Up until a few years ago, or even now, depression was something I didn’t speak about. It was something I pretended didn’t exist; pushing it as far back in my brain as possible. It was something I blamed my ‘hormones’ on. It was just another ‘bad day’ that turned into a ‘bad week’. It was another ‘I’m just tired’. It was everything but the very thing that it was - depression. An illness.
“How are you?”
“I’m fine, thanks” - yet, I never was. But it was so rehearse and ritualised that even I started to believe it myself, almost.
I felt like I shouldn’t be feeling the way I did. Like I had no reason to. I was (am) from a loving home and had a great upbringing. I’m fortunate enough that both of my parents are still together; mental illness isn’t something I should have, I thought. Especially not depression. Depression is something I thought people who had troubled and difficult lives had. Not someone like me. I felt guilty for feeling like this. No one would believe I was depressed, or eligible for depression. I was around 15-16 years old and had the world at my feet. How could I possibly be depressed? But that’s just it - it can hit absolutely anyone. At any time. You can be successful and depressed. You can be young and depressed. You can have everything in life going for you, and guess what? Still be depressed. It is not a one size fits all and that is what people need to realise. In fact, it was something even I needed to realise in order to wrap my head around my own suffering at the time.
I’m not even 100% sure as to what triggered my depression really. Like I say, I count myself very lucky. But, like any other organ in your body - your brain can just go wrong one day and fail on you. It can stop working in the way it once did. It’s an illness caused by chemical imbalances in your brain. It was something that wasn’t in my control no matter what I did.
Unaware that I was truly ill, the depression and anxiety I suffered with made me snap at everyone I loved. I had no feelings towards anything. I didn’t want to do anything. See anyone. It crippled me. I didn’t see a point in life. In my life. My bed was the only place I wanted to be. It was the only place I felt some sort of happiness. I isolated myself from the world and almost avoided all human contact and every social situation possible. I just didn’t want to be here. I was constantly on edge and restless. I was irritable. I was tense. I’m naturally a worrier at heart, but I was worried about everything; all of the time. So much so that it essentially prevented me from living my life. I became incredibly self conscious and fearful of social interaction. I experienced heart palpitations more than I should have and would often wake up in the night in a pool of my own sweat, trembling from terrible nightmares; making me afraid of sleeping at times.
I never once told anyone how I felt either; though I did try. People would get frustrated and tell me to “cheer up” or “snap out of it”. So I gave up trying in the end. If you suffer from depression, you’ll know that being told these things is very inconsiderate and insensitive. It doesn’t help whatsoever. That’s why I never pursued to open up. Maybe that’s why I suffered for a few years before it all got too much and I couldn’t take any more. In the end, it even made me think that if I told someone what I was really feeling, or what I was thinking… I’d be seen as weak. I mean, you hear people say “we all have problems!”, which is true, and mine felt so minuscule compared to everything else around me. That and the fact, sometimes you don’t realise just how hard it is to try and explain what the fuck is going on inside your own head. Depression is a lot more than ‘feeling down’ and being ‘sad’. It’s all-consuming.
To be honest, I did lose myself; there’s no other way I can put it. I’m just sorry to anyone who knew me back then because that was not me. Whoever I was then, even I don’t recognise her now. When I look at myself now, it’s so hard to imagine that I once felt like I didn’t deserve to be here; that I didn’t want to be here. But the hardest thing of all to remember and even admit, is the fact that I felt so unhappy at times that I actually tried not to be here. I would deliberately walk into the traffic; stand that bit closer to the edge of platforms at train stations; feeling nothing when a train zoomed passed and missed me by millimetres. Because that’s how much of a dark place I was really in. I fantasised about death because it felt like the only way I could be at peace.
I think I spiralled more into depression during my resit year in sixth form. All my school friends and peers had gone off to university. They were doing new things and living their new lives with their new friends. I felt stuck. But worst of all, I felt left behind. I felt hopeless and like a failure because I wasn’t going off to university with them like I should have been. Whatever bit of belief I had left in myself really had gone. I didn’t think I’d ever go to university at this point. I didn’t fail my AS levels, but by no means did I get the grades I knew I could have and should have. Because of this, I re-did both my AS and A levels. The fact everyone I mainly knew had gone off to university kind of made this a little easier because I just got my head down. I threw myself into the work and revision and studied; hard. My grades were *somehow* getting better. It’s mad really because my head was absolute chaos and I was getting worse. But I guess that didn’t matter because I did get into university; the one I desperately wanted to too.
When I found out I got into university and I received my grades, I thought it would be a ‘new start’; things would get better. New city. New environment. New friends. But I was very wrong. Things actually got worse. With my head being such a mess, I didn’t adapt to uni life like I maybe should have and like others do. It was too much. Safe to say that 2 months into the first semester, I woke up one Monday morning and decided to drop out. Just like that. The course I wanted to do since I was about 10 years old I was about to drop out of. The course I worked my arse off for 3 years to get the grades I needed to I was about to give up on. To do what? Nothing… This symbolised yet more ‘failure’ to me, but I knew that I couldn’t go on. I had to accept that I needed some sort of help. Education and university would always be there, whereas at that point in time - I wasn’t so sure that I would be.
My dad was so mad. I’d never seen him so angry, disappointed and sad with me all at the same time. Driving home that night was something I’ll always remember. I packed up my entire uni room in just a few hours; feeling like it was only a few hours earlier that I’d moved everything in. We didn’t speak the entire way home. I knew how he felt and I understood. But what hurt the most at the time was the fact he didn’t understand why I had to drop out like that. That 45 minute journey home felt like 45 hours. Holding back tears and anger, he made me promise one thing though; that I’d go back to university and finish my degree when the time was right. We pinky-promised. I don’t think he actually believed I would stick to it, but I’m writing this now and I’m able to say that I’m in my final year of university. That’s the one thing about me; I don’t make promises I know I can’t keep.
