Sometimes I wish I'd hit rock bottom sooner. They say that once you hit rock bottom, there's nowhere to go but up. That may not be strictly true in some cases, or at least we as humans can't always see the choices when they are there, but it was true for me.
I first started displaying signs of depression when I was around nine years old. I dislike psycho-babble, so this isn't about the ins and outs of living over half my life in an indescribable hell, or trying to study my own psychology. It’d about not always believing there are only two ways out once you're in the Mental Health system - death or recovery.
By the time I was in my teens I was medicated and in therapy. It's never going to be the same for everyone, and I'm sure they really do help plenty of people, but I attribute my decline to entering therapy and being put on medication. Over the course of my time spent with plenty of note-writing 'shrinks', taking various anti-depressants, I got worse. Only I could see how little these professionals were helping me.
I should have known from the very first time I saw my GP about how I felt. I was in his office for no more than ten minutes and yet I left with a prescription to Prozac and without a referral to a psychiatrist. To me, there's something insanely wrong with giving a kid Prozac after a ten-minute meeting, but I was being told this was my helping hand, my way out, my first step to a better and happy life as a 'normal' girl. |
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Many pills and many professionals later, I'm worse than ever. I'm sitting in a chair in front of Dr. Shah and his notes. He's my latest shrink and he's telling me that somehow they've lost the information the hospital sent them over Christmas. It's not for the faint hearted, it was my last suicide attempt and they've lost the information?! I'm angry. He seems too delighted to be getting a reaction out of me, because like the rest of them, he's been telling me I don't talk enough and I'm hiding something. Some kind of trigger, some horrifying childhood memory, something that makes me the way I am.
Only, he's wrong. They all are. Unless I'm suffering from memory loss, there is no trigger, no horrifying childhood experience, nothing I can recall as the very beginning or the cause of depression. They say they can't help me unless I admit to it. After explaining to him that I'm not one of his textbooks but in fact a human being, he only smiles and tells me I'm not helping myself at all. I get angrier, and I make some kind of threat towards him. He calmly responded by asking me why I'm so angry and I realise then that nothing short of inventing a horrible memory is ever going to make these people understand. No one is ever going to help me. Except maybe me.
"I'm leaving." I said.
And in my head, I wasn't just leaving that plain, bright little room and the man and his notes about me. No, those words meant so much more. I left the room vowing to beat the system and to beat this side of me. The part of me that made my life a living hell. I'm sure I looked crazier than ever running through that place shouting at the top of my voice, down those stairs into the waiting area to my best friend and past reception....but they let me out through the front door which was always kept locked.
I left something of myself in that room. I went home and threw all the medications in the bin and I declared to my parents that I would never again see any so-called professionals about my mental health. I would rely on no one for help now. I would either die or I would survive and I would do it my way.
Slowly, over time, I discovered my backbone and my inner strength. It was never easy, and I live with what feels like a looming black storm behind me, waiting for me to slip but for a long while I've been winning the battle. As long as I recognise the signs when I start to slip, I'll always be one step ahead. Always. It took a lot of effort to rebuild my life, and maybe I'm not even finished yet, but so far I'm proud to have gotten this far. I never once thought I'd live this long, never mind get here and be even remotely happy.
There are no right and wrong ways of helping yourself. I made bad decisions as well good ones when I was trying to find a way, but I had to make those mistakes first. When something works, you'll know. No one will need to tell you it works, no one will need to tell you what helps, even if it is in fact a person who helps. Even five minutes of feeling that low, as low as I was then, is too much. But if you survive in it, for even a short time, then you already have more strength and courage and power to pull through, than you might know about.
Whichever way a person chooses to get help, they need only admit they need it to themselves. Once they've done that, they're already half way there. You can be your own worst enemy, or you can be your own best friend. With or without help, there's a way for everyone, no matter who tells you otherwise. It'll never be easy, but it’s always there, waiting to be found.
By Jade Bruce
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