Stories of Yesterday

Some people never get a chance to share their story. SOY aims to change that.

[thestoriesofyesterday]

Story of Yesterday #31: 

“David. You know you can trust me, right? No matter what. Everything will be alright.” But sometimes, no matter what you say in the moment, everything is just not right.

[Trigger warning: this story contains a personal experience wherein the author refers to a friend’s instance of self-harm.]

Let’s backtrack a bit. It was the first day of 8th grade. I had been waiting for this moment for two whole years. It was finally my chance to sit in the back of the bus. In anticipation for this glorious moment, my fellow 8th graders and I even created a seating chart. I had chosen the left seat in the second to last row. It was the perfect seat—close enough to the back so that I wouldn’t be bothered by 7th graders, but not so close that I might fall out the emergency door if anything crazy happened. Every little detail was planned out, every little thing was accounted for—except David. I stepped onto the bus after a summer of anticipation, and that’s when I saw it. My seat had been taken.

There it was. The moment I was waiting for was gone before I even had a chance to live my dream. I didn’t know it, but in that moment, I met someone who would change my outlook on life forever. For now, all I knew was that the new kid had stolen my seat. I stormed to the back of the bus and hit him with the classic 8th grader line: “Hey, that’s my seat. Give it back.” He politely got up and headed to the front of the bus. As he shuffled to the front of the bus like a dog with his tail between his legs, I looked at him and realized that this whole seat thing was dumb. I called him back, not knowing his name: “New kid, get back here.” That’s how it all started. That’s how I became best friends with David.

David wasn’t a normal kid. He was handsome, preppy, athletic as a kid could be, and nice as the day is long. He got along with all the girls, was flamboyant, and his huge personality could only be rivaled by the size of his heart. Since he had this movie star-esque personality, other guys at my school weren’t able to accept him. He didn’t talk like them, look like them, or act like them, and frankly, he didn’t care. They would call him “faggot”, “gay boy”, “pushover”, “bitch”— they called him anything you can think of. On the outside, he was a rock: he was the epitome of consistency, love, and happiness. But on the inside, he was a train wreck. He was a ticking time bomb ready to blow up.

Nobody knew that David moved because he was bullied. He cut his wrists almost every night, he had suicidal thoughts, and he battled an anxiety disorder. He was bisexual and bipolar. He was Bruce Banner masquerading as Hulk. Every second of every day he put on a mask and acted as if nothing was wrong even when everything was.

The first time David told me about his problems, I was shocked. The extent to my bullying knowledge was Diary of a Wimpy Kid, and now I was listening to the story about how my best friend for the last 3 months had kept all his problems from me. I was so glad that he finally opened up—but at the same time, I was so disappointed in myself for not noticing the signs. The signs were clear to me after that. His blank stares into nothing, the fact that he never wore short sleeved shirts, and his constant jokes about his well-being. I am not saying that these are definite signs of depression or anxiety, but in this situation, they were.

After David opened up to me, something weird happened. He stopped talking to me. It got so bad that a week went by without us saying a word to each other. After constantly reaching out, saying “hi” or “hey”, I got sick of the situation. After school one day, I walked up to him and said “David, you know you can trust me, right? No matter what.”

At that point he looked up at me, and gave me the most David response. He hit me with a loud, obnoxious, and friendly “WHAT YOU TALKIN BOUT WILLISSSS.” We embraced, and went on with our friendship. We talked about his problems and we discussed possible solutions, but there was no simple solution to his puzzle of depression and anxiety.

Over the next couple of months, David still struggled with who he was, but was able to alleviate some of that because of the support from his friends and family. His family decided that it was best for him to attend a different school that was able to cater to his anxiety disorder and depression. He saw multiple psychologists and was put on different medications to help control his depression and anxiety. I am happy to say that David is doing so much better. He is confident in who he is and has finally found a place that accepts him for who he is.

If this story relates to anyone, please feel free to reach out to me. I will be happy to talk to you. My student number is 160915. Just know that what you are going through is normal. Don’t think that you are alone, because you aren’t. David is the perfect example of someone who seemed perfectly fine on the outside, but was crumbling inside. He didn’t search for help or talk to anyone, so he resorted methods of self-harm. I urge you to find someone to talk to—anyone you trust. Talk to a parent, a friend, a sibling, a teacher, or a counselor.

It is apart of the human condition. We all worry, we all think we aren’t good enough, and we all feel insecure. But if we can all come together, we can alleviate some of those emotions. We can spend our time being happy instead of sad, we can be carefree instead of worrisome, and we can become confident in who we are instead of insecure. However, this all stems off of one important factor: trust.

David trusted me. Who will you trust?

Note: at the request of the author, Arjun, below is his contact information.

Arjun’s email address: [email protected]

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Story of Yesterday #30: 

Some people genuinely have an easy life. In most ways, my life has been very easy—private school, comfortable surroundings, and a loving family. But in other ways, it’s been full of pain.

[Trigger warning: this story contains a personal experience wherein the author refers to instances of self-harm.]

