I never posted much on mental health day or awareness week, because I believe mental health disorders/issues need to be talked about every day. It’s uncomfortable for a lot of people, but it’s a much needed conversation to have amongst family and friends, coworkers, even strangers.

A few posts on my social media accounts reminded me of my past. They don’t trigger me as much as they used to, perhaps it’s because I’ve become stronger or simply because I’m doing the work to heal. I don’t talk about my multiple diagnoses on Facebook very often (I feel people on Facebook are very judgemental – NOT all, just some), I feel Instagram is more the place for it (that’s where my audience is anyway).

I didn’t get a chance to write something on World Mental Health Day this year, so I thought I’d share with you today. Please be aware that it’s very raw and comes straight from my heart, and that it’s my experience, my story.

Note: It’ll be in several parts/posts.

//Part one//Première partie//

If I’m honest with myself, I probably have depression from a very young age. Just that, at the time, I didn’t know it was called depression. No one knew, even those who had it, and until today, I think even if my family members are diagnosed with depression, they’d just brush it off. That’s the culture I grew up in.

What’s depression like to me? Depression is like a giant black hole that completely consumes me to the very core of my being. It starts off slowly, eats me up bit by bit until I start to lose yourself. Then, things start to go wrong, and become so difficult to cope with and before I know it, it feels and seems like everything around me and in my life is messed up and out of my control. That’s when my anxiety kicks in too.

But, that’s just the beginning. I start to blame myself for everything that has gone wrong. I blame myself for every horrible thing/event that has ever happened in my life.
The adopted “cousin” who sexually abused me from the age of 7 to 9? Yup, I believed it was my fault.
Being held captive, raped, sodomised and left to die? Yup, I blamed myself for it for years.
The ex who thought NO means YES? Yup, I should have said it louder.
The friend’s father who thought it was okay to snuck in and molested me at the age of 14? Yup, I should have screamed and woke the house up, but I didn’t.
And many other times, I felt it was my fault, as if I sent out a particular vibe or something.

I convince myself that I’m a worthless POS and I don’t deserve to live. I feel like a burden to my family and friends, and I’m so convinced that they’re better off without me. Then, I get to a point where not only can I not see the light at the end of the tunnel.. I don’t want to. My soul is in constant anguish, the pain is indescribable. I get so damn exhausted. I just want it all to be over. I feel at the end of the day that there’s no point in living anymore. I believe the world is a horrible place, full of pain and suffering, and I want nothing to do with it. I believe no one will miss me, I believe people won’t even know if I’m gone.

I reached out to a few people, and no doubt, a couple of them assured me that they loved me, and tried to help, but I was too far gone. A mere shell of a person I used to be. A friend from the past who met me a few years ago told me that back then, I looked as if I was already gone, dead.

Sadly, the others I reached out to told me that I needed to toughen up, get over it and stop seeking attention in an unhealthy way. In my fragile state, those words had so much power than the ones who told me they loved me.

The last part is where I commit suicide and end my life.
That was 15 years ago. It was my third attempt, and I had the perfect plan.

To be continued…

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