Betraying Depression

TRIGGER WARNING: This piece contains discussion of multiple triggering topics, including depression, anxiety, suicide, self-harm, domestic abuse and sexual assault. If any of these topics are triggering to you, please read no further. If you are in need of support, please contact Samaritans on 116 123, or if in urgent danger to yourself (or others) please contact an ambulance or have someone take you to A&E. You are not alone, you will get through this.

Hi. My name is Caitlin. I’m 21, and I’m at war with myself again.

I’m hugging a cup of herbal tea while I write this (T2, ‘Surf’s Up’ – excellent with some honey) as if somehow the funky little leaves and flowers hold the strength I need to make it to tomorrow. My calendar is looming over me on my bedroom wall, held in place by two turtle-push pins I’d been so excited to find in Paperchase: next week alone I had one relative’s funeral to attend, two presentations to prepare and deliver, a sustainability forum to sit on, five meetings, two shifts at work, one music event, a friend’s surprise birthday party, my mum’s birthday, and six classes to attend. I’m exhausted just looking at it, and this past week has been no different.

Caught sight of my reflection in my laptop screen before it powered up. Wearing a grey hoodie stolen from my boyfriend and with dark circles looking like I’d gone a few rounds with Tyson Fury, a raccoon stared back out at me. My depression had not only consumed my mind but had ever-so-rudely invaded my face as well (thank you for the acne, by the way).

Every night lately I come home from whatever has swallowed my day and either sit in my car, staring blankly out my windscreen and blasting XXXTentacion like a tragic scene from a teen movie (bonus points if it’s raining and neighbours give me rightfully concerned looks), or simply curl into a ball and cry into Emotional Support Oversized Penguin, who is well overdue a thank-you for his services (and a wash).

And each morning starts the same. The alarm goes off, and I simply open my eyes because yet again I didn’t sleep. But I lie there. Something is sitting on my chest and holding me down and I don’t even bother trying to fight it. The minutes tick by, eventually my anxiety over being late for whatever sparks me into some degree of movement (it can be helpful sometimes). My room is still a mess. My washing is piling up. The bin is threatening to overflow. Can’t bring myself to shower, got up too late anyway, Batiste and a pleat will solve it. I’ll fix it tomorrow.

Time and again I tell myself I can’t keep going.

But I do. I’ve been here before. Every time I keep going.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s better to just… not.

I first began to notice my mental health deteriorating when I was eleven. Odd that someone so young and who’s main worry at that age should’ve been passing her spelling tests would feel depressed. But I did and as I got older, it began to get worse. I was twelve when I first dismantled a pencil sharpener and took the blade to my skin. It went on for a few months and my parents were completely unaware. That was, until, I told my little sister about it while walking the dog. Maybe that was my first cry for help? I’m not sure. But whatever prompted me to tell her, led to her telling my mum, who phoned my dad in a tearful panic, who then sped up the road from Newcastle (where he had been working at the time), to then find us all sat in my GP’s office. And then came my first encounter with the CAMHS system.

A kind, smiling doctor with dark red hair and pale skin sat in front of me then. It had taken months of waiting to get to that point. The conversation that ensued was a difficult one. My parents insisted on staying in the room. I skipped around the truth, not wanting to openly state in front of my loved ones that yes, my mind was being plagued by suicidal thoughts.

I remember cringing at the printer whirring away in the background, spitting out page after page of an odd, sandy-brown coloured paper. My eco-warrior heart sinks to think of it. It went on for what seemed like forever, in painful, uncomfortable silence. My dad stared at the floor. I stared at the floor. My mum rubbed her thumb over my hand in my lap, seemingly attempting to reassure both herself and me in that moment. The printer stopped. The doctor handed over a thick pile of paper. Stamped directly on the front of the ‘coping with self harm’ manual she gave me? A superimposed, black and white image of a razor blade.

But that was it, no more follow-up appointments then. Put on the ‘at-risk/must keep an eye on’ list for my GP.

I had rifled through the papers at home. The manual appeared to be more of a manuscript. Buried beneath it all were information sheets on major depression, self-harm and suicide: my suggested diagnoses. The anxiety came at a later CAMHS revisit, in 2014. This time it lasted a bit longer. A bit. I can’t remember my therapist’s name, only that after a few months in her care she was on maternity leave and that was me, spat back out again.

I was carted to three CAMHS therapists, one private therapist and a school therapist that had me drawing rainbows and puppies in a span of 6 years. All tried Cognitive Behavioural Therapy. All failed. Put on medication, didn’t work. Increased the dosage, made me sick. Taken off medication. The bathroom scales read 44kg, ‘I’m fat’. I started to heavily edit pictures of myself. Caked myself in makeup, refused to leave the house without it, obsessively compared myself to other girls: a little sprinkling of body dysmorphia added to the cocktail. Warning: may also contain traces of undiagnosed PTSD.

