TRIGGER WARNING: This post deals with depression and mentions self-harm.
Depression And University Life
I studied Classical Civilisation and Ancient History at university. And during my
And during those years at university, I often felt like I had changed into one of those characters. That I was ever so carefully destroying myself because of my flaws. The flaws that I believed were plentiful.
I longed to be accepted and loved. Why wouldn’t the boys want me as their girlfriend and the girls want me as their best friend? I longed to become someone I wasn’t. Popular.
Instead, I became the mysterious girl. I was the student who disappeared for an entire year. Every now and then someone caught a glimpse of me out with my boyfriend or at the student union. But other than that I was
And the rumour mill went into overdrive. People thought that I was pregnant, had an incurable disease or maybe I’d run off to a different country. No one guessed the truth. The prosaic answer. That I’d had a nervous breakdown in the first week of the second term of my second year. That I had depression.
My Second Year
That year was the most profound and intense year of my life. I was still technically at university but I also lived at home.
A number of personal tuition sessions helped me to write my essays. But rather than hand my essay to the lecturer to be marked. Mine was mailed in a big brown envelope.
Everyone else took their exams in a huge lecture theatre. Complete silence. No talking. Don’t even look at the person next to you
My exams were held in my personal tutor’s office on my own. She would occasionally poke her head around the corner to make sure that I wasn’t having a meltdown.
Not your typical second year of university. And my life was very atypical. In fact, I can’t really remember that time. Moments have been blocked out or merged into one another. Memories are a blur.
I remember crying in the student union and a kind face offering a Mars Bar and uttering the words
Men are all bastards but chocolate will never let you down.
I remember nights filled with tears and pain. The pain of depression and the pain of self-harm.
My Third Year
And I remember my third year at university. Because in my third year I went into denial.
Of course, I wasn’t ill. The psychiatrists didn’t know what they were talking about.
I was fine and I knew how to drown out the pain.
Drink. Inappropriate men and self-harm.
I began to self-harm regularly. The cuts were superficial but the scars began to add up. And yet weirdly they were scars that I was proud of.
I continued to deny that I was ill. My psychiatrist would call me up on it. So I stopped seeing him.
I KNEW better. Drink, the Student’s Union and the local nightclubs knew better. I was just the life and soul of the party who was intense and often highly strung.
Yet, somehow, despite all of this, I got a degree. And a good one. A degree that I was proud of. And apart from my children, it is still the proudest achievement in my life.
Then the time came to decide what to do with my life. I believed I could do anything. I didn’t even take into account that I had an illness.
So I decided to stay at university and do a Master’s Degree. In fact, I chose to do an MA by Research. A post-graduate degree where I would have little supervision and be left to write on my own.
And to top it all off, I decided that I would also go and work full-time at my local NEXT store.
I also fell in love with the wrong man.
All while pretending that I was perfectly healthy.
But I wasn’t healthy and eventually the big bubble burst. There was no use in pretending any longer. I was terribly ill and needed help.