I met him when I was 14, at an overseas sporting competition. He was from a different state, and over an hour’s flight away. Upon our return home, we started talking. I found out he was severely depressed, psychotic and suicidal. Since I didn’t have many close friends, I wanted to help him. I have a vivid memory of the night we decided to start “dating”, if you could even call it that—I stayed up with him on text until sunrise trying to convince him that life was ok and that he didn’t need to harm himself.

It got worse over the course of our relationship—he was irritable, angry, always threatening to self-harm or attempt suicide. Most of the time I was unable to stop the self-harming. It broke me to see someone in so much pain. Things built up inside of me—I was being emotionally abused and I drew everything in.

Eventually, I snapped—it was too much and I took a razor blade to my skin. The relationship ended after a year when he broke up with me after becoming emotionally attached to another girl.

Throughout that year, I had witnessed him, over Skype, attempt to hang himself without warning on two occasions. I had also watched him make a cut across his neck. Then, just like that, after being abused and being relied on to keep him alive, I was alone.

I was severely depressed, but no one really knew at the time. I would walk around school with a huge, painful knot in my chest, and with bags under my eyes from only two hours of sleep. I had to hide a growing patch of angry red cuts on my thighs through school swimming and more.

I took 20 pills at a time, hoping that I would get sick. Then, my parents would notice and take me to the hospital to get the help I needed. It didn’t work. I eventually saw a psychiatrist who never told me what I was experiencing, just suggested therapy, and gave me a Fluvoxamine prescription.

While I eventually managed to lift myself out of depression, I don’t feel mentally stable to this day. My medication doesn’t feel right and I get overcome by intense feelings of sadness at nighttime when I am alone if I am left to think about things.

I am at university now. I’m so proud that I got the marks I did to get into law despite the turmoil in my senior years. I want to get more help and to finally feel normal again. I want to be free from whatever that’s plaguing me at the back of my mind. My parents, however, think I am 100% better and would overreact to me seeing a doctor who they think is only reserved for “odd”, “crazy”, and “unbalanced” people.

I’m taking it one step at a time now, keeping myself ridiculously busy with lots of things that I don’t necessarily enjoy, but that look fantastic on a CV.

Not one person in the entire world knows this whole story—you are all now closer to me than my family and friends.

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Story of Yesterday #29: 

I can see the good in an individual. But no matter how I look at it, I can only see the evil in humans. People always tell me that loving everyone is key to happiness. People always say that being kind is essential to being a good person.

People always talk about how respect, courage, and compassion are the hallmarks of the global citizens we should be.

Time and time again society has implied that my worldview should be shaped by the patience of Gandhi, the love of Mother Theresa, and the empathy of Mandela. That like them, I too should see the goodness in people—and that when I see the goodness in people, I too can become good.

So you can see my confusion, when I, a boy who’s been subject to this message for his entire life, has somehow developed a worldview that reeks of this message’s very antithesis: hate. Somehow, as a result of the people I’ve encountered, the mentors I’ve met, and the experiences I’ve had, I’ve developed a stark hatred for humanity.

Everywhere I look, from my direct community to the wider world, all I see is disgusting hypocrisy and disconnect between people’s personas, actions, and true selves. It’s completely fucked that people can travel the world subconsciously thinking that because their community is somehow “better”, they thus have the skill, ability, and right to enter another community and change it. In reality, the communities people travel to are often times stronger in basic values when compared to that person’s own community. Despite this, people still have the gall to critique and scrutinize various problems in the world whilst ignoring the deep rooted problems directly facing their own community. People seem so content to criticize how rednecks in America are ignorant, how communists in China are corrupt, and how radical Islamists are crazy. While I would agree with these statements, before we go on harping on these various groups of people, I would implore us to look within first. Even though these groups are dangerous, they still have the unity to stand up for one another, whereas in our own community, we like to run away from those who are struggling and exclude the very people who need us the most.

For a long time, thoughts like these have filled my mind, and even if I can see the goodness in each individual person I meet, I can’t help but hate humanity as a whole. I hate all of it. See, even when at heart I believe every human is good, their intentions don’t matter if their actions still feed into the selfish, arrogant, hypocritical milieu. With a situation like this, it truly feels like we’ve doomed ourselves.

And I can’t help but be afraid of this. I feel like my views go against all of the lessons and teachings of what it means to be a “good person” and global citizen. Am I evil for thinking this way? How should I act when these ideas occupy my thoughts?

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Story of Yesterday #28: 

I guess you could say I’m from a pretty religious family. Not a family of Bible-thumping street corner ministers, but more of the ‘go to church on Easter, Christmas, and communion Sundays’ type.

I grew up in the church; I knew the lingo, could quote the verses, and sported a diamond crucifix around my neck everywhere I went. I went to a Christian preschool, VBS, Sunday school, and high school outreach— the whole nine yards. After graduation, I knew it was my destiny to go to a Christian university, get my Bible degree, and become a Christian psychologist.

I went to one of the best Bible colleges in the Midwest for a little over a year, and it was home to me. I made some of the most amazing friends. I was wildly popular, and was on the Dean’s list. I thought I had it made. I thought I was happy. My friends loved me, my family was so proud, and I had no shortage of golden boys swooning over me. On the track I was on, I was sure greatness was guaranteed. Of course, like everyone else, I had a skeleton in the closet. I kept it to myself, denying its existence. But the problem arose when someone opened the closet and exposed me.

