gabbying

[gabbying]

World Mental Health Day.

I was twelve years old when my mother first decided there was something wrong with me. She was sitting on my bed after I had showered one night; the first time she had seen scars on my arms, and she had found a knife I had stolen from the kitchen, that she had not even realised had been misplaced. With tears in her eyes, she asked me why I was doing this, and without feeling much of anything, I looked back at her and told her I wanted to feel something more painful than losing my Grandfather.

That had happened when I was nine years old, and when a year later I still found myself grieving, I was taken to a doctor, who spoke exclusively to my mother, and only asked me if my Grandfather had sexually abused me. Not if I had been practically raised by him, or that in the short nine years I had had with him we had more good memories than I have with my own father at twenty-five; when my mother was brought back into the room, the doctor said I was suffered with ‘The D Word’, but due to not being a teenager, they did not want to diagnose me, officially.

I spent years talking about my issues; but speaking only about my issues. About my family breaking down slowly, about how my brother would beat me up, about how my mother and father would barely acknowledge me, mock me for my interests. The issue with speaking about your issues is that they will always come back, and by the end of each six weeks I was given in counselling, I would experience these exact same issues. And when my mother forced me to the same doctor, and I would say I wanted to see someone to teach me how to cope with these feelings, I would be sent straight back to the same counsellor, who would not listen when I said I needed to be taught coping mechanisms, and I was stuck in a vicious cycle, being too young apparently to make my own choices, and to not what was good for myself.

When I was midway through my thirteenth year, I was forced back to the doctor, who was confused as to why speaking to someone was not working. Although I said I wanted to be taught how to cope, he gave me my diagnosis of ‘The D Word’, and even though I explicitly said I did not want it, I was put on anti-depressants. Actually, over the next few years I was put on multiple.

·         One made me throw up, without fail, an hour after I had taken the tablet. When I told my mother, she told me to not be stupid, the doctor told her that it doesn’t have that side effect, although upon reading the leaflet, there it was written. Nausea and vomiting, a common side effect.

·         One made my mouth feel like cotton, not the worst side effect, and it was one of those that after taking it for a while, it would go away, I was told. Yet months later, I was still drinking about a litre an hour, and was still complaining about an unquenchable thirst, causing me to have to be tested for diabetes, despite telling the doctors of my medication.

·         One made me lose my appetite completely, I could not even bring myself to drink, to the point that when I had my period, I was passing out. My mother told me this would be a good thing for me, as I did need to lose weight after all! I was constantly tired, which went well with my inability to sleep.

·         One made me lose days completely. I felt like a zombie, I would show up to work for my shifts to be told I had done that shift, four days prior, and I could swear that it was the correct day. I could not remember if I had bathed myself, brushed my teeth… I could not remember anything. I only had slight breaks of clarity in a cloud of ‘what the fuck is happening to me’.

I went to the doctor in my second year of university, the first time I had willingly taken myself to a professional, to say I was struggling to cope, and I needed help learning techniques. I told him an example, that our washing machine had broken, and I was so mad at the world, I could not stop crying, and had an overwhelming urge to hurt myself. He laughed me out the door, saying I cannot be depressed because of a washing machine, that was just absurd, and I did not know what depression really was.

I attempted suicide for the first time a few weeks later; I was in an abusive relationship, and felt like I truly had no right to feel the way I did. And I just wanted a fresh start.

The hospital forced me to see a doctor at the same surgery, and I begged them to let me see someone to teach me how to cope, and they again forced me onto anti-depressants, with a handful of workbooks to teach myself to cope. I did not have the motivation to drag myself to seminars and lectures that I was paying nine thousand pounds for, so why would they think I would sit and read these pages upon pages on what depression is? I did not go to any follow-up appointments they had made, and I do not know why I was so shocked when no one chased me. I knew I was not worth anyone’s time to make sure I was okay.

I got my degree without trying. I got into a loving relationship with my now fiancé, and everyone still seemed shocked when I expressed my feelings of hopelessness, of not wanting to live. I told this to him, and at multiple points trying to break up with him because I always saw my life ending early, and through my own hand; he refused, saying he would do everything in his power to ensure that was not the case. For a while, he tried to plan for the future, and I never would reciprocate, because I just did not see a future for my own life.

He helped convince me that I should seek help, through a mental health service, and for the first time someone listened to me, for the first time I felt like I may just be cured of the Big Black Dog that curled around me, and that had become a part of me; but when I told a worker that I had dark thoughts, she told me I could not have, otherwise I would have acted upon it. She was right, I suppose, maybe I was making things up for attention. Even so, I got through to a service that would teach me ways of coping with my dark thoughts; until they without a warning took me off their system, and I have spent a year and a half trying to get back on with no luck.

For half of my life I have had depression, and more recently anxiety. It is a part of me, whether I like it or not, it’s a part of the way my brain is made up, and it is very unlikely I will ever be without it. I have accepted it, honestly; my fiancé has accepted that there are days where I need to be alone, and days where I cannot be left alone. I relapse, and I still self-harm, but the time it takes me to pick myself up from these episodes is shortening significantly.

I live in a country with an amazing healthcare system, one where everyone pays into it, and everyone can get something out of it, and unfortunately it has always been stretched to breaking point, and sometimes people (like me) fall through the cracks. It is no ones fault, except maybe mine for not fighting hard enough for the help I feel I need. I got diagnosed with mental health issues at a weird point in time, just before mental health became a big talking point and during the time there was a massive stigma about talking about depression. It used to be a deep, dark secret, however it is no longer something I keep quiet about. Sometimes I make jokes about it, and help others around me to not be ashamed about what they go through. I was diagnosed at a time where my mother thought that depression was just feeling down, something that nine out of ten people would grow out of, and at a time where my symptoms would frustrate her.

This is an extremely short, extremely condensed version of my story. But even though the healthcare system has failed me, I am still here. And today, I saw a glimpse of getting better, in choosing a venue for my wedding reception in two years time. Two years. Thirteen year old me, sitting in a doctors office, would never have dreamed of imagining planning anything two years in advance. She never would have imagined that all over her social media, people were opening up in a day called ‘World Mental Health Day’. People she went to school with opening up, speaking about how they were suffering at the exact same time; although they had different stories, the feelings and sentiments were exactly the same.

I’m not better. Not by a long shot. One day I will find a healthcare professional to help me find ways to cope when the world is dark. But for now, I’m here. I’m in a world where I can speak about this openly. And for now, that’s a fantastic feat.

[gabbying]

“I write because talking is exhausting. Getting close to people and trusting them until they give up on you is exhausting. Knowing this is the outcome every time, yet allowing new people to break my walls down after I’ve just finished building them up again just for history to repeat itself is exhausting. Explaining to those who cannot relate and who do not understand is exhausting. I write because I’m tired of tearing down walls just to rebuild them. ”

[gabbying]

[gabbying]