One day at the hairdresser’s, I picked up a business card for a counsellor. I didn't want to think that I might have depression, but after about three-and-a-half years of suffering, I couldn't stand it any longer. It was only last year, in year 11, that I got fed up and started asking myself why I felt so bad all the time. I retreated more and more into myself and pushed everyone away. I started to wonder if my parents would finally care about me if I committed suicide. In years 9 and 10, I became lonely again and my depression became more noticeable. No one gave me a hard time, and I felt more independent.
I became more outgoing and confident, and I made friends. When I started high school, though, I changed. I felt lonely, neglected, sad and unwanted every day. I only had a small handful of very good friends, and I didn't have a good relationship with my parents. I felt like an outsider in my own home, as well as at school. I wanted to be the perfect older sister that everybody wanted to have – but I’d failed.Īll through my primary schooling, I used to wonder why everyone else was happy and I wasn't why I seemed to be the only kid who didn’t feel wanted at home and who wanted to run away. One day, I got in trouble because they thought I 'smothered' him. I was so excited! I used to hug and kiss him a lot, but my parents thought I was going overboard. When I was seven, my little brother was born. The importance of finding someone to talk to: Amy's story How I helped my friend Wade with thoughts of suicide It was a tough lesson to learn, and in circumstances I don't wish on anyone, but I've learnt that reaching out really is one of the most important lessons anyone can learn. Some days are still tough, but they're not nearly as overwhelming as they were before. I walked out of the first consultation with him three months ago feeling positive, and I’ve been going back ever since. He was young, relaxed and seemed pretty cool compared to the last guy. Strongly encouraged by my GP and a few awesome mates, I went and saw another psychologist. Needless to say, I wasn't keen to head back to his nicely decorated office. He was my dad's age, and talked to me like I was ten. He asks me, ’How are you feeling?’ The consultation seemed to drag on and on. I'd had enough of the crap going on in my head. It felt like a brick wall had fallen from the sky, blocking my way and I'd been given a toothpick to dig my way through. Life went on, and I stopped talking about how I felt. I was still struggling, but things seemed so much easier with someone behind me who knew the story. I told everyone else that things were fine, and I hid my feelings behind laughter and a bubbly, ‘no worries’ exterior. I stuttered my way through the story and about how I was feeling, but it was such a relief to get it all out of my head. I'm not a big fan of deep and meaningful conversations, but I knew I had to talk to someone. I had a million things going on in my head and I really needed to get them out. Why didn't he say something? I'd never faced anything like this, and for once, I didn't know if I could handle things on my own. I was mad at him for putting me in this situation.
I thought people would think I was a terrible friend for not speaking out when I suspected he might be thinking of doing something. I had to give a statement to the police, something that scared me. When she said, ‘It was Dan’, everything hit me: anger, frustration, guilt and shock. She'd been phoned, and had come to tell me and to drive me home. I finished work, walked outside and my mum was there. I sent him text messages from work no reply. Friends of mine don't die, and they sure as hell don't suicide. Something told me it was Dan, but denial took over. The following day, driving to work, I heard there was an accident nearby and that someone had died, a suspected suicide. I spoke to him the next day and he said he was great, and we organised to go to the football the next week. I asked him if he was thinking of hurting himself, but he said he was fine, so I assumed he was. I knew he wasn't happy, and we were worried. He didn't seem himself the weekend before he did it. Ten days earlier, Dan and I had been chatting away, making plans to catch up. I didn't think this would come for another 50 years.
I'm 20, and I'm sitting at a friend's funeral. And as cliché as it sounds, suicide really did steal a piece of everyone who knew Dan.
0 kommentar(er)
