I had always suffered with low self esteem, right from my childhood, always comparing myself to other people and feeling like an outsider. I always wished I could be like others, and wondered why I was never good enough. Secondary school made all of this worse, especially when bullies chose me as their target. I was vulnerable, and I got bullied for the most stupid things. From the colour of my hair, to my weight, to my favourite band. It seemed that every part of me was a reason for someone to hate me. How could I love myself when the hate I felt inside was thrown at me from the outside world too?
Finally, at the age of 20, I felt in control of my life. I still had self
esteem issues, but not like I’d had before. I learned to accept my body the way
it was, even though by this point, I had starved myself to a size 4/6. I got
offered my dream job and moved 300 miles away to pursue it, to live with people
that I’d never met. I learned that food could be enjoyed rather than despised,
and I fell in love with a man who made me feel perfect the way that I was. I
had everything I’d ever dreamed of. Independence, freedom, my own shared house,
a wonderful boyfriend, lots of money. For once, life was going my way and it
was perfect.
Then, things spiralled out of control. I had an accident which caused me to be
unable to do my job any more. After two horrendous weeks, I had to move back
home to live with my parents, stripping me of any independence and freedom that
I had. My dream job was gone after just a few months and my money soon went,
with the little income that sick pay provided me with. My parents tried to help
and understand, but often got frustrated with my low moods, not understanding
them. The only person I could really turn and talk to was my boyfriend, who remained
my rock, even when we were living 300 miles apart.
Things were bad. I felt low most of the time and didn’t want to do anything. I
didn’t see the point. Having to go out in a wheelchair made me feel pathetic.
People looked down at me with sympathy, being glad that they weren’t in my
shoes. I couldn’t do anything for myself, even having a bath or a shower had to
be accompanied with my boyfriend or my Mom, as I was incapable of doing it by
myself. My boyfriend still made me feel special, taking me out despite being in
a wheelchair and showing me off to his friends and family still, who didn’t
seem to look down on me for my situation.
When he left me, it was a shock. We had been going through ups and downs for a
couple of months but nothing too serious, and he had promised to always be
there by my side. Then one day, on the phone, he just told me it was over.
Words can’t describe how I felt. I have always been quite good at staying
motivated even in hard times, but this was too much even for me to take. I had
lost literally everything. My job. My house. My ability to dance. My money. My
independence. My car. And now my boyfriend too. I had been contemplating it for
months, but losing him was the last straw for me, and I knew it was time to get
help.
I became worried for my own welfare, as I
spiraled into a low point that even I had never experienced before. I was
scared to be left on my own for fear of what I might do. I had toyed with the
idea of getting help, but always talked myself out of it, as I had a loving
boyfriend who I could talk to about my problems. Suddenly, I felt very alone,
and the dark thoughts that consumed me were out of control. I knew I had to get
help before it was too late.
Worry that the doctor might laugh at me, tell me I was over reacting and that I
didn’t have a problem had previously put me off, but now I was desperate for
help. A few days before this, I was looking for my box of tablets in my bedroom
and couldn’t find them, so I asked my Mom if she’d seen them. She said that she
had confiscated them, as she feared that I would try to kill myself. This
shocked me, as my parents have never normally seemed to notice when I’m feeling
down or not quite myself. It hit me hard that even they were concerned that I
would try to take my own life.
I told the doctor how low I’d been feeling for the past seven months, and how
it had got worse recently. He put me on antidepressants, something that I had
previously been against, and referred me to therapy. I was scared to tell my
parents, and at first, they were quite angry about it which made me feel
guilty. I felt like I was being a bad daughter for being depressed, especially
when I was told that I have nothing to be depressed about. I started to wonder
if they were right. Was I just overreacting?
My first assessment with my therapy team resulted in me being diagnosed with
severe depression and moderate anxiety. It made me feel a mix of emotions.
Being diagnosed with these mental illnesses made me realise that my problems
were very real, and not in fact me just over reacting. I was relieved to
finally have someone who understood what was going on in my head, but I was
also scared at the concept of having mental health problems. I felt like I was
going insane.
Mental health problems, particularly depression, are made harder by people who
are close minded and don’t even want to try to understand. If you don’t
understand problems like depression, consider yourself lucky, because you have
never been through such a traumatic thing, but please at least try to. It’s not
easy for anyone suffering with any mental illness, but one thing is for sure,
stigma and being looked down on definitely makes it worse. Try to understand,
even if you can’t completely. Don’t say unhelpful things like “You don’t look
depressed”. Every day, people are facing battles that you know nothing about.
Mental health problems are private matters that people try to deny and hide for
a long time. It’s hard to come to terms with.
Depression doesn’t mean that the victim is never happy, it means that their
world is never colourful. Someone suffering with depression doesn’t live in a
world with colour, it’s just black and white. On the bad days, there’s a
thunderstorm, and on the good days, the sky is clear, but it’s still black.
Six months later and I’m still on heavy medication with regular therapy
sessions. Some days, it’s impossible for me to get out of bed and others, I
break down just by something as insignificant as dropping a pen on the floor.
Things aren’t getting any easier, but I know that one day, this demon called
depression will be under my control, rather than it controlling me.
0 comments :
Post a Comment