A story. The person whose point of view it is written in may not be disclosed.
It felt like I was losing everyone around me. Everyone was always busy. No one had time for me. I felt as alone as ever. But I knew, because I’ve dealt with depression before, I only felt worse and worse because I was giving into the darkness. I knew there was hope somewhere if I looked in the right place, but whether I wanted to, whether I had the strength to anymore, was another story. I felt useless; I felt betrayed; I felt abandoned; I felt like I was a waste of space.
I knew I needed help. I needed to let my friends help me, since going to get professional help was out of the question. My parents…let’s just say they never thought mental illnesses were real. I knew I needed to let my friends help, but…since they were all so busy and things were…”complicated” to say the least, the people I went to didn’t try to help me. They’ve seen me get through it before. They believed I would be okay in the end. So maybe they thought I could get through it without them. They pushed me off to someone else and from there I got shoved elsewhere, like a dirtbag no one wanted.
That only added to my slipping into depression. I started cutting again. I had been clean of cutting for two years. I slipped a few months before but that was only one. But this time, it wasn’t. I slipped and I got addicted. The pain, it was something I could control. I couldn’t control my best friend leaving me. I couldn’t control the physical pain of my body dying from an unknown illness. I couldn’t control whether my parents got along or not. I couldn’t control whether I had enough time to get all my work done or not. I couldn’t control anything in my life, but I could control the little pain I got from cutting.
One cut, two cut, three, four, five. Soon I was up to ten, fifteen, twenty. There were so many I couldn’t keep track off. Some times I would wait for the few I done before to heal, at least half way, but other times I would cut seven lines on my body without an hour in separation. I lost blood, but it felt as if I was already losing a battle with my own body. Something was killing me from the inside out, something unknown, something…my parents ignored it. Their daughter was dying in front of their eyes, coughing up blood, fainting, and more, but all they thought of it was that she was trying to get attention and she was making it all up.
Of course they would. I learned to add them to list of people who didn’t care about me at a very young age. That’s why I never talked to them about anything. But, faced with depression once again, I needed to talk to someone. I reached out to my best friend. Nothing. I reached out to another close friend. They didn’t know how to help. I reached out to my teacher. I couldn’t get the right words out. Nothing. I reached out, but everywhere I reached I seemed to be grabbing at air. Nothing was ever there.
After a while, I gave up. I didn’t know who to turn to. I didn’t know where to go. I was a lost puppy in the middle of an ocean, just waiting to die.
I stayed in that darkness for several weeks. I went to classes either as an emotional wreck, or an emotionless zombie (two polar opposite sides of me that would normally work together to balance me out). Everyone knew, even people who didn’t know me very well; everyone knew something was wrong. But, still, no one spoke. No one reached out to me. No one tried to help.
Some of my teachers gave me an easy time in class, which I am very, very grateful for during such a rough time. Others didn’t care. Some of my classmates tried here and there to make me smile, which I am also grateful for. Others laughed. I guess there are many types of people in this world…but no matter which ones I met, no one had the courage to do something to make a difference.
Having lost faith in the people around me, I started to give up on myself. I didn’t believe I’d get better this time around. I didn’t see a route I could take to step back into the light anymore. I didn’t think I would ever feel whole again or feel okay again.
Then…when I hit my lowest point I ever reached, something happened. I looked not around me, not to the people surrounding me, but inside me for help. I looked to myself. I asked myself, are you really going to live like this for the rest of your life? And if you think ending your life is the easiest path to end the pain, are you really willing to give up everything else you love about life?
In those couple weeks, I realized that…I didn’t need anyone else’s help more than I needed my own. I needed to really want to get better, in order to start healing. I needed to stop being so hard on myself for being depressed and for struggling. I needed to give myself a chance to stand back up instead of pushing myself down every other second. I needed to help myself before anyone could help me.
This story doesn’t end here. That’s because this story is happening right now. It’s May 2, 2016 and I am fighting myself to help myself.