Looking back to Primary School, it’s depressing to think about what a lively personality I used to have. I could talk to everybody and I felt like I belonged. I had good friend groups, that I’d regularly hang out with.
Fast-forward to the last year of High School, and I couldn’t believe I was still alive. Through various amounts of anti-depressants, sleeping pills, psychiatry and therapy sessions.
But, what happened? That’s quite a sudden change in personality. In the last year of high school, I began dating this guy. He was lovely, understood my humor, and I understood his. Life was, actually, not that bad. But, I was infected. By some mental virus, that begins to question everything. Why doesn’t he ever have time? Is it a general excuse, or is it because of me? Did I become a lower priority? Am I even worthy to be in his presence?
(Looking back, that virus is probably called ’overthinking.’)
My second mistake, which was the worst decision of my life, was to keep it to myself. The self-loathing, depression and anxiety was set to boil, until it produced a silent, but hurting personality. It tore my sleep-pattern to shreds. That, combined with the other mental instabilities, made the stew boil over. I confronted him about it. He didn’t have a single clue what I was talking about. Of course, he didn’t. How could he know? But, enraged, depressed and confused, I broke up with him, on the spot. Like that would help anything.
Make fun of me, as you will. He was my first boyfriend, and it sounds exactly like a high-school love drama. As if it’s devoid of any empathy, PURELY because of that. Whether people think it’s stupid or not, I went into another depressive period. This time, almost lethal.
Sometimes when I felt really depressed, either with alcohol/drugs/etc., I would slit my wrist, arm, and hand, until a red pool of viscous liquid formed on the floor. I didn’t want to die. I wanted to feel something. I, single-handedly, dyed half of my carpet into a rosy gray. Afterward, I’d take a handful of sleeping pills, to fall asleep.
I missed half of my homework and got terrible grades. I didn’t care. I wanted out. I wanted to just leave Ground Zero for this terrible mindset. I wanted someone to take me away from there. And, I swear, everybody was so fake. They knew I was down, yet did nothing.
The next couple of months were dreadful. I couldn’t understand anyone. I didn’t speak on the same wave-length as everybody else. We were speaking the same language, but nothing made sense. I’ve never felt so isolated, even when in public. I was an alien, who escaped from Area 51.
My parents grew worried and took me to the doctor. Then, that snowballed into therapy sessions. Then, the psychiatry. One of the first times in therapy, my therapist asked me to fill out a form. It was four pages of questions, about symptoms of depression and anxiety. Before even filling anything out, I could tell I’d score pretty high. After I handed it back, she put our therapy sessions on hold. Her reason?
“Your symptoms are simply too severe, for me to work with.”
After a week, or so, a girl from my previous friend group, invited me over for a sleepover. Only eight, or so, people. Sounded nice enough. At this point, the psychiatrist had given me sertraline, which was basically side-effects in pill form. Didn’t do shit. Along with that, sleeping pills, to calm down my thoughts. I took a handful of both to the sleepover. Just as a backup, if we ended up actually sleeping.
The party was pretty down to earth. The alcohol hit pretty quickly, even though I regularly emptied vodka-bottles at home.
After a while, I began to feel an odd feeling. Otherworldly, even. It felt out-of-body. Stonefaced, with my personality thrown to the side. I went on auto-pilot. I wasn’t living at that point. I was simply an organic robot; it felt awful.
Because of the drinking, I went to take a leak. Once I locked the door, I noticed a very familiar object. A razor. With a lack of sleep from the day before, alcohol and the possibility of many present and undiagnosed mental disorders, I picked it up. I slit my wrist. In my friend’s bathroom. And the pills? I downed them. All of them. A shadow filled my vision, as I fell to the ground.
Next thing I remember, is the trip with the ambulance. In what felt like a minute, the ambulance drove me to the nearest hospital, for what they thought was a suicide attempt. Was it a suicide attempt? I have no idea.
After the trip to the hospital, they wanted to keep me for a while. Mostly, to get me some different medicine, as Sertraline wasn’t making much of a difference. But, also to make me talk to a ’peer.’ She explained how she had gone through the same process. Depression, anxiety, depersonalization disorder, psychosis, etc. In my, then, 18 years of existing, she was the first one to understand me.
After six months, I graduated from high-school. Just after the ceremony, I received a piece of paper, from my aforementioned female friend.
Award
The Best Fighter
Mads T. Kristiansen
For the first time in my life, I cried my eyes out. A cry of happiness and joy.
EDITOR’S NOTE
Hello, reader. I don’t know you, but seeing as you read this, I wish I did. I wish I could give you a giant hug. Not just now, but also when you really need it. I’d love to convince you, that it’s going to be fine. Because, it will. I’m proud of you. Good luck.