Three weeks into my sophomore year, I found myself sitting in the Dean of Women’s office signing the dotted line that changed my life forever. The golden carbon paper with the president’s seal read, ‘Student engaged in homosexual acts, behavior, and promotion of a homosexual lifestyle. Student accepts disciplinary action of immediate dismissal from the University.’ I scribbled my name at the bottom and was escorted off campus.

I will never forget sitting in my mother’s bathroom a week after the dismissal. She was on a step ladder, painting the window frame, when she looked back at me with welled up eyes and said, ‘Didn’t we teach you better? Don’t you know girls aren’t supposed to kiss girls?’ I had to force myself into saying, ‘I’m not gay! I know, mom, I’m not gay.’ They should have seen the signs. My hatred of dresses and skirts, my inability to hold a relationship and indifference toward male suitors, my childhood infatuation with Angelina Jolie, my insisting to sleep in the same bed with friends at sleepovers, the cheek-kissing pictures with my best friends, and even getting caught with lesbian porn. They only saw what they wanted to see, and I didn’t want to believe it either.

After living at home for 4 months, I moved to New York City, enrolled at a new school, and started over. Compared to the homey community of a midwest Baptist college, NYC was my rude awakening. Cussing, shoving, honking, hurrying— crowded, uncaring, cold. I felt like an outcast to say the least. Popularity was a thing of the past, as my old ‘friends’ had blocked me out of their phone contacts and had added me to their prayer lists instead. They told me that no self-respecting Christian would condone homosexuality by keeping ties with a lesbian.

I thought I would never have a home again until I met her, a beautiful brunette, born and raised in the City. Her smile was contagious, and her eyes were deep and inviting. I was captivated. But she was straight, always raving about getting together with her ex-boyfriend, and I was still scarred from the dismissal. I told myself I could never be with a woman— I had to be straight. But every time I saw her my longing grew stronger, and she took a liking to me also.

Today, I have been with my Princess for 6 months. I am out to my entire family, who loves and accepts my girlfriend and me as part of the family. We are moving in together next semester, and I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. She is my best friend, my role model, my savior, the love of my life, and my purpose. I never thought I could be accepted for who I am, and quite frankly, there are some people who don’t accept me at all. But cliche as it is, the old saying is true. Be who you are; those who mind don’t matter and those who matter won’t mind.

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[thestoriesofyesterday]

Story of Yesterday #27: 

I remember feeling infinitely confident on my first day of college, over two years ago. I thought I had found my new home and that the classical vocal program I had enrolled in was right for me.

Flash forward to mid-April of the next semester. My confidence was long-gone as I was wheeled into the psychiatric ward of Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center in Boston. I had no physical impairments, so I thought the wheelchair was unnecessary, but I wasn’t allowed out of it. As I wheeled through the empty hallways of the ward, I felt like I had reached the lowest point of my life.

I had been depressed since my senior year of high school. I missed classes every week and I didn’t finish homework assignments, but somehow I graduated and managed to make it to college. I made it through the first semester before I completely snapped. The bottom line was, I stopped functioning. I guess I can’t say I was surprised when they told me I was being admitted.

My favorite book to this day is “It’s Kind of a Funny Story,” ironically about a boy who gets admitted to a psych ward. I had my mom bring it to me when she visited the day after I was admitted. I devoured it. Yes, there were workshops and meetings with doctors and there was a TV, but I mostly spent time reading, against the staff’s advice (who said I should be going to the workshops with the other patients). I didn’t go to many of the workshops because I felt they didn’t apply to me. I thought I was okay— too okay to be locked up.

But the staff had total control. They woke us up for vital checks, guilted us into going to workshops, and treated us like second-class citizens who couldn’t take care of ourselves. The staff had forgotten that at one point, we had all been functioning members of society.

As the youngest one there, few people wanted to get to know me. The week I was there felt like months. I was lucky to only be there for a short period of time. One woman had been there for three months. All I could think of was, “Oh god, don’t let that be me.”

The doctors gave me a new medicine and released me once they thought I was free of side effects. I went back to class, kept up the charade that I was okay, that I just had the flu for a week and stayed in bed. Only my two closest friends knew the truth, and visited me nearly every day I was in the hospital.

Once I was released, I thought this mess was behind me. I thought I was genuinely free and I vowed to never go back. You can imagine my disappointment when, only a few days later, I was back in the emergency room, this time with my dad by my side, being admitted to McLean Hospital.

I stayed at McLean for another week, with more freedom than I had at Beth Israel. I was allowed a razor to shave, supervised walks on the contained campus, and supervised outdoor time, where I mostly wrote in my journal and read my favorite book. I made more friends at McLean and it was more “homey.” But it was still a hospital and I was still treated with little respect.

When I was released from McLean a week later, my parents decided it was time for me to come home. My sister and brother were on spring break, and had come to visit the hospital with my parents. As much as I enjoyed having my whole family there, I hated to see my sister and brother so worried about me. I was the oldest. I supposed to take care of them, but I wasn’t even able to take care of myself.

