Through praise and love and recognition for a job well done, we reward her efforts. Even when she makes mistakes we seek to show calm and kindness, support and pride. It does nothing to repair the damage inside. Self-esteem is like a self-portrait. It begins life as a blank canvas, waiting to be painted. We painted a beautiful picture of her when she was young. She was confident, outgoing, filled with wonder. Even then she was obsessed with song and dance, the world was her stage.
As she enters school the cracks in the painting begin to appear. Little ones here and there. Getting yelled at by a teacher. Not doing well on a math test. Watching as a concept comes easier to someone else while she struggles to make sense of it. The mistakes pile up. The imperfections show. The portrait cracks, the doubts creep in, and with them anxiety begins to whisper.
When middle school and high school come around, her self-portrait is so damaged, it's almost unrecognizable. But she’s an actress. She’s good at hiding it under a veil, so no one notices it. Social media is a double-edged sword where she can post selfies with fish-lips and filters but privately message her tortured soul to her closest friends. We surround her with love, we show pride in the portrait on display, but we aren't allowed to view it up close. We don't know the extent of the damage until it's almost too late.
Finally, when the strain and stress of social isolation has left deep claw marks on her portrait, depression is there with a carving knife to finish the job. Her self-esteem is already so tattered and ruined, it’s easy for depression to twist the blade inside, leaving gaping holes of nothingness. She is without feeling, empty. There is no tool to fix the damage. Depression has taken what was already crumbling and shattered it into dust.
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