Taking that year out of university to focus on my mental health has been so much better for me in the long run. I now know that I had nothing to be ashamed of and if anything, it’s a sign of strength to know when to bow out like that.
So, if you’re reading this and you have no idea what depression feels like, count yourself lucky. I hope you never do. Really. Because it feels like utter emptiness. It’s a physical pain that drags your entire body and mind into the ground. Hour after hour. Day after day. It’s total darkness. It’s a loss of appetite. An inability to sleep, or some days - an ability to do nothing but sleep. But either way, you’ll still feel exhausted. It’s lying in a dark room. It’s a feeling that makes it impossible to carry on with your daily life. Getting out of bed, cleaning your teeth, checking your phone. It’s disruptive. It can disrupt any relationship or career/job/education that you have. Concentration becomes harder. By harder I mean, even watching your favourite TV show will be a challenge because you can’t think clearly. You’re staring at the screen but your mind is a million miles away.
SEEKING HELP…
I’ll also never forget the day I walked into my doctors office. It was a Thursday. A dark, rainy Thursday evening in November. I sat down opposite my doctor and without me even looking at him, or saying anything… he said “depression” to me. That’s when, for the first time, in a long time - I broke down. Completely. I finally admitted to someone exactly how I felt. After bottling up my emotions for so long, I couldn’t believe what a relief it was. How much lighter I felt. Even though this was just the start of what would be a long and slow process, it still felt good.
I began taking medication right away. I know there’s a lot of misconceptions about taking medication for depression. But I can honestly say, it was the right thing for me to do. I was offered counselling and therapy but I declined. I was told that the medication would take some time to kick in and take effect. In the meantime, I spent most of my days staring at the same spot on my bedroom wall for hours on end. I’d lose myself in destructive thoughts, or just blankness - before snapping out of it to focus on something else. I had no desire to do anything. The smallest of tasks were the biggest. Washing my hair, to even brushing it, or getting dressed - I physically couldn’t do any of it. I remember one time, it took me 3 days to close a draw in my chest of draws. And that might sound weird, but depression as an illness is physical just as much as it is mental.
During the first 2 weeks of being on medication, my dad came into my room one day and asked how I was. He knew I was on medication, but like a lot of people, he didn’t quite understand mental health and depression. What I mean by this is, he saw the medication box on my bedside table:
“Shouldn’t you have finished those by now?” he said; I was confused...
I was told by my doctor that I would be taking these tablets for months, maybe even years. See, my dad assumed that taking medication for depression was like taking antibiotics for a cold. That within 7-10 days you’ll feel better; your symptoms would clear up. Oh, how I wish it was like that. But truth be told, it’s quite the opposite. If anything, you begin to feel that bit worse (if that’s even possible) before you’re able to feel that bit better. When I explained this to my dad, I could see the surprise on his face. Depression isn’t something that just goes away. Whether you’re taking medication or you’re not, it doesn’t magically disappear overnight.
On a good day, I was able to brush my hair and wash it at least. I remember my parents’ faces when they came home one day and I was actually dressed in clothes and had tidied up. Other days… I’d still be confined in my bedroom. My mind on overdrive. Barely moving. I lived in a zombie-like state for a while at first. I completely dissociated from everything around me. It’s like my body was there, but my actual presence wasn’t.
Time passed, but then one day… I don’t know what, how, exactly when or even why, but something clicked into place. From then on, slowly but surely; day by day… parts of me started to return. Piece by piece; like a jigsaw puzzle. My appetite. My smile (my real smile, not the false one I portrayed for so long). My laugh. Then I began to talk again; take an interest in things. It’s like my mind had started to calm down. I was able to concentrate on reading. And I can’t even begin to explain how nice it was to have the concentration to watch a film again. For the first time in years, my mind was no longer screaming at me. It was practically silent.
NOW…
Although things are much, much better than they once were - by no means does this make me ‘recovered’. I can’t sit here and tell you that I ‘beat’ depression. Because I haven’t. I still take medication - granted, I’m not taking a high dose like I once was. But I still struggle. More times than I care to admit. No day is ever easy. There are times when out of nowhere, depression will pour down on me and start to flood areas of my life. Other times, I may get just a sprinkle of it - meaning I can get through lectures in university, or even a gym session by the skin of my teeth and then spend the rest of the day in bed; silent.
It’s not easy to come out of and I’m not sure that I will ever be fully rid of it. But I do know that when it starts to get dark again and pour over me that I should speak out. And I urge anyone who feels like this to seek help and speak out too. You are not alone and despite how painful depression is, it does not define you. Although it may feel all-consuming at times, it does not take away all of the things that make you, you. It tries its hardest to, but you’re more powerful than you think when it comes to your own mind.
My reason for doing this post is not for any kind of sympathy or admiration for telling 'my story'. It's to show that depression and anxiety are not fiction. They’re invisible, but very much real. Just because they can’t be seen or proven when you are the sufferer struggling to explain yourself to someone who doubts you and just tells you to ‘cheer up’, or worse yet - that you’re attention seeking; they're still real illnesses. I don’t want anyone to ever feel the way I have, to feel trapped and isolated by your own mind and not able to see a light at the end of the tunnel. Because I can assure you, there really is one. You just have to take that first step and talk. Be brave. Mental illness isn't a choice, but speaking out about it is.
"we must each walk through life on our own, but we don't have to do it alone"
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