The hardest part of the whole process was coming home. Facing my aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents was miserable. No one knew what to say. I remember a particularly uncomfortable moment with my grandfather, when he told me he was happy I was doing better. Was I? I had pulled myself out of school and was back in my parents’ house, doing virtually nothing every day, living like a hermit with no friends and no job.

I thought I would never rebound from this. I thought I would be caught in the endless hospital spiral. Flash forward to December later that year, and I was checking my email before going to work as a teaching assistant at the local elementary school. I read the subject line. I debated opening the email. If I opened it, I would either cry out of complete joy or total despair. Before I could think too much, I clicked the email open. I started crying as I read that I had been accepted to NYU as a transfer student. I started in January.

Now, as it nears the end of 2015, I can genuinely say that I am happier than I have ever been. The hospital visits turned my entire life around and shaped me into the person I am today. I no longer look at that period of time as the lowest point in my life. Instead, I view that period as a revelation, as my personal renaissance, and as an experience that made me who I am today. Sometimes the hardest, most crushing experiences are the ones that reveal your true self.

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Story of Yesterday #26: 

This is a short story about my dad’s pet parrot. When my father was 16, his parrot started to get very lonely. The family had owned the bird for many years, so it didn’t come as a surprise.

The parrot, named Coo, was a very intelligent bird who adored mocking people and repeating what they said. When Coo got lonely, he would repeat any sound he heard. One day, my father and Coo were outside on the balcony enjoying the sunny day when an old lady passed by on the street. The doorbell rang, so my dad put down his cigarette and headed towards the door. As he approached the door, my dad started hearing loud whistles. My dad and my uncle, Ted, were both very surprised to hear these whistles. As they headed out, they heard someone yell “I’ll call the police! This is harassment!” When they popped their heads out to see who was yelling, they were confused to see that the old lady was in fact speaking to them. It was only until a few minutes later that my dad and uncle realized it was Coo who was whistling at the lady.

As Coo got older, he became more lonely, and eventually, my dad had to take him to the vet. Unfortunately, Coo was too old to find a partner and was doomed to live alone. He became so irritating and loud that even the neighbours started complaining about him, asking for Coo to leave. Ultimately, my dad and his siblings had to give Coo to an animal keeper who could take better care of him.

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Story of Yesterday #25: 

There’s always so much to be insecure about. Really, there is. I do know this, but I choose to ignore any self doubt that creeps into my mind. I choose to follow this style tip: If I think I am, I am.

If I think I am a fashion blogger, then I am one. I am simply going for it. No one has ordained me as such. But I feel passionate about style, and I want to help others feel good about getting dressed, so I am embracing this passion. Am I stylish? Maybe…maybe not at all. But in my mind I feel stylish, and so therefore I am declaring that I am.

If I walk in shoes that are ugly, but believe they are cute, then they will be. Tennis shoes luckily are making a comeback. But I’ll be frank: they aren’t the cute little black booties I love, or even the ever trending cross-over, laced up flats. However, tennies are working for me and my situation right now. I feel good in them, and therefore I feel like I look good in them. Feeling counts for something with style. Feeling counts for a whole lot.

If I concentrate on that fun flippy curl of my hair, my love of a red lippy, and my quirkiness of wearing only one earring, I won’t need to focus on my flaws like that pesky double chin. There’s plenty I don’t like about myself; I’d rather just find some celebrations instead. Feels better. Finding things I like about myself feels like love rather than self hate.

If I think I am stylish, I am. I’m wearing all sorts of crazy from stripes to plaid to leopard. I’m wearing an obnoxious tee that claims something I’ve declared, like being a “fashion blogger.” I’m wearing tennis shoes as if they’re stilettos as I’m hobbling around on crutches. It’s all rather silly, but if I think I am stylish, then I am.

Note: at the request of the author, below is a link to the original post on her blog. She would also like to add that although the story refers specifically to style, the word “stylish” could be replaced with anything. If you think you are, you are!

Author’s blog post: http://www.krembdelakremb.com/style-tip-if-you-think-you-are-you-are/

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[thestoriesofyesterday]

Story of Yesterday #24: 

My grandmother was crazy. Take the most random yet loving person you know, multiply that by ten, and you have my grandmother. I called her Grandmommy. She was my best friend.

She never said she had a favorite grandchild, but my whole family knew that the two of us had a special bond. We understood each other. When times got hard I called her, she prayed for me and I was happy. I couldn’t go a week without hearing her voice over the telephone.

Around ten years ago, my grandmother was diagnosed with stage II ovarian cancer. I was young, so at the time, all I knew was that grandma was sick. I prayed and I prayed. I made promises with God. I said, “If he lets my Grandmommy survive this, I won’t swear ever again!” (haha).

On my next birthday, Grandmommy went into remission. It was by far the best birthday gift I’ve ever gotten. During this time, my family spent as much time with her as we could. She went on a trip with my dad to Istanbul and we all went to New Orleans to see where she grew up. She gave me a ring with a cross that I wear everyday as a confirmation gift.

A year later, my grandmother went back into the hospital for a check-up. They did some tests and when they got back her results, she didn’t pass. Her body was lit up everywhere in the diagrams. The cancer was back.

As you may have already guessed, my grandmother died. She died on December 6, 2013 at 11:45 pm. I was sleeping in my mom’s bed when my dad called with the news.