In 2016, I had my first almost-successful suicide attempt. My family was in America. I stayed in Scotland with my grandparents. I remember hearing that it would take 21 pills to kill me. At that time, I was blissfully unaware that it wouldn’t be an instant death. I found that information out later. It would be gradual and painful, my organs shutting down one by one. But at that moment I was ignorant, and downed a large handful of paracetamol. One after the other, I’ve had more difficulty trying to down shots.

Hooked to a drip, throwing up all contents of my stomach, my gran sleeping in the chair beside the bed. Almost successful.

Taken in a second time months later, another failed attempt though this was only a nice little drop-in session. A cheery ‘hi, oh the toxins in your blood will dissipate soon, you didn’t take enough, you’re fine, see you later!’ pop-in and pop-out.

A toxic ex came into the mix in 2015 and for five years kindly decided to abuse me psychologically and sexually. In 2012 I experienced what I now recognise was grooming, and from 2018-onwards I’ve experienced a few instances of sexual assault. I was bullied throughout primary and high school, struggled to make friends, and spent many break times and lunchtimes hiding in the school toilets or an empty music room – too embarrassed to be seen so alone in a sea of people. I began to miss school and fall behind, which then formed a new battle between my anxiety refusing to accept anything less than an A as ‘good enough’, and my depression altogether giving up. I went from straight As (with one B) in 4th year, to two fails in 5th year, and as a result later rejections from universities.

However that’s a whole other shipping container to unpack.

But here I am today. 10 years since it all started going to shit.

This short story (novel) of mine is probably going to end up on my social media feed, somewhere amongst the multiple positive mental health posts I’ve religiously shared every #WorldMentalHealthDay. Every one features a depressed ‘before’ photo, alongside a colourful collage of happy ‘after’ moments, accompanied with a deep-and-meaningful caption about how I’m ‘better now’. I make these posts to raise awareness of mental illness and end the stigma surrounding open conversation about it, that’s always the primary intention behind them. But nowadays the additional subliminal reasonings have become a bit blurred: am I also posting them to get the positive comments on how I’m ‘inspirational and brave’, which help to give me a smidgen of a feeling of self-worth? Or am I posting them in a desperate attempt to remind myself of my reasons to keep living? Probably all of the above.

This month – good ol’ October 2021 – has been hellish. It kickstarted with a guy deciding to grope me in a club, triggering a lot of painful memories of previous assaults which my best pal Depression decided to come have a party with. Broke down in work and had to take mental health days off… and then had to take my next shifts off because Covid-19 felt left out and wanted in on the fun too. Laptop decided it didn’t want to wake up which lead to another extension request war with uni, dude hit and scraped up my car, my uncle passed away, and unfortunately due to missing so much work my wage slip for the month hit an all-time low… so paying rent was a bit of a challenge.

When people ask if I’m okay, either they’re met with a slightly manic laugh and a recount of my recent Series of Unfortunate Events – followed by a poor joke about how I must’ve angered some ancient demon – or a simple ‘I’m fine’.  It’s usually the latter, and it’s so incredibly tiring.

Essentially anything that I do, except for my studies, is public facing. From my part-time job to my volunteering to running my uni society, I have to carry a positive, approachable demeanor, and either maintain or start a conversation about anything from the cotton content of clothing to the current state of the global ocean. My social anxiety doesn’t exactly love it, so not only is my energy absolutely drained from the social aspect itself but the whole faking happiness thing – as cliché as it sounds – just about finishes me off.

And that’s pretty much how I found myself in this familiar pit again. I stumbled and fell. I’ve been drinking too much to try to feel anything but complete numbing emptiness, just passing through the days, doing my usual ‘Caitlin’ thing of taking on too much at once and doing anything and everything to avoid addressing the fact ‘it’s getting bad again’.

I relapsed. It was methodical, I had it all planned out, this would be easy.

But the plan found its way to the bin, and my boyfriend whizzed over from a midnight finish at work to hold onto me and anchor me to the spot.

It’s strange that in choosing to live, you can also feel like you’re betraying yourself. You recognise your own strength in continuing and you acknowledge that you will get through this, you know you will. But the weight on your shoulders still sits firmly in place, and you can hear the faint whisperings of ‘coward’ in the back of your mind and you desperately plead with yourself that you can’t give up. It’s never as easy as deciding to keep going, and suddenly the dark clouds disappear and it’s all rainbows and butterflies.

You’re not out of the woods yet, but you can at least see the clearing.

Even in my plan, I had factored in calling an ambulance. Maybe I was just scared of any pain, or maybe I didn’t want my flatmate to be lumped with the fallout, or maybe – just maybe – I didn’t entirely want to die after all: I just wanted help.

In this war with myself I’ve chosen to fight. It’s the same enemy, I know its tricks. I’ve won before and I’ll keep fighting and winning for as long as I need to because there is a whole world out there for me to see, a whole life ahead to be lived and so many new experiences and memories to be made. So I’m sticking around. I’m still here. I’ll get help.

I’ve got this. I’m going to be okay.