*Disclaimer; if you are experiencing suicidal thoughts, please reach out to someone or seek medical attention*
Suicide. Noun; The intentional taking of one’s own life.
Depression. Anxiety. Insanity. Bad thoughts. Terrible mistakes. These are just some of the things that I have dealt with during my younger years. It is true what they say, you never really know how someone is feeling unless you walk a mile in their shoes. But even then, do you ever really know what that person may be going through? How they are feeling? What they are thinking? I often wish that I could share my thoughts and feelings with the nonbelievers so they can truly understand how it feels to be depressed, anxious and angry all at once. Like a literal emotional rollercoaster. Anyway, I’m getting too far ahead of myself. This is just one very brief part of my story with depression.
I have always been a silent sufferer. Not showing my feelings has been quite a strong suit throughout my life. I have always been perceived as the “happy” and “bubbly” girl who always has a smile on her face. Don’t get me wrong, this is how I wish to be perceived by my friends and family. Who wants to be the “gloomy” and “depressed” girl anyway? The less people that knew about the dreaded demons in my closet the better. Or at least this is what I would continue to tell myself for years to come. What is it about depression that we feel embarrassed about or think we can handle by ourselves? “Oh, it’s just a bad day” seems to turn into “Oh, it’s just a bad week” or “It’s just a bad year”. It feels like there is never any end game, no closure, no light at the end of the tunnel.
I don’t think I can specifically pinpoint the moment that I knew I was depressed. It just sort of happened. Maybe it was from having strict parents who never let me out of the house that built up these feelings over time. Maybe it was the punishment from one small ‘slip up’ from their perfect child that made me feel this way. Either way, it happened. I found myself depressed and not wanting to move on. Not wanting to help myself. Not wanting to feel any type of feelings. I just wanted to be. Or not be. It didn’t really bother me.
I tend to make my parents sound like they were monsters. I promise they weren’t really. They did occasionally let me out of the house, however, as this was a very rare occurrence, I would take my opportunity to do as many things as I possibly could. For example, there is one night that I will never, ever forget…
When I was 15, I had a boyfriend. For the discretion of this blog, we shall call him Max. I absolutely adored him. He was the first boy I ever bought home to meet my parents, which for me, was a very big deal. We were young and in love. Two months into the relationship, Max would turn 18. I looked forward to his birthday party for the weeks leading up. Max still lived with his parents in a beautiful two story home. It was the perfect setup for a wild 18th birthday party, equipped with a pool and all.
The night finally came. It was like a dream. The night started out just how I imagined it would; loud music pumping, provocative dancing and a whole lot of underage drinking. I had never been to an 18th birthday party before and this one did not disappoint. As the night went on, it was time for me to give Max his birthday present. The real present. What every 18 year old boy wants for his birthday. I found him through the crowd downstairs, gave him a kiss and whispered in his ear that it was time. I took his hand and we made our way up the stairs and into his sisters’ bedroom. We were both a little drunk by this point which made it all the more exhilarating. Max and I had been intimate before but this time felt different. It felt special. I should note that during this time, my mother had attempted to call me as she was on her way to pick me up. What happened next will resonate in my mind for the rest of my time.
There we were. Laying together in the bed. Me on top. Max had just experienced a very memorable climax, and not for a good reason at that. Suddenly I heard the voice that would make me shudder with fear. It was my mother. She had been trying to call me for quite some time now and had become more than agitated. Somehow, she had made her way through the party, up the stairs and then… to us.. I was in complete and utter shock when I realised, there she was. Standing in the doorway. Rage in her eyes. She yelled a few harsh words and I instantly became sick to my stomach. Like a lost puppy, I scrambled to find my pants, put them back on and followed her to the car. The next 20 or so minutes were a blur.
After this whole array, I found myself sitting at the local police station with tears in my eyes. I felt lost. Anxious. Defeated. I would spend the next 2-3 hours sitting in this cold and miserable place giving my statement of the nights’ events and trying to wrap my head around what had just happened. Was this really necessary? We loved each other. Was it so wrong that we had just been intimate? In the eyes of the law, our age difference suggested that this was classed as “statutory rape” and in the eyes of my mother, it was beyond expectable. It was not rape. I was not raped in any way, shape or form. It was completely consensual. I did everything I could to convince the police that we had not been intimate and this was all just a big misunderstanding. I had no problem lying to the police for the sake of Max’s future. The police officer taking care of my statement could sense my fear. I think he even felt sorry for me.
Monday morning came. A new school day. Somehow, all of my teachers had found out the events that had unfolded that previous Saturday night. I spent the next few days being pulled out of the classroom. Numerous teachers asking if I was ok. Multiple School Councillor visits. Multiple students telling me how they had found out about my situation. Everything that I didn’t want. My relationship had just been torn right out of my hands and yet I was the talk of the school. I felt so small. I just wanted it all to go away. I wanted to go away. I didn’t want to be here anymore. I went home at the end of the week feeling deflated. I had endured multiple anxiety and panic attacks. I was depressed out of my brain. I just wanted it all to end.
That night, I decided to run myself a nice warm bath. Maybe this would calm me down and make everything ok. As I laid there in the water, silently sobbing to myself, feeling vulnerable, more anxious and depressed than ever, that’s when the bad thoughts started. I felt like no one cared about me. No one would care if I wasn’t around anymore. That’s when it happened. I slowly submerged myself under the water. Holding my breath as tight as I could. Just looking up at the damp, mouldy ceiling. Everything seemed silent and calm just for a brief moment. That’s when everything went black.
I had passed out in the bath. Just for a brief moment. Still to this day I am unsure of what woke me up, but it did. I was scared, lonely and naked. Shivering, I decided to pick myself up out of that bath, dry myself off and call it a night. I felt so stupid. How could I just do that to myself? Over a boy? Over a little bit of anxiety? I had so much more to live for. I just didn’t know it yet…
I decided to keep what had happened to myself. I almost felt embarrassed and completely stupid for attempting to take my own life. It sounds vastly cliche, however, I feel this was a very eye-opening experience. Why would I do that? My life wasn’t so bad, was it? I was only 15. I wouldn’t know where my life would take me, what career path I would take, if I would get married and have children. But that’s what makes our lives so intriguing. The thought of the unknown. From that day forward, I vowed to never harm myself in any way ever again. Of course hindsight is a beautiful thing, but that’s a story for another day.
Not Happy Jan 