The years after she was re-diagnosed all mushed together. For a long time, I denied that she was getting worse, while my mom didn’t. Mom always commented on how her memory was decaying. I’d get angry and say, “It’s always been bad,” and it had been. But then my grandmother started to forget simple things like how to spell “girl”, or what her grandson’s name was. Everything started to blend in her mind. Every face, every name, and every event in her life. And I just denied it all for so long.

It wasn’t until the summer before my sophomore year that I finally woke up to how sick she was getting. Before I went to camp, my father asked me to learn a song he liked because he wanted me to play it at her funeral. I spent most of my month at summer camp in the main office on the phone with her or crying.

A couple weeks before she died, my dad pulled me out of school to visit her. While my dad and grandfather worked during the day, I took care of her. I drained the fluids out of her legs and helped her go to the bathroom. The last day I spent with her, we were laying in her bed, staring at the ceiling, when she said, “I’m tired, Meagan. I just want God to take me home to Heaven now.”

When she died, I ran into my bathroom, sat on the floor and cried. I blamed God. I hated God. I couldn’t find any more reason to put up with people who bothered me, so I didn’t. I was mean to everyone. I was even mean to the only friend I had left. My grades dropped tremendously and I was numb to everyone around me.

To make a long story short, I ended up getting better by the end of the year. I moved to Hong Kong and took that opportunity to become someone people would want to be around.

While I pushed myself away from God, my grandmother’s passing drew my brother closer to Him. Thankfully, he caught me before I pushed myself too far and brought me back into God’s light. It may seem cheesy, but that was the best thing that had ever happened to me.

I miss my grandmother everyday. When I see someone or something that reminds me of her, I feel so lucky to have had the pleasure of knowing her as well as I did.

Sometimes I worry I’m letting her slip away. I worry that I’m going to forget her voice over the telephone. I was listening to my voicemails last year when I stumbled on one from my birthday before she died.

She starts off by saying, “Hello Miss Meagan. Where are you? I miss you.” and she sings the prettiest Happy Birthday.

My biggest fear is that one day, that voicemail will expire.

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[thestoriesofyesterday]

Story of Yesterday #23: 

“Forgive them”, he said. “They’ll mature in a few years….” That was five years ago. At that time, I took those words as a promise that I would never have to endure the same thing ever again. I was wrong.

Four months ago, I was cyberbullied by a group of boys in my grade. It started off with them teasing me behind my back. I only received news of such teasing from a classmate that was kind enough not to hide it from me. Needless to say, I never expected it to escalate.

The emotions that went through me went something along the lines of: “Why is this happening to me again?”, or “Why me, out of everyone in my grade?” I felt hopeless, lonely, and most of all, frustrated. On the one hand, I was glad that they picked on me again, not knowing if anyone else would have had the strength to pull themselves out of a situation like this. On the other hand, I wished they had done it in person. They had leveraged social media to keep themselves anonymous. It drove me insane to not know who they were, but it also kept my anger from rising to the point where I wanted to seek revenge.

I realised a while ago that they’d targeted me because of my vulnerability. My best friend was the one who pulled me out of the never-ending downward spiralling black hole. Without him, I probably would have fallen deeper into depression, and worse, may have killed myself. Looking back now, I wonder this would have happened at all if I’d acted differently at school, or if I’d shown a stronger personality towards them.

Cyberbullying isn’t something that everyone can endure; many commit suicide or fall into depression, only to never recover from their experience. It should never be used as a method to make yourself feel better than somebody else. What you do may seem like nothing, but to the person who has to endure it, it may last forever.

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Story of Yesterday #22: 

I think my body is fantastic, and I still do. But unfortunately, eating disorders aren't always about body image. It all started in 6th grade. I was in my English class reading a book when my friend across the table pointed out that I had a little double chin when I looked down.

In her eyes, the comment was innocent— just an observation. However, in my eyes, she was calling me fat. It didn’t bug me at first— I’ve always had a really good body image. Magazines containing perfectly photoshopped women didn’t influence my opinion of myself at all. But eating disorders aren’t always about body image. For all of 8th and the beginning of 9th grade (my current grade), I was in an emotionally abusive friendship, which is another story. The main point is that despite my fantastic body image, I began to exhibit signs of Anorexia nervosa. I didn’t notice it at first and only recently stopped denying my disorder. My hair has started falling out, and I’ve become extremely dehydrated. It sucks, because I’m starting to lose my curves, breasts, and butt. I miss them. I never wanted them gone, but I’m finding it hard to stop my unhealthy eating.

Another huge part of my story is my self-injury, which started in 6th grade. I can’t tell you why I started, because I myself don’t know, but I never thought it would get this bad. It started with a cut that barely even broke the skin. There was no pain, and there was no blood. Within days, it escalated. I had faint scratches all over the back of my arm, but since I was in 6th grade, nobody thought it was self-injury. My classmates were easily fooled when I told them it was my cat. I stopped for most of 7th grade (5 months), but started again when my grandma had a stroke that put her in the hospital. This time, my self-injury was much worse, and continued all through summer. In November of 8th grade, I took 32 antidepressants, which landed me in the hospital. I was released after two days. After that incident I started to see a therapist and a psychologist. I was diagnosed with Anxiety, Bipolar Disorder, ADD, Panic Disorder, and OCD. Now it’s October of 9th grade, and I’ve been getting all the medication and help that I need.

