I didn't have a happy childhood. There's nothing remarkable about that; plenty of people had difficult times growing up. But the difference is that nothing bad happened to me whatsoever. My parents were comfortably middle class, I never really wanted for anything, I was bullied only very mildly, I had a modest circle of friends, I did well academically, I didn't face any adversity, my family was supportive and affectionate enough without being stifling, and so on. I had no reason to be unhappy.
But I was. Every day was agony. I was constantly fantasising about suicide. I took no pleasure in anything. I read, watched TV and played computer games, but they really were just to pass time; I didn't care about anything. I had no hope either, probably because I had no real conception of the future - I couldn't even begin to imagine myself as an adult or with a job, and the immediacy of my suffering kept me in the moment. After all, what good is the possibility of happiness in the future when you need it now? It may as well be happening to a different person.
My depression waxed and waned, partly with the seasons (winter was always the worst), and partly with the amount of stress from schoolwork at that particular time, but really it only ranged from general indifferent at best to spending every free moment thinking about killing myself at worst. Nothing made me happy; not being with friends, nor being left alone, nor finishing a good book, nor the beauty of nature, nor birthdays, nor Christmas - I mean, fucking Hell, what sort of fucked up kid doesn't care about Christmas?
All this only really struck home recently, when I was looking after my niece. She's two and a half years old, old enough to recognise and meaningfully interact with her surroundings, but not yet at the age when they become selfish and obnoxious. Just seeing the sheer joy and rapture she finds in even the most mundane of things suddenly made me realise I couldn't remember a single point in my entire childhood when I was even close to being that happy.
I feel somehow angry or betrayed. I want to redo my childhood! And not in the sense that most people do - with all their adult knowledge - I want to do it again starting from nothing, but to do it properly and enjoy it this time. But first, I need to know: what went wrong? Was it me? Was it my parents? Was it all just an imbalance of chemicals in my brain? Is this actually everyone's experience of childhood, and people just don't talk about it? And for that matter, what if I have children and they have to go through the same thing? At the very least, I want an explanation. How can I come to terms with all this, when I don't know why any of it happened?