When I first told a person that could help me about what I was going through, I was terrified. I had it all planned out; the first time I would be offered a chance to, I would ask for help. That was why I was so excited to go to school. It wasn’t just because I really wanted to go to school after so many years of being stuck at home, but it was also because it would be where the opportunity that I would be able to get help without being judged for it is. I’ve researched about it before and learned that guidance counselors were the ones you go to when you’re bothered, and since I couldn’t bring myself to tell my parents, I took the courage to ask help from the school guidance counselor. You know, the whole thing about how it was easier to talk to strangers than the people you know because there would be less judgement, and if they were to judge, you could always turn the other cheek and then cut them off.
But this wasn’t the case. It wasn’t easy. The time I asked if I could see the school guidance counselor, I got the ‘look’ from my classmates. It was, of course, weird that a new student at school would just ask to see the guidance counselor with no real reason. It was a sort of know-how that you only go to see guidance counselors at school was because you did something wrong or because you were a troubled child, and I was at the time. It was also around that time that I figured out that I wouldn’t do well with my classmates for more reason than just being the new kid in the class. I didn’t know why they had to judge – I mean, it was me who asked for it for myself – but they did, but that didn’t stop me. I waited seven long years to be able to ask for help, several times then that I tried to do things that would make me happy, even though I knew it wasn’t right.
When she would ask me why I was sad, my head started spinning. Should I lie? Should I lie? But if I did, what was asking for help going to do for me?
You know that principle that when you leave out the truth it’s a lie and when you say only half of it, it still is a lie? I told her I said I thought I was depressed. I didn’t tell her I had trouble sleeping at night, that there were garbled voices in the back of my mind, that I was struggling with very unhealthy coping mechanisms and over the roof self-expectations. I just told her I looked up why sad people are called depressed and I was one of them.
Now I do love my guidance counselor at the time; she was very nice, smelled lovely, and was always offering help when I needed it. But it struck me that she had the same look in her eyes, the one where she was mocking my words. I smiled and, as usual, I swallowed my pride to tell her that I was one, repeating myself, like I repeated myself to every single person I come across the internet and to my parents. It was like an inner voice kept shaking me to reach out, that I knew life was not just about my feelings. I wanted help, I needed help. In one form or the other, I’m going to get help.
Seeing the guidance counselor did not instantly make me feel better. I was terrified, and anxiety told me my classmates were talking about me behind my back. I had no way of telling whether it was wrong or right. I didn’t know anything. It just didn’t make sense.
My life at home was okay. My mom and my dad said they wouldn’t be mad at me for failing some tests, which made me want to pass them even more. On some days, I come home crying. On most days, I walk home to swallow the pain and the rejection I felt at school. It felt disgusting to taste rejection in my mouth, like it was a shot glass of poison. I swallowed it anyway.
My guidance counselor saw me for a day every other week. Of course, she was also busy tending to other students. I always wonder how they were and if they also lied to her when they didn’t want to face the truth. The truth is a bitter thing for people who force themselves not to see it.
Anyway, she told me stuff to control my emotions and my outbursts, to aid my sensory overload. She also talked to my teachers to let me have some air when I needed it, and occasionally, I did. I was careful not to stay out too long though, but it was good enough air to feel whenever I’m in a spiral of emotions.
She and I tried to contact my parents to help me get the help I needed. My parents, although seeming to understand that I was a little sad, did not take me to the doctor immediately. I felt more of a burden then than I did before I asked for help. It made me scared to ask for help again, because the weight of the eyes on me was wearing me thin.
So I didn’t. I stopped asking to see the guidance counselor, I started doing more things that make me feel things, sometimes it’s not even happiness anymore. I want to put it lightly but I leapt out of a moving vehicle because I needed the adrenaline and the feeling that I could be strong like Tris Prior, but what I think she was strong about was strong. She was strong because she knows who she is and who she wanted to be. Sheer willpower didn’t get her there. She didn’t teleport to where she is like I was thinking I could.
Coupled with the fact that I got into a relationship with a guy from the Netherlands and my ever-good grades, no one could’ve realized I was sad. No one but my aunt. Besides being the person that talked my parents into letting me have my first, legal online boyfriend, she was also the only person who believed that I was depressed when I said so. To this day, I wonder why she took my word for it when every other person just dismissed it as a phase, but oh am I so thankful for it and her. She was one awesome aunt, and up until now, she’s by my side as we try to get through the pandemic together with my cousin.
The second time I asked for help, my aunt paid for it. It was surreal. And expensive. Way too expensive for my good.
It was in a private hospital where we rarely step foot in because it was an expensive hospital. We waited for a while, and then I got face to face with a psychiatrist.
I was weird and tingly and nervous. What with it being really expensive and rated per minute. I was scared to even admit anything while my parents are around, so they answered pretty much a lot for me until it was time to do a write up about what I was feeling.
The results came in five minutes later and I was, as I remembered, really depressed and anxious. It was about three years ago. I remember this because I was seventeen when I dated Wiljan and when we both came around to having medication. Three years ago, and I still need help now.
If things had been different and help hadn’t been available, I would probably be dead by now. I had no real reason to be sad. I had everything I could ever want, so why don’t I feel the way I should?
If you read this whole thing, I want you to understand that your feelings are valid. I’m just another person on the billions of people on the internet but I hope I just, even for a little bit, told you through my life story that you’re not alone, and:
Ø Asking for help is not wrong
Ø People will judge no matter what, so ask anyways.
Ø Taking medication does not make you inferior to those who do not.
Ø You are loved by someone, maybe not the ones you wanted to love you, but there will always be one who does. Always remember that even the villains of the stories are loved.
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