Ever since 9th grade started, I’ve lost all my friends. I’ve managed to fight my way through lots of struggles, but it seems like life just keeps knocking me down. I spend my lunches in the library, and I haven’t spent time with friends for about a month now. It’s lonely, and I don’t know what to do. I can’t fight all this alone.

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Story of Yesterday #21: 

“The light at the end of the tunnel” is my favourite expression now because it reminds me of the future. It shows us how our lives are endless hallways— not windowless boxes, but long expanses with doors that open and close. It’s just up to us to find the keys.

I stress this because there was a time when I felt like I lived in a box. I’m sure we’ve all been there. It’s as if you’re in a room, but all you can see is the text imprinted on that tattered wallpaper. What the text reads is different for all of us. For me it simply read “It’s too late to do better.” I felt like there was only one way out of the room— death.

I was like any other student attending an international school. No hubris will let me say that I was somehow extraordinarily different from my peers. I felt the heat of the pressure cooker that was the IB and I went in head first, crossing my fingers and hoping for the best. Everyone in life goes through a crucible— a time in which the stream turns into a torrent, and the wind turns into a hurricane. For me, I met my crucible right when I thought I was getting used to the heat. A series of bad grades led to stress, that stress led to substantial weight gain, that weight gain lead to depression, and that depression lead to more disappointing marks. The cycle continued, it was inescapable. It was a room with no doors or windows.

All this on it’s own was upsetting, but it still wasn’t enough to throw me over the edge. As the cycle continued however, and as the depression built up, I soon began to feel the isolation. The longer this went on for, the more I felt alone, and the more I felt it was too late to fix it. Was I the only one that felt like they couldn’t cut it? It sure felt that way— as if a deep chasm had been created between me and the rest of my classmates. Sure, there was a bridge, but it was guarded with a sign that said, “Only competence allowed.” There I was, in the room.

The uphill battle that I was facing was still almost bearable. This was because through all the pain and suffering there was one person that I felt was still on my side of the chasm— not through her incompetence, but through her support for me. She kept me going; she was my lifeboat. I cherished every single moment of our time together, and I loved her for it. But as my crucible would allow it, she too fell out of the picture— not out of each other’s hearts— but out of the picture in a way which meant I didn’t have her support when I needed it most. Without her, the days felt like weeks, and I was becoming parched in the heat of the pressure cooker.

It was at this point after the amalgamation of all these misfortunes that I hit rock bottom— instead of crossing the chasm, I fell into it. It was at this point I decided to take my own life. I thought of her, and how she would feel if I did do what I thought I had to do, and I couldn’t bear it. In a desperate attempt to try and salvage her emotions, I ended things with her in an attempt to crack her heart, but not break it.

There I was, all ties severed, no turning back. I sat in my room, and waited until my parents had gone to bed. Pills in one hand, and a glass of water in another, I proceeded until both hands were empty. It was at this point where my eyes widened and my mind felt clear for the first time in a long time. What was I doing? Sudden realisation, reflection, and then insurmountable regret. I had little time— I could feel the pain begin in my stomach. In a burst of adrenaline I raced over to the bathroom and spent the next hour with my fingers down my throat. There were many tears, and little sleep that night. To this day, almost a year later, the memory of that night still haunts me. When I hear my friends joke about suicide, or throw around the sarcastic phrase, “Ugh, it made me want to kill myself,” I wince.

The rest of the year was difficult, but I sought counselling, and week by week, things started to subside and become clearer. I stepped back and realised how insignificant the things we think are big really are. I spent so long staring at those words on the wallpaper. It took me so long to step back and realise that the room did have a door, and the key was ready to be turned. All I had to do was step out into the hallway.

To the people behind Stories of Yesterday, this is a truly amazing and magical opportunity that you have provided. People may frown at hiding behind the veil of anonymity, but you truly have given me a chance to put my experience down in words, and that, for me, has been an incredibly reflective and therapeutic endeavour. To anyone who is experiencing something similar to what I’ve gone through— if you spend the days and nights endlessly contemplating suicide like I did for months— pause, take a step back, clear your mind, and focus on the bright future ahead of you. Focus on the light at the end of the tunnel.

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Story of Yesterday #20: 

The peace that I felt when I wanted to end my life will always haunt me. It changed me, and it will probably be what allows me to heal and find happiness.

I’ve spent a large part of my life trying to figure out where I fit in. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been different from the other kids. Today, I’m 18, and it’s only now that I’ve been able to face my issue. I’ve spent my life looking for acceptance and love. Now it’s reached its worst over the past month— it’s been so severe that my friends have had to call me to make sure I was still sober and alive.

In the past month, I drank almost every day in order to deal with how I felt. I went to school either hungover or drunk just to see my friends, but I was so ashamed when they saw me in that state.

