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One of my friends asked me when my depression began yesterday.
So today I really tried to figure it out, rather than my previous answer, which I had thought was correct.
I was off. Way off.
I read two of my diaries, spanning 1998-2003.

August 2002.
I realized I was hurting myself emotionally by being caught up in Neopets wars.
To make a long story short, it was the wolf-like ones versus the little fat ones. One ate the other, blah blah blah.
And I would get involved with these fights along with my sister, and I'd get all worked up about it.

September 2002.
My new motto for life became "You live, you die, so why give a crap."

October 2002.
First signs of being discontent about being made fun of, asking what I had done wrong, and what I did to deserve that sort of mistreatment.

November 2002.
Began to disown sexuality as a whole.
Began to refuse to listen to pop music because the sexual content was disgusting.
Refused to watch PG-13 movies for the same reason.

December 2002.
Began to dislike and hold hatred for my relatives.

January 2003.
Began to explain in detail how boring life is in comparison the past.
Felt emptiness due to a lack of an obsession or fad in my life.
Previous fads were Furby, Pokemon, Digimon, Neopets, etc.
I felt lost without something taking over my life.

March 2003.
A friend and I decided to become rebellious and wear dark clothing as a statement.
Began to draw violent things, such as a drawing of a bleeding cat in chains, zombie mice, and bleeding things.

April 2003.
Expressed hatred against love.
I wanted to look threatening to stave off boys and protect myself.
I didn't want to become 13, and questioned what would happen if I were to die.
Felt a growing lack of joy in my life.

May 2003.
Stated that life seems to repeat over and over, and was monotonous.
I explained how I seemed to be dragged along in a daily routine from school to home, like a prisoner.
I said I was bored with life, and wished that I could do whatever I pleased for the rest of my life, and live with my imagination dictating my life rather than reality.

November 2003.
Wrote a short story about one of my characters committing suicide in detail.

That's as far as I got before starting to feel nauseous and tired.
I was ******** TWELVE. And THIRTEEN.
Who would have known that things started so early.
I wish I had asked for help earlier...
Maybe I would be okay now.

That thought will probably continue to haunt me for the rest of my life.