A piece of history.

About this time, nine years ago, I found out that my best friend had killed herself.
We were eleven, as close as you can be, but I had absolutely no clue what was going on in her head that Christmas day. She was found in her bedroom by a member of her family - she'd hung herself. There were plenty rumours about how and what with and what position she'd been in but to me all that was by the by. The brightest, happiest, kindest person I knew was gone.

In school I remember it was mentioned a time or two. We were offered the chance to go to counselling but none of us took it - we knew we'd be ridiculed if we did. I was continually bullied by people who had, before this event, been both friends of myself and Georgi - they told me it was my fault and that I wasn't a good enough friend or that she was never friends with me and so on and so forth. This on top of already being bullied pretty much since I started school (for being overweight, more intelligent than all of my classmates and needing glasses) made everything pretty hard.
I don't know exactly when my depression started. As for the anxiety, I've always worried a lot and sometimes it would get out of hand. My mam confessed the other day that she's been shit scared for me since Georgi died. Understandably I guess - how can you possibly know what your 11 year old daughter is thinking/feeling after that experience? Unfortunately, when I told my mam I thought I had depression, at 12 years old, she brushed it off. When I mentioned it again, she got angry. She has/had a lot of her own problems which would often have an effect on her memory, emotions or mental state so I've always figured that when I got that kind of reaction from her I should probably just drop it - I knew there was a 95% chance she would forget it ever happened anyway.

At 12, nearly 13, I started self-harming. Superficial stuff, nothing too nasty, light cuts on my arms, wrists, thighs and chest with either a pencil sharpener blade or a stanley knife. I think I was 15 when my mam found out. She completely flipped and made me swear I'd never do it again or else she'd tell my dad. I wasn't sure what this would entail exactly since he'd never really been a big part of my life after the divorce when I was 3 but I didn't want him to find out so I agreed, grudgingly. I stuck pretty well to the 'no self-harm' rule until earlier this year, the summer, just before my 20th birthday. By this point I was going to therapy but not on medication.

As much as I have, in the past, wanted to take my own life, I always think of how horribly Georgi's death affected me. I don't want to do that to anyone. I don't want to cause my boyfriend, my friends, my family, pain in killing myself. I want my life to make a difference. I want to live for both me and for Georgi - taking life to the fullest and being the best I can possibly be.

Sometimes, I think it's that kind of pressure that I put on myself that can be the cause of my depression and anxiety but, if it keeps me alive, that's good enough.