Teenage Depression

**WARNING. This story contains possible triggers**

Do you know what it’s like to be scared of your own brain?

To spend each waking moment not knowing what is real or not?

I do.

A long time ago I suffered from Severe Depression (Which caused auditory and visual hallucinations) and Severe Anxiety and Panic Disorder

Everyday was a struggle. I just wanted to lay in bed and fade away.

School was a nightmare.

Kids are merciless. Between the verbal/emotional, physical, and cyber bullying; nowhere was safe.

I remember having panic attacks, my classmates pointing and laughing.
Mocking me as I cried and shook.

I remember the betrayal and hurt I felt when my “best friend” just stood there and laughed when the others picked on me.

And then eventually told me she couldn’t handle my issues and wanted nothing to do with me.

I spent the majority of my high school career being to scared to speak. (I suffered from Selective Mutism). Which made me the perfect target because I couldn’t ask for help.

I remember spending sleepless nights, a blade to my shoulder, and thighs. Or a lighter against my skin. The physical pain giving me an escape from the mental anguish I felt. The pain made me feel alive, something I could control.

There’s something seriously wrong with society when a 12 year old tries to kill himself drinking hydrogen peroxide (the only thing on hand) because he couldn’t deal with the bullies. (It just made him throw up. Thankfully, he was oblivious to what was poisonous)

Or when the same boy spends his entire 13th year being told to kill himself by his peers. Celebrating his 13th birthday alone, as his one friend didn’t want to come.

But he thinks high school will be better, a fresh start; so he holds on. He tells the teacher he’s afraid to go home because he’ll do something he’ll regret. You know there’s something wrong when the school doesn’t have a protocol for that situation. (He spends a few days at the psych ward on suicide watch).

High School will be better he thinks. But he was wrong, oh so wrong. Between the constant panic attacks, getting kicked and shoved; the bloody noses. The obscene names he’s called. Telling someone makes it worse. Not knowing their names, and not having any proof (a black eye doesn’t count) makes the school push it under a rug. And when he does have a name, he gets threatened. Snitches get stitches.

He withdrawals into his head, reality is too much for him. He gets rid of his social media accounts, they’re filled with hate messages anyway. He starts seeing shadows and figures that aren’t there. The words the kids shouted at him are whispered in his ear by nobody. His grasp on reality is slipping.

He gets cut from therapy because he lives too far away from the facility. He’s put on the waitlist.

The school is tired of dealing with him. He’s not “special” enough for Special Needs, but he’s too “special” for mainstream classes. They start pulling him from his classes. Forcing him to sit alone in a room to do school work. Ostracizing him further.

Struggling financially, his parents pay for private therapy. Where he’s told he’s not going to amount to anything. He’s never going to have a job. He’s never going to get better.

He’s put on higher doses of medication. Different combinations. He becomes a walking zombie, all creativity and individuality gone. That’s when the hallucinations start.

He starts pulling his hair out. Refusing to leave the house. Paranoid. Thankfully his parents take him off the meds and he goes back to his ‘regular’ self.

Eventually he reached a point when he was too tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of trying. Tired of living. He was sick of the kids. Sick of the school. Sick of the doctors. He gave up. The only escape from his pain would be death.

He took a blade and carved up his arms. Giving up. Thankfully he didn’t hit any arteries, or go deep enough. He may not believe in God, but someone was looking out for him. He spends the night at the psych ward. And then has therapy scheduled for the next week. (Being considered crisis moved him to the top of the waitlist)

The scars have faded, most are gone. You can still see some of them.

A permanent reminder of the day he gave up.

But they’re also a permanent reminder that he survived. That he made it through. That if he survived then, he can survive now.

And here we are, years later. He’s happy, and content. He has a job. He survived, and so can you.

You want to know the most messed up part?

He maintained an A average throughout all of this. If given the support, do you have any idea what he could have accomplished?

There needs to be a better support system in place for teens. They need to stop being passed around. They need help.