Dead and Gone: No, Not Really

I walked out of the hospital in silence, holding a psychometric evaluation report.

I had been diagnosed with depression.

The doctor tried his best to comfort me, saying, "Even though you have severe depression, you'll be fine as long as you keep up with therapy."

I nodded, staring at my feet.

My mother's anxious expression appeared in my mind's eye. She never liked mentally ill people like me.

"You've been neglecting your mental health for too long, so I recommend getting help from your family."

Even as the doctor spoke, he seemed to sense my aversion to the suggestion.

I hid the report away and returned home quietly.

Mom was cooking in the kitchen. She frowned when she saw me. "Your teacher called and said that you did not attend your dance class today. What happened?"

I did not answer her question. Instead, I said softly, "Mom."

Then, I tried to hug her, but she pushed me away and began scolding me.

She admonished me for everything I'd ever done, from the time I gave up on the piano when I was young to a particular dance that I couldn't seem to master.

She ended the rant with, "No dinner for you tonight!"

I kept my head low. I was used to this.

"No dinner" was Mom's usual punishment for me whenever I did something wrong.

When my father came home in the evening, Mom told him what I had done.

"You brat. You've gotten insolent!" he scolded me, jabbing a finger in my face.

He never asked me for a reason, siding with Mom without any hesitation.

Mom began crying as well. "We worked so hard to raise you. Why can't you do better?"

For once, I did not keep my silence. "Mom, do you really love me?"

Mom was taken aback for a moment. When she recovered, she called me an ingrate.

She thought I was talking back to her.

That night, I stared at the ceiling of my room as tears fell uncontrollably from my eyes.

Then, I glanced at the pen on my desk.

It would be fine. My heart wouldn't hurt so much soon. Numbly, I picked up the pen and scratched long, bloody wounds on my arm.

I decided to do as the doctor advised.

At breakfast, I gathered my courage and told my parents about my condition. "It's not that serious. The doctor said I can be cured…"

Mom did not even wait for me to finish. "What depression? How can you have depression? If anything, I should be the one who's depressed! Did we treat you badly? Why are you punishing us like this?"

I immediately fell silent. Like I was a child who had been caught doing something wrong, I rubbed my hands together nervously.

For a moment, I felt as if I had been transported back into my childhood. Back then, Mom would lock me outside the house and slap me until my cheeks swelled up right in front of all the neighbors, just because I hadn't gotten full marks in my exams.

Mom started questioning me sharply. She asked which hospital I went to, and what kind of immoral doctor would scheme with a child a mere child to cheat her family out of money.

"We paid for you to go to school so that you would learn something. You're just enjoying your life in school. What's there to be depressed about?" she kept saying.

The repetitive scolding made me cover my ears, wrapping my arms around myself.

That only made Mom even angrier.

She pulled my hands away from my ears. "Stop pretending!"

Just then, the door opened. The sound of wheels rolling over the ground sounded.

My sister, Yvonne Skye, was home. She glared at me and hurried over to comfort Mom, who was crying. "What did you do this time, Yvette? Why did you make Mom angry again?"

I wanted to deny it, but when I heard her hateful glare, my words died in my throat.

Nothing I said ever mattered, anyway.

Mom finally found herself a helper. She told Yvonne about my diagnosis, exaggerating the story as she did so.

"Depression?" Yvonne scoffed. "I think you just have too much time on your hands."

She sat in her wheelchair and pushed me several times.

I finally erupted. I grabbed her hand and snapped, "Leave me alone!"

I had always been weak and spineless, so all of us were shocked at my sudden outburst.