Growing up with mental illness

My mental health journey began at five years old. My very first teacher wrote on my school report ‘anxious at times.’ It set the tone for the next fifteen years.

Most of the standout moments of my childhood centre around anxiety or difficult situations. I struggled to talk to new people or to perform any action in front of others. It made school difficult. I often left the classroom or lied about not having my work done to avoid situations that I was afraid of such as reading aloud. When I was eight, a relative of mine passed away. I knew she was ill but I didn’t understand the severity of it and I was shocked when she died. Her passing had a massive impact on me. As a child I constantly worried about ‘something bad’ happening to my parents when I wasn’t there which made socialising away from home difficult.

I moved house when I was nine. At my new school I made friends quickly, but I still struggled with the overall situation. At twelve years old I began to experience panic attacks. Everyone was baffled by that – nobody knew anything about them or how to handle them. In school, when I would have a panic attack my teacher would move me to a table at the back of the classroom where I would sit and sharpen a box of pencils. I now know that they thought giving something else to focus on might help me, but it didn’t. It made me feel more separated from the rest of the class, it further marked me out as different. However, at the time, I didn’t know what I needed and even I had known, I wouldn’t have had the language to explain it.

Secondary school continued in the same way. I would have a panic attack and be put on the side or excused from class to get some fresh air. By age fourteen I was very mentally unwell. I was having multiple panic attacks every single day and they were so draining. I wasn’t sleeping and I spent most nights crying because I was dreading the next day so much. I spent my mornings vomiting from the anxiety I was experiencing. I began to lose weight. I felt like I was losing my mind.

One morning, over breakfast, my mam asked if I was feeling depressed. I didn’t fully grasp what that meant, I’d never heard it spoken about in any detail at home or in school, but it seemed like saying yes was the right thing to do. I saw my GP right away. I can’t remember the appointment itself, but I know that I left with a prescription for an anti-depressant.

Life continued in a similar fashion until 2008. By then I’d been self-harming for months. I went to school, but I was rarely in class because of the panic attacks and when I was there, I couldn’t keep up with the work because I’d missed so much. Unsurprisingly, my parents began to wonder if school was the problem; was I being bullied? The next logical conclusion for them was that I was just acting out, being a troublemaker. They couldn’t see what was going on and I couldn’t tell them. Our relationship began to suffer. I was angry that I was surrounded by all these adults but none of them could see that I was in serious need of help. I turned that anger inwards. ‘Why can’t I just be normal? Why do I feel this way? Why can’t anyone else see it? Am I crazy?’.

I didn’t know how to tell them what was going on with me, I thought it was in my head, that I was abnormal. Neither my teachers or family had the knowledge to realise what was happening.  The following year, I attempted to take my own life. I was in a really dark and hopeless place. That lead to my parents and the school finding out the extent to which I was struggling. My school gave me some time off to attempt to reset and get the help I needed before returning several weeks later.

Over the next eighteen months I made a couple of new friends, but I also began to get bullied by my former friends who couldn’t understand what had gone on with me because I wasn’t allowed to discuss it with anyone. I would find thinly veiled comments about me online, they would whisper, point and laugh while sitting behind me in classes or while walking the corridors at lunch – not ideal!

Things weren’t great outside of school either and eventually, it all became too much. I made the decision to leave school in December 2009, six months before I was due to sit the Leaving Cert. It was the right decision, but it didn’t lessen the heartache of seeing my friends prepare for their exams and college.

The following six years were tumultuous. The social anxiety was worse. I couldn’t get a bus or taxi on my own, I couldn’t interact with retail staff, I couldn’t make a phone call, some days I couldn’t leave the house at all.

Labels don’t work for everyone but, I found them helpful. Having that information allowed me to find a community of others who were experiencing the same thing I was, which meant I felt less alone. I was able to educate myself. That’s when ‘recovery’ started for me.

The past four years have been good. There are still some bad weeks but they’re never as bad as they once were. In 2015 I returned to education as an adult and over the next eighteen months I gained three qualifications, essentially finishing school. Those qualifications weren’t the best bit though, the people were, which is something I never thought I’d say considering my history with social anxiety! I recently completed the Certificate in Mental Health in the Community, I’m training to be a Crisis Counsellor with Crisis Text Line Ireland, I’m starting a local Mental Health Mates Walk & Talk group for my area and I have a mental health blog that enables me to interact with so many passionate and inspiring people every single day. I have a wonderful partner, friends and family who do their absolute best to understand and support me when I’m not doing so well. There might still be times when I struggle, in fact I’m sure there will be, but now I can see how good life can be, that it can get better. I have hope and that changes everything.