Writing to remember who I am

When I was 12, my Texas-born family moved me to a two-story house at the top of a valley in Orange County. Yorba Linda was green, beautiful, and cool year around. If Austinites could experience the four seasons in one week, then the affluent residents of Yorba Linda experienced only soft fluctuations in temperature as the months went by. And as the months went by, and as the weather softly changed, so did I.

I had never been bullied in Texas--not really. I was shy and had yet to hit my growth spurt, as I wouldn't start my period for another two years. Unlike the well-dressed bean-pole California girls in my classes, I was carrying baby fat, didn't wear makeup, didn't shave my body hair, and didn't know how to take care of my head hair, which was long and frizzy. I was an anime kid teaching myself how to write, read, and speak Japanese, and I had dreams of being an animator, storyteller, and published writer.

In Texas, I was a shy, friendly student with nerdy interests. In California, I was just a weird kid.

I always loved self-expression, and my mother--my biggest fan--would help in my fashion endeavors, allowing me to dye clothing different colors, to pin fabrics and things to jeans and shirts, and to be creative in my style. Perhaps the most iconic garb from my collection was a pair of jeans that we dyed a vibrant purple then hand-sewed feathers to the pockets and hem. When I proudly wore these pants to school, a group of girls stopped to comment on them, saying, "Those are so ugly. Like why would you put feathers on jeans?"

Over the months, I quickly became depressed: entirely socially withdrawing at school, struggling to keep up with the more advanced California curriculum, and greatly missing my old friends and true home back in Texas. I missed hearing the comforting buzz of the cicadas and the sway of the historic Oak Trees in the wind. I missed a summer that felt like summer and a Christmas that felt like Christmas. I missed the rain showers in November and in the spring. I missed Tex Mex and enchiladas and tacos. I missed my teachers and the familiar halls of the schools I knew. But most of all, I just missed being home.

For the year I was in Yorba Linda, I never made a single friend. The kids were intrigued when I first arrived, asking playful questions like, "You're from Texas? Do you ride horses to school?" I remember trying to make friends. I remember joining a group of girls after my science class, hoping they'd let me stay and talk in their group, but after a moment, one girl interrupted herself to look at me and say, "Jourden, why is your tummy is so big when your boobs are so small?" Until that moment, I had yet to think outwardly about my body much. I didn't know that my belly was big and my breasts were small. I hadn't thought about puberty, and I wanted to stay a kid.

Part of me believed that to grow up was to leave behind one's creativity, kindness, and imagination.

On the night before my 13th birthday, I stayed up until midnight. "I'm 13," I told myself, as I cried. An unbearable sadness fell upon me at the realization that I was a teenager now. I was no longer a kid. Fantasy and imagination and play would slowly be left behind, and I would grow up. The one piece of happiness I had in California was in Disneyland, which we lived not too far from and visited quite often. There, I could unabashedly be a child: wear a giant Goofy hat, dream about being a Disney animator and writer, and smile with a joy that was becoming harder and harder to come by.

My parents knew I was unhappy. A teacher called my mom to inform her that I didn't seem to have any friends and that I'd often just wonder around by myself during recess or lunchtime. I, upon realizing I could go home if I was sick, started forcing myself to throw up, attempting to convince adults that I had a fever and was sick. I don't remember if my tactics worked. I don't remember if the teachers treated me differently or tried to help me. I only remember being sad.

Now, 20 years later, I am back in Texas and still sad. Still dreaming of Disneyland, still sporting long hair, and still working toward my goals as an artist and writer. Except now, I'm taller, leaner, and know how to do my hair. Except now, I'm on antidepressants and can pay for therapy and ketamine treatments. I sometimes think back to that 12-year-old me, that sweet artistic kid who just wanted to be creative and accepted and loved.

I'm still navigating my sadness, my loneliness as I did as a child: deciding who to trust, worrying about being a burden, learning how to be alone, and using my art to process it all. This blog is the start of a new way of processing.

Welcome to the depression blogs. Welcome to my writing. Welcome to my story.