“How to make slime overnight! No glue, no borax!”

Mr Smith used to tell me I was smart, back when everyone thought so. Nowadays I’m one of those burnt-out HPI kids who mourn who they could’ve become, had they not overthought their way into major depressive disorder.

Depression is part of my identity. No matter what I do or where I go, I can’t ignore it—therapists, pills, plastic utensils, my bedroom door staying open until it’s time for sleep… I don’t talk about it to my friends. I feel like I can’t do so without either coming across as weak and tormented, or pathetically self pitying. In both instances, I would have that label permanently inscribed onto me, further attaching my being to this disease I so profoundly resent.

I don’t know exactly when it started. My theory is that I’ve gradually polluted my brain throughout its life, until this adulteration became diagnosable. My day to day, however, remains pretty average on paper.

I watch TV, overcook pancakes, use a calendar (though it’s often a few days behind), have friends I should probably hang out with, and play piano (except for when I don’t, hence my dad complains about how soulless the house feels).

I can’t find any pleasure in eating, but I force myself to. Every now and then I feel meals digesting in my stomach—leftover pasta and saccharine iced coffee jumping up and down my body, probably talking about whatever foods talk about when no one’s around.

I don’t cry. Actually, maybe I do. But I’m not sad. I miss playing with dolls. I miss attempting to make slime out of soap and salt, and sipping on my dad’s wine glass when no one was looking. As soon as I hit puberty, I gave all my dolls away to my little cousin, who will one day pass them down to her niece—and so on and so fourth—as all things come to an end. I know I could buy myself as many toys as I’d like, but in this day and age, I wouldn’t know what to do with them.

Childhood, for me, never truly left. It comes and goes from time to time, but it’s different now. I’m a kid when I look in the mirror during my period, and when I, for no apparent reason, hate my face. When my soul is so empty, I force tears out of my eyes, because crying is what girls do when they’re gloomy, therefore so should I. When I bite my cuticles until they bleed, and dad slaps my hand, not harshly nor gently. “It’s a nasty habit,” he says. “Sometimes I need to be nasty,” I think. I’m a kid all day, until I get home from school and take pictures of myself in tight clothing, hoping to feel anything other than ugly.

“I’m so tired,” I confessed, but God didn’t answer. My parents were out that night, and Amelia hadn’t picked up the phone. I tried writing a song, but found that I had nothing to say, so I laid in my bed, over coffee stained sheets, and stared up at the ceiling. It was lower than I had imagined.

I thought of Mr. Smith. I was his prodigy. I remember the first assignment I ever turned in to him, how we talked after class the next day—just the two of us—and how comfortable he looked in his burgundy sweater.

He showered me with flattery for about fifteen minutes. As my face heated, I tucked the compliments behind my ears. “You are truly remarkable, Stella,” he said. I could faintly smell the mint gum he was chewing. I would’ve probably found it gross if the scent had come from anyone else. “You make me feel young.” I caught my breath. “Well, you make me feel older.”

Long story short, I started submitting facultative texts to him regularly. Our little encounters after class became a sort of silly ritual. I’d tell him about me, my plans for the weekend, and how Ava was sooo jealous of Denise. He’d complain about his wife. Martha. I wonder what she’s up to now, if they ever followed through with the divorce.

Looking back at those extracurricular essays, I now realise how nonsensically melodramatic my writing was—you know, like that of people who rely on intense imagery to curate a ‘vibe’ instead of creating something original. Maybe I still write pretentiously, I can’t tell. I’ll circle back on that in about half a decade.