CW: Depression, suicide, self-harm
My adolescence was swallowed up by a depression so severe that I did not expect to live past 18. I did not expect the pain to stop, nor did I expect to recover, and I certainly did not expect to be 20, writing this, feeling the most content I have been in my life.
Depression is a cruel thief: it strips you of your sense of identity and reality, leaving only a numbing belief in the certainty of continual suffering. I held onto this conviction for years and spiralled into a dangerous cycle of self-destructive behaviour and thinking. Eventually, however, I asked for help after realising that I did not want to die, only for the misery to cease. What followed was a two-year process of receiving support from both professionals and loved ones. It was painfully challenging, tear-filled but, over time, waking up each morning did not feel like a tragedy and ordinary tasks became manageable. Three years on from starting recovery, I can confidently say that I am okay.
The more time passes, the harder it is to remember a time when I was not okay. Old diary entries and photos mostly spark confusion as I struggle to comprehend that girl’s suffering and recognise her story as mine. There is relief in this: the distancing in memories evidences an increased distance from the pain I once harboured. The fact that I can forget speaks to a contentment I never thought I would achieve; that I do not consciously carry the baggage of these experiences into every room I enter or conversation I have is an answered prayer.
And yet, with this comes sadness. Forgetting is fine, unpainful. It is forgetting and then remembering that is a knife to the heart. The first crashing wave is the fear of my own ‘cruelty’, rooted in viewing the forgetting of my younger self as an act of abandonment and erasure. Then, the storm follows, which washes away any certainty of personal identity. I become unable to understand that my present and past selves are one another, both me, for how can I be okay now, having once been so unwell? How do I live normally, when I know what flesh sounds like when it is split then torn? There was great pain and confusion in feeling like I only became conscious at 19, all whilst knowing that that itself is a lie.
Viewing my recovered self as a new person, like a phoenix rising from ashes, created this disconnect. However, self-reinvention is not the truth of recovery. You do not work towards successfully slipping into a different skin and leaving your ill self in the dust; instead, it is a process of recentering the self, becoming familiar with and accepting your contours and complexities. So, each day, I work hard to erase the harsh line I drew between myself as a child, a depressed patient and a recovered adult, realising that similarities exist across all three. Whether I was ten, 15 or 20, I have been fiercely stubborn, a lover of green tea and happiest by the sea. I always cry when watching films, wish I was a better painter and listen to The Beatles to relax. So many parts of myself did not change when I was ill; they were just hard to access and hold onto. Whilst my understanding of myself has changed, and I am now more confident, independent and emotionally self-attuned, this is ultimately a matter of renewal, not rebirth. I did not lose myself when I was depressed. I was simply lost. There is a difference.
Whilst I will always struggle to comprehend the horror and paralysis depression causes, as well as never feel I accurately convey the brutality of such sadness and how I contained it, these experiences remain my own and shape my life quietly. Ultimately, getting better is not about erasing the past in the promise of the future; it is learning to say your name with a smile, knowing it has always been yours to say and will continue to be. That, I have come to realise, is the great gift recovery offers: the gift of a lifetime, of an ‘I’.
Oxford nightline is open 8pm-8am, every night during term-time, for anyone struggling to cope and provide a safe place to talk where calls are completely confidential.
You can call them on 01865 270 270, or chat at oxfordnightline.org.
You can also contact Samaritans 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, by calling 116 123 or emailing [email protected].
