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Here's how my battle against depression and paranoia began

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You may remember that last week I wrote a piece criticsing Theresa May and Westminster's reaction to the growing Mental Health crisis in the UK. 

In that piece, I said I wanted to kill myself. I want to share that story with you. 

I've already pre-written the whole thing, mainly as it took me a while to settle into uni and one night I just decided to write and write and see what the end result was. 

Obviously I can't publish a 4,000 ish piece all at once, every two or three days, I'll put up the next part. I've left it at certain points, points which are important. You'll love the point I leave things at in the third installment. 

Standing on the platform, as the train was coming in, I bent my knees. I was 11.

I suppose I’m writing this to help myself. Thankfully I don’t have the thoughts anymore, but haven’t really yet explored the depths of what I experienced and the impact it had on me.

You see, what I’m about to share with you over the coming days and weeks is something that from September 2009 to July 12th 2015, not a single soul knew about - not even my parents, who still fully don’t know.

I’m going to take you on a journey about my experience of suffering with a mental health issue - namely, depression.

I feel it is important to tell my story of suffering, in silence and alone, with a mental health issue (we all have mental health, of course). Maybe someone who reads this column and is feeling empty and not knowing why may just go and talk to someone because of it.

Any talk about the growing crisis around mental health and reducing the stigma around it is good, so I hope I can play my little part here.

Let me be frank. My lowest point came in December 2009, when I thought about suicide. I had been at secondary school for three and a bit months and had been bullied pretty much every single day.

A bit of background for you, I went from a mixed primary, where I wouldn’t say I was Mr Popular, but had enough friends to see me comfortably get by and was treated not because what I was, but who I was.

The secondary school I went to was single sex, as most of my friends went off to another mixed school, I was left with just one friend, who was put into another form group to me and in none of my classes. That was a bitter pill to swallow.

I was overweight, had glasses, I was an introvert and teacher’s pet; the perfect target. I would get my head down and work as that’s why I was in the lesson, not to fart-arse about and get cheap laughs. That was for break or lunch.

They were smart, I’ll give them that. They befriended me and gave me someone to talk to, but at the same time were constantly taking the piss out of me.

They knew that they could get away with pretty much anything, as if I did speak out and become a ‘snake’, and I wouldn’t have anyone to talk to. They got their kicks out of their own insecurities, namely all being thick, and I got bits, sometimes physically but always mentally, kicked out of me.

Full of optimism I bounded off to school on September 3rd 2009, hopeful of quickly settling in and making lots of new friends. “Why should secondary school be any different to primary school?” I thought. How wrong was I?

8:45am, the first tutor registration period of the year. The tutor, new himself, asked the everyone to raise a hand if they knew someone else in the class.

Have a guess out of 30 how many hands went up. If you said 29 then bingo. As long as I live, I’ll never forget the snickering and the sneers from behind me and then moments later the same wankers saying “Oh don