When I was at secondary school I was bullied. When I say bullied I don’t just mean being called four-eyes or have my lunch taken from me. Those of course happened as usual but I often was attacked physically and that wasn’t just outside. Infact my biggest and worst memories of school are during Maths when I was stabbed in my arm several times with the teacher watching and not doing anything about it.
Year 11 came and all my time at this school I got no help from any teachers so finally I flipped. You know when people talk about “just seeing red” like a bull whose had a red cloak waved in their face… yes that was basically what happened and I can just about remember some of what I ended up doing. A girl during PE stole my bottle of water and when I politely asked her to return it and she refused and pushed me away I lost it. I remember grabbing her throat and wishing all the years of pain and suffering she had placed upon me since day one in this crappy school (seriously if your school has mould on the ceilings and the teachers tell you it’s normal you are in a very bad school) she could endure it all. I wanted her to know what it was like to have 5 teenagers jump on you and kick you in the back over and over as your face first in the grass, I wanted her to know what it was like to be called silly names just because your teeth aren’t perfect or the fact you have to wear glasses, I wanted everything I had suffered on her every damn day left at this sodding school.
I was diagnosed with depression, which makes sense I felt like killing myself for years beforehand. I had jumped over the school’s gate and ran back home and hid in the garage until one of my parents got home (this was before I had my own house key) and attacked several of my bullies infront of teachers and I just didn’t care anymore. They did nothing to help me so why should I care if they watched me beat the hell out of the bullies who had ruined my life forever?
Skip a few years and into college years I had been on what felt like a million different anti-depressants and I started to feel like a guinea pig. I did the usual teenager thing of refusing my medication and soon found myself skipping over to the corner shop near my college and smoking cigarettes. My dad caught me and chatted to me, probably the best and most memorable conversation I have ever had with my dad and I stopped smoking. But I wasn’t doing well. I was in a violent relationship, pregnant and had no friends to turn to. I wanted to die and I wasn’t even 20 years old yet. I was even told I was too young to be depressed, as if mental illnesses have an age range.
It’s now 2014 and the last 12 months I’ve suffered badly with my depression. I thought about how I could kill myself a few times and knew this wasn’t normal and I needed help. I got back on medication but still found the NHS not understanding what depression is like and how to treat those people who will suffer for the rest of their lives.
I’m always going to have this illness in my life, it has taken me this long to realise that I have to admit that and not let it control me. I hate being on medication but it helps. Infact the idea that the moment my daughter turns 1 year old I will have to pay for my anti-depressants until I become old enough that it’s free again makes me depressed too. Sucks, eh? But I’m accepting it now and will try and blog a bit more about it, perhaps it’ll do me good writing about living with depression.