I am a depression, anxiety, and bipolar patient, and here is my story.
Ever since I was small, my mother would hit me. She would hit me for tiny imperfections like getting a B in my math exam, maybe a C in Chinese, and she would go crazy and grab this thin bamboo-wooden stick and hit me - to the point where I was screaming, crying and hurting all over my legs, arms and belly. She also hits me whenever she is mad at anything (she is bipolar too, like me) and she would suddenly grab me and hit me, sometimes with her hands, which would leave scorching red handprints on my arm or face, or with the stick, which would leave my whole arm swollen and throbbing. This has never stopped, even now she hits me, though I refrain from talking to her as it ends in slapping most of the time.
And eventually, I got so afraid of the bamboo-wooden stick, whenever she whipped it out, I would already be cowering in a corner, having a panic attack with tears streaming down my face. Yet my mother never stopped.
My mother also taught me to see the ugliest side of me. I would see my reflection in the mirror, and my sisters would tell me how slim and pretty I am, but all I see is a face with thick eyebrows, dark circles under my eyes, ugly glasses framing my ugly muddy brown eyes, a huge-ass nose, and a mouth that would look pretty, but to me, it just looked like a disproportionate part to my disproportionate face. I would see invisible fat on my belly, though I still wear XS size jeans. I hated every single inch of my body. I weighed 43.2 KG, yet I still thought I was overweight and ugly. I despised myself.
Primary six (or sixth grade) was around the time I was diagnosed with depression by my school counselor, who had a degree in psychology.
I eventually reached a point that I would pretend I was happy, just so people wouldn't ask. I kept my emotions bottled in my heart and in my brain.
At first, it was okay, but eventually the bottles of emotions accumulated to crates of emotions and eventually, my store room of emotions was spilling out, the bottles shattering to pieces on the ground, and it would come out of me in torrents, in waves, and suddenly I would be having a panic attack during a math test, or maybe sobbing in the toilets during Chemistry class.
I felt like I was drowning, drowning everyday, I just couldn't breathe. I didn't know what to do with myself. I was so afraid of telling, so afraid of showing my emotions.
I cried everywhere, anywhere, just so no one was there and I was on my own. In the school toilets, I would bolt the door and lay my cheek on the cold marble wall and shudder and cry and yell. In the bath, I would sit there in a stupor and I would be crying before I knew it. I would fall asleep crying, and wake up with puffy eyes. My sisters didn't ask, they just hugged me and comforted me, making chocolate pancakes for breakfast, but I couldn't bring myself to eat. To myself, I was fat, and by eating this, it would make me fatter and uglier.
And later on, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, and bursts of emotions would come out of me at the worst times. Like I would suddenly be mad at nothing and devastated over something tiny and wasn't my fault.
Then suddenly, I was numb. My brain would shut down, I couldn't feel anything, hear anything - hell, I wouldn't even talk. I would just sit in class, and everything would seem like a quiet, peaceful hum around me. Sometimes I would catch wisps of sound, like the nervous chattering of my friends, their many questions of if I'm alright, but I would just sit there in a dull stupor until the bell rang.
In the bath one night, I realised the truth which hit me like a slap in the face: I didn't want to live anymore. That one thought woke me up. I tried to drown myself, but images of the people I loved and the people who loved me popped into my mind, and I just couldn't do it.
From that day on, I lived for my people. I would laugh at the lamest joke like a retard and make a fool of myself. But deep down, I just felt unbearably trapped. I didn't feel real, I felt like a clown. I was losing myself. I needed to do something to prove I wasn't going crazy, anything to prove I was still real.
It was around that time I found out about cutting. The first time I did it, with a full razor, I forgot being sad, all my pain was focused on the welling red wound on my left wrist. I had never felt so awake and alive. This went on on a daily basis. I cut on the same spot, over and over and over. I learnt to cut just so it wouldn't leave scars. It slowly spread to my right arm, my thighs, but they never left scars, well, except for the two spots that I cut way too hard into the skin and too many times.
I learnt to hide my cuts with bracelets, wristwatches, long sleeves, jeans. I thought I was so clever.
No one knew. No one noticed for two whole years.
But my best friend found out.
I was in PE class (physical ed.) and we were not allowed to wear watches and long sleeves. I had nowhere to hide my two scars, and when I knelt by the benches chatting with my best friend, I kept rubbing my wrist. She noticed and thought I had, like a skin infection on my wrist and wanted to apply cream there. I declined, but she grabbed my arm when I wasn't noticing and gasped when she saw my scars.
Since then, she's been making sure that I didn't cut again. She taught me to love myself for who I am, and I was really okay. I learnt to accept my flaws and I didn't have to pretend to be happy. It was genuine and real.
I still have panic attacks, mental breakdowns and mood swings now but - I'm coping. I'm learning to cope and I'm proud of how far I'd gotten myself to.
I believe life is an untold story, and little by little, we unfold bits and pieces. To complete our story, we must learn to survive. And this has become my life goal.
