Last year I was really depressed. I have epilepsy, and I missed so much school because of the seizures, and I started distancing myself from my friends. I was so anxious all of the time. I was having panic attacks on a daily basis, and was failing all of my classes. I felt like such a failure, and that I was a burden, and that I didn’t deserve a happy life. I was ruining daily life for my family, and they had to deal with my crazy mood swings, my panic attacks, my constant irritability, and my self loathing. I felt so lonely, and desperate. I had no idea what to do. I started self harming. I felt like I needed to punish myself, that cutting myself would make everything better. And in some ways it did. But I didn’t realize the impact that it would have later on. I started collecting pills to try and kill myself. I was so tired, and was starting to just not care anymore. I felt so empty. I don’t know what caused me to do it, but I told my parents. I told them everything. They immediately took me to our local crisis mental health services, and they evaluated me and decided that I should go to a mental hospital. I was there for two weeks. It did help. It was the start of my recovery. I did hurt myself while I was there, and that extended my stay, but it turned out okay. I started seeing a therapist immediately after discharge. I still hurt myself for months after that, but I slowly started finding ways to help myself. I made a safety plan for emergencies, and found ways to cope. Depression never goes away, but you can learn to deal with it. It has been a year since I went to the hospital. I am no longer hurting myself, but I still struggle with anxiety and school. But things seem to be looking up. I still have scars (I recently counted and realized that I had cut myself 186+ times and scratched myself with my nails 10 times), but I am not ashamed.
Hardly anybody knows about any of this, and I don’t plan on telling too many other people any time soon. But it felt good to just let it all out.