I’ve dealt with some sort of depression for six years now, and as I’ve gotten older, I’ve become more able to comprehend— but the more I’ve been able to comprehend, the worse I’ve felt. When my friends ask how I feel, all I can say is ‘numb.’ There are so many more feelings, but I can’t say anything but ‘numb’. It’s a heavy mix of frustration, anger, sadness, shame, guilt, and hatred. I’ve hurt myself and attempted to end my life. The way the past month has been, I’ve become afraid of myself.

I have all the pieces of the puzzle, but I’ve been afraid to piece them together and face my inner demon that makes me afraid of myself. The fear drives me to do things that harm me and I feel like I have no control.

This is the first time I’ve said it. The real issue that I am dealing with is that I’ve grown up hating myself. I hate myself. I hate myself because society has made me feel ashamed for being lesbian, not feminine, and not beautiful. I have two sides of me— one side is good and the other is bad. The good side sees happiness and the bad side overwhelms me with hatred.

I’m afraid that the fact that I hate myself is one day going to destroy me. The night I tried to take my life, I thought the answer was death because I was overwhelmed and couldn’t deal with the depression any longer. After that night though, I’ve seen life differently. I’ve seen how precious it is. And I know that eventually, I will find acceptance and love with myself. There is so much love and acceptance from some of the most amazing people in my life. The support I’ve gotten has kept me alive.

When you are questioning whether life is worth it, find one person that makes you smile and laugh. Find one person that gives you a reason to live and tell them how important they are to you. When you are questioning whether life is worth it, find the strength within you, because it is there. It will always be tough, but sometimes the things that cause the most fear in us are the things that make the best versions of us.

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Story of Yesterday #19: 

My name is Kerri, I’m 37 years old, and I live in South Africa. I suffer from Bipolar Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, and ADHD. Needless to say, I am on a lot of medication. Excluding painkillers, I am currently taking Ritalin, Epilim, Rivitrol, Xyprexa and Xeplion.

The Xyprexa made me gain 20 kilograms (44 pounds). As an ex-personal trainer and someone who had previously lost 40 kilograms (88 pounds) through blood, sweat and tears, this side effect was devastating. Now, I see my psychiatrist twice a week and my psychologist weekly. I also participated in a group DBT (dialectical behaviour therapy) workshop towards the beginning of the year.

Currently, I am no longer a trainer because I have a debilitating disease in my spine called disc degenerative disease which has led to surgery on my neck. I also needed surgery on my lower back, so I quit the job I loved because of my health. I managed to get another job towards the end of last year, but lost it in June this year because I did not get along with my boss (and of course, being bipolar, I let her know it). After I stopped sulking, I realised it was a blessing in disguise. I am now working for myself and am loving it!

As I type, I am weighed down by two major concerns. Firstly, I am on so much medication— why do I still get terribly depressed and manic sometimes? Secondly, I see a psychologist every week and did the DBT course, so why has my outlook on life not changed?

I am not writing this post to make you feel sorry for me, but I have decided to make a blog that is a journalled recounting of me looking for answers beyond the avenues I’ve already tried. This is the beginning of my journey to happiness. Join me!

Kerri’s blog: http://www.bipolartohappiness.com

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Story of Yesterday #18: 

I’ve always been a bit shy. Assertiveness was never my forte. But I’ve learned that if I don’t stick up for myself, no one will. In my last relationship, which was my first one, I remember him snaking his hand up my shoulder, rubbing it in a sweet way.

[Trigger warning: this story contains a personal experience wherein the author describes a sexually abusive relationship. Reader discretion is advised.]

When his hand neared my collarbone, and he asked if there was anything underneath my collar bone that needed rubbing. I quietly said no. But he kept reaching his hand further into my shirt as I pulled away. I was obviously uncomfortable but was paralyzed with anxiety. I didn’t stop him forcefully enough so he kept his hands inside my shirt.

Later, I went home and cried so hard. I stood in the shower for hours trying to scrub away the feeling of his hands snaking around me. When I told him about how I felt, he brushed it off and said I would get used to it, because relationships were about sex. I was disgusted with my inability to get him to understand how uncomfortable I was.

It only got worse from there. He would force me to give him handjobs even when I said “No, I don’t want to.” He would take my wrist and force my hands into his pants. And when I tried to yank my hand away, he would keep an iron grip. I started crying once when that happened. He pretended not to notice. I pushed him away and tried to take my hand back, but he was grabbing my wrist so hard that his fingers left an outline.

I became severely uncomfortable with him. He used me for sex so much, and would tell me that it was how I could show him that I loved him. For a long time, I bought into that. There were plenty of other things— so many, that I could write a book. But they all remain as dark secrets. I was too ashamed to tell anyone else even though they could see how he treated me just from being around us. Only my current boyfriend really knows the true extent of what happened.

Now, looking at my current relationship, I’ve learned so much about respect. Before we do anything, my boyfriend always asks me if I’m 100% okay with the situation. He’s never touched me once without my permission.

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Story of Yesterday #17: 

I’m starting to get frustrated with the level of ignorance amongst the student body at my school. After watching a video posted by a club, I’ve come to realise that there are still many students who don’t realise how prevalent issues like unsafe sex and depression are within our community.

