Sylvia Runte
A common misconception shared by most I meet is that I’m a teenage girl. My vertical nature and tan, hairless limbs effectively trick the common eye. Like most teenage girls, I have my hair highlighted. My ears are pierced (as well as my navel). I can kick a soccer ball and run great lengths on two legs. In my free time, I sketch and journal (with the lovely allowance of my ten nimble fingers) and watch TV shows to live vicariously through the human nature of the characters portrayed. I am often delightful and energetic with the people I surround myself with. I may resort to a couch rather than a Central American rainforest tree branch. I may stray away from a diet of leaves and twigs, and my digestive system processes food in a matter of hours-not a week. I may seem like your average teenage girl. But don’t be so easily fooled; the mammal I more identify with, alternatively, is a brown-haired three-toed sloth.
Looking on from the outside, I seem to be moving at a constant, normal pace through life-if not slightly hurried. Walking through the school hallways, I am normal. Though my fingers lay twitching at my side. At soccer practice, I run down the field alongside my peers. I participate in activities and extracurriculars and do my homework and schoolwork. I am always moving, always working.
My mind is blank. I am not moving at a normal pace, at least not internally. Pretending to do so, in fact, leaves me continuously fatigued. I am not at school, I am not on the soccer field. I am elsewhere in my mind, though I’m not quite sure where. My body can go through the motions, though the rest of me can’t seem to keep up. I am lethargic and slow-though I don’t let anyone see. I am a sloth.
The facial structure of a sloth gives the appearance of a constant smile. I often wonder if I am the same. I’m usually seen laughing or smiling (so I’m told). But am I enjoying these life experiences? I see myself in a constant state of autopilot. I enjoy benign things: laughing with friends, and knowing exactly how to conquer a test or a presentation. But when things get hard, when things get a little too real, I am left back on my tree branch. Once again I am walking through life empty, and my mind is left five steps behind. I am asleep, but walking. I am dreaming, but still soberly communicating. I am a shell of my former self, yet I am the only one who knows.
Diagnosed, my sloth is depression. I cannot concentrate. I am uninterested in every task. My body is tired, though it takes me hours to fall asleep every night. I’m a sloth because humans aren’t meant to act like this. I’m a sloth because I am much better adapted to their lifestyle. But I am not a sloth. In actuality, I am just a sad little girl.
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Author Sylvie Runte is a sixteen-year old girl going into her senior year of high school. This essay is a short reflection on mental health especially as a high school student.
Diamond Gazette 