Growing Up With Depression

Mental illness is a terrible, terrible thing. It has countless beginnings but no ending. I have struggled with depression and anxiety for about seven years. I was eleven years old when I felt a storm brewing inside my head, and thoughts that I couldn’t control began to take over. It felt like I was dragging a chain around my ankle that weighed a thousand pounds. I didn’t know why things were like this for me. I always had a great home life and supportive friends, and nothing traumatic had ever really happened to me. So why was I struggling so much? Why me?

I didn’t talk to anyone about it for years. I felt guilty, like I was being ungrateful and unappreciative of the lucky life I was provided. However, when you bottle up thoughts as powerful as the thoughts I had, you eventually explode. I figured that out my sophomore year of high school.

I was silent all throughout middle school – smiling with my friends and laughing when it felt necessary, but hiding in my room when I got home. A few of my friends knew, but I don’t think they truly understood. No one truly knew the intensity of my feelings, not even me. After the first few months of experiencing these thoughts, I began to harm myself physically.

Then I started high school, and that was hard. New people, new classes and a boatload of homework each night; it was a lot to take in for everyone, but as someone who was already struggling, it hit me like a truck. I basically crawled through freshman year, keeping my head down and trying to get my work done without bothering anyone. Once I began my sophomore year, I had cracked. I came home in tears, tired of fighting and tired of hiding. I finally told my mom and she took me to the doctor.

I was officially diagnosed with depression and anxiety, which was no surprise to me but shook my entire family. I was prescribed two medicines, one for depression and one for anxiety, and that was that. No more was said until the following year. After being prescribed medication, I felt a million times better. It made me sleepy at night and less anxious throughout the day. I now realize that the medicine didn’t make me better; it made me numb. Nevertheless, it worked until the end of my junior year in April of 2016.

I won’t go into details, but the aforementioned day in April of 2016 was the lowest point I could ever hit. We’ll just say it involved a handful of miscellaneous medications, a lot of regret and a trip to the emergency room. After that, I began to go in and out of therapy and did nothing but try to keep myself busy and tried to not think about it. It was one of the hardest things I ever had to do, but I slowly started to work my way up. I made it through the rest of 2016 like this, trying to keep myself busy enough to the point where I didn’t even have time to think about it. It worked… for awhile. After about two months, I started to throw up everything I ate and I hardly ever slept. But I wasn’t thinking about being sad, and that’s all I was worried about. I didn’t care about my physical being, as long as I wasn’t thinking about it.

Toward the end of January of 2017, I sunk back to the bottom. I thought maybe I’d made a mistake. Maybe I shouldn’t have told my mom the first time. Maybe I should’ve just let myself die. I felt alone and worthless, and I felt bad for my friends for constantly asking them to help keep me busy. I thought that maybe everyone would be better off not having to worry about what I was going to do next. I didn’t want my parents to worry about leaving me alone anymore. Without thinking much about it, I took another handful of various medicines. Not too long after, my dad found me crying, and suddenly we time traveled back to that day in April of 2016.

Since then, I have fought with everything I have to keep going. I am constantly drained emotionally, but I try to keep my head up. I try to listen to the cheesy quotes, the “things will get better”s and the “time heals all”s. I try to be excited about attending college in the fall, and I tell myself every day that the best is yet to come. To this day, I don’t know why I feel like this, and I probably never will. However, I am continuing to work on myself. I have a long way to go, but I’m trying to keep holding on until things do get better.

One thing that I have learned throughout high school is that things get incredibly difficult. When surrounded by the drama, friends, relationships, sex, and drugs, it’s easy to lose yourself. But lately, I’ve realized people actually care about me, and that I always have someone to go to. I’ve learned that people do care and are willing to help, but only if you ask for it.

If you struggle with depression, anxiety, or any other mental illness, please ask for help. Talk to someone, anyone. If you don’t have anyone to talk to, go to your guidance counselor. (Some people are SO against this for some reason, but I’ve had to turn there a few times and it was actually incredibly helpful.) There are countless hotlines to call. Research coping skills of which there are hundreds. Find one that works for you and stick to it. Personally, I like to color, write, watch a movie, or hang out with a friend when I’m upset. Just talk to someone, because even if you don’t want to now, you will eventually want to get better. And you won’t if you don’t take action. Get help as soon as possible before it’s too late.