Life With Depression: Third Cry for Help
I can’t say for other mental illnesses, but with depression, it completely changes who you are. You find that with a mental illness you are no longer the same person. It seems to strip away everything you used to be and fill you with this incredible sadness. On top of that, you have the lack of energy, motivation, and desire to do things. The depression brings with it a sense of death. Death to life, to happiness and to things you used to enjoy doing.
After my second cry for help, I was starting to feel that no one cared. If no one cared about me, why should I care? However, there was still something in me that wanted to fight. To this day this small light that wants to fight back is there. For me I find it to be an annoying part of myself.
Third Cry for Help
I can still remember my third cry for help very well. This was my last, final attempt to get some kind of help. I don’t know where it came from, or where the idea originated from. Maybe it was just the depression and one of the side effects of depression, self-harm.
One night, on a weeknight, I took a razor blade to my face and started cutting. I can remember looking in the mirror and absolutely hating what and who I saw. I started cutting with the razor blade, deep into my depression. Once I had started I couldn’t find it in me to stop.
I cut until there was almost nowhere left to cut. They weren’t deep cuts, just superficial cuts but enough to draw some blood.
After getting it out of my system I went to bed. When I woke up the next day, I knew what I looked like. I had the desperate hope that help would finally be had. My face was cut up with dried blood on most of the cuts. I went to school that day, seeking help that I didn’t know how to ask for.
My step-dad didn’t see me leave that morning, and I made my way to the school bus stop. I know that people were staring at me and I’m sure some making comments. I was too lost in my depression though to even notice.
Almost Getting the Help I Needed
I went through just over half the day of school before a teacher pulled me aside and sent me down to the office. The teacher told me to go and speak with the school counselor. I couldn’t understand how I went so long without someone reaching out to me.
So off to see the counselor I went, hoping against hope that help was finally coming. Someone would take some action to help me figure out what was going on and help to fix me. There was a swirling of emotions of both depression and hope at the same time.
When I met with the counselor they asked what had happened. I told him/her, I can’t remember if it was a male or female I saw, that I had done this to myself. The counselor called my step-dad at work requesting him to come in and pick me up to take me home.
I felt a little let down that the counselor didn’t have anything else to say to me. It was just a simple question of what happened and the phone call to my step-dad. He came and picked me up, taking me home and we had a very short conversation.
Seeing A Therapist
He was a little shocked about all the cuts on my face. I don’t know if it was a recommendation from the school counselor or his own decision, but an appointment was made to go and see a therapist. My step-dad was a very business-like man, and not one for emotions so we really didn’t talk much about it.
I spoke with a therapist who gave me a checklist test to go through. After completing the test and the counselor reviewing it I was told that I had severe depression. The therapist recommended I take the test in with me to see my family Dr for medications.
I finally had a label for what I was going through and what was wrong with me. I was still lost though as to how to get better. The depression seemed to just be constantly getting worse and now I was being sent off to the Dr for medication that was supposedly supposed to help me.
Please feel free to leave any comments. If you have any questions feel free to ask!
Read other parts of my story:
- Life With Depression: Onset of the Depression
- Life With Depression: Second Cry for Help
- Life With Depression: Moving Back to Canada