Uncured and Alone

Depression. A mental illness I’ve been struggling with for 6, going on 7, years. A word that is so stigmatized because “everyone gets sad”. Depression is far from just sad. It’s a feeling of emptiness, lack of self worth, a grey cloud over every aspect of life. Depression is sleeping for 12-15 hours but still waking up tired. Depression is not doing the dishes for weeks because you don’t have enough energy to even pick up a spoon. Depression is being in a crowded room but still feeling alone. Depression is putting on a mask so nobody sees how truly broken you are. Depression is not just “being sad”. In 8th grade I started getting depressed. It had gotten to a point where I started self harming, just so I could feel something physical instead of the numbness that was buried deep within me. I cried myself to sleep every night, when I woke up in the morning and throughout the day at school. I started to become suicidal. Many people think those who are suicidal just want to die, that’s not the case. We want to escape reality, the problems, the inner demons, etc. One day, I decided to finally open up to my health teacher about my depression, in which he talked to me and took me down to the school counselor to talk. The school counselor made me show them my scars from self harming, something I was already ashamed of doing. They then asked if I was suicidal, I said yes. They proceeded to ask “when was the last time you thought about killing yourself?”, “this morning” I answered. And that answer resulted in a call to my mother, who had no idea this was going on at all. After all of my sobbing and anxiety attacks in the counseling office, they said I was free to go back to class. I walked into my classroom, head down, red eyes, tears still running down my cheeks, and every pair of my peers eyes on me as I dragged myself to the back of the room to take a seat. I went home that day with my mother waiting for me to walk through the door only to bombard me with questions and commands to roll up my sleeves and pants to expose my scars. She took me to one therapy session. One. Because she thought one session would “cure” me. From then on she mocked my mental illness and I shut down. I never spoke about it with any authority figure after that and when I discussed it with my friends I left out the part of me wanting to kill myself out of fear that they would tell the counseling office. The depression went on as life went on. During my senior year of high school I was taken to a neuropsychologist to see if there was a cause for my poor grades. They diagnosed me with not only ADHD and a learning disability, but also with depression and anxiety. Finally, a diagnosis, maybe my mother would finally understand that I need help from either a psychiatrist or by using medication. Nope. She still didn’t believe it, and once again I was left with no help and to battle this illness on my own. This illness continued into my freshman year of college and even to today as a sophomore. I have utilized the free counseling on campus since my freshman year of college so I may work on getting better. My mother has no idea I am still depressed, and neither does my family. If you looked at me right now you would see a happy, bubbly, outgoing girl who is studying to be a doctor one day. But, what you don’t see is the battle wounds on my heart and soul, along with the demons in my head.