Many of these issues are left uncared for because we have a lack of health education, wellness classes, and support for mental health. We do need health education, because health education that is supposedly part of the biology curriculum only teaches about the effectiveness of condoms, and does not teach students how to say no to sex, how to choose the right birth control pill, and how to deal with depression. Furthermore, the health education in our middle school does not sufficiently prepare students for what can potentially happen in high school. All I can say is that I’m very grateful for the existence of Stories of Yesterday. There needs to be more awareness within the student body, and I’m hoping that these stories will raise awareness about these extremely sensitive but important issues.

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Story of Yesterday #16: 

I don’t know if anyone else feels this way, but I feel like society don’t really talk enough about alcohol addiction. I don’t mean teenagers who drink to boost their self-esteem.

Instead, I mean alcohol addiction in adults: parents who appear to be normal and lovely but mask their depression and fears with alcohol.

My father is an alcoholic. He started drinking when he was 20. Now he’s 54. Over all these years, he never admitted that his behaviour depended on his alcohol consumption. Never. Due to his drinking habits, I was under constant pressure and tension as a child. I hated the weekends, because I knew that my father was going to fight with my mother. He also used to beat her. I was used to it.

My father’s torment continued until I turned 12. I realized what was going on and I started to protect my mother. I would find myself in the middle of their fights, screaming for him to leave her alone. I was a very tiny little girl, but my anger gave me strength.

When I was 14, I called the police. Two policemen came up to our house and tried to put handcuffs on him. He shouted curse words at my mom and said he was going to kill us. Afterwards, I told the policemen exactly what happened. It was very disturbing to turn my own father into the police, but I know I did the right thing. Three years later, we still live together, but he never touched my mother again, since he knew he would face jail time if he did so. Ultimately however, the police didn’t really help us. The police didn’t help my father get over his addiction.

If you are suffering because of an alcoholic or drug-addicted parent, please try to keep on going. Sometimes it doesn’t get better right away, but over time, things really will improve. And always ask for help. Though the police couldn’t do too much in my case, my father never beat my mother again after they came. Don’t be afraid to speak up if you have problems at home. Tell your teachers, friends or anyone you think who could help. Sometimes I wish someone would have asked me what was going on. Maybe we could have helped my father get over his addiction. But now it’s too late.

Alcoholics are not bad people. They’re really just people who are depressed and who need to be healed through treatment. Blaming alcoholics for their addictions only makes their behaviour turn negative. Even the happiest people can’t escape depression. Depression comes so quickly— it requires immediate action. If you know someone who is an alcoholic or is dealing with similar issues, please don’t hesitate to talk to someone you trust! There are also so many hotlines and organisations out there that you can contact. Keep persevering, and don’t be afraid to speak up.

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Story of Yesterday #15: 

I have a centimetre-long scar on my upper thigh from when I cut myself with a boxcutter knife. It isn’t the type of self-harm you’d normally expect: I have only one scar, in one place.

I wasn’t close to being depressed. I didn’t do it to escape. I just wanted to stop crying.

It was stupid, I know; but I’m an emotional crybaby, and once I get crying because I’m sad, it’s pretty dang hard for me to stop. I’ve forgotten why exactly I was crying, but I remember it was over something stupid— it usually is, with me. And I knew that it was stupid, and I felt pathetic and disgusting for not being able to control my emotions. Also, I didn’t want my parents to walk in and see me acting like the wuss I am— I think I’ve hidden that side of me pretty well from the world. So to distract the emotional ache with some sharp physical pain, I grabbed a knife from my drawer (though I was still stable enough to make sure to not grab a rusty one; I wasn’t taking any chances with tetanus), and sliced a short, straight line into my leg.

It worked. I stopped crying almost instantly. It was an impulsive, heat-of-the-moment thing, so it took a while for what I did to really sink in. The pain felt numbed at first, but then it came— nothing major, but enough to stop the tears and jolt me back to semi-sensible-thinking reality. Then I realised that I was bleeding. It bled more than I expected it to.

I couldn’t even get a bandaid, because my parents were in the living room, and that’s where the medicine cabinet in my house is. I had to fold a square of tissue paper and tape it to my leg. Luckily, I’ve always been one for baggy, knee-length shorts, so there were no awkward lumps to explain.

In the moment, I still wasn’t really thinking right, because I temporarily considered drawing another short line and then a longer curved one to turn it into a smiley face, as if that would make me happier. I’m glad I didn’t though, because I cut deeper than I meant to— I didn’t expect the scar to stay. But here it is on my thigh more than half a year later, hardly any lighter than it was when the wound first healed: a constant reminder of how damn stupid and impulsive I get under any kind of emotional stress.

In a way though, I’m kind of glad that I did it. It’s a weird thing I get, when I’ve forgotten how something feels, and I want to feel it again; I guess I’m afraid of losing memories of important things. I hadn’t gotten a proper cut in years, and it felt good somehow to remember what it was like.

I don’t have any sort of deep concluding sentence for this. This isn’t about morals, or mental health, or consequences. It’s just about a scar that I’ll never properly tell anyone about because it’s just too damn embarrassing. It’s about something I’ve wanted to talk about, but haven’t had the guts to. It’s about a 16-year-old girl who really needs to get a handle on her emotions. It just is what it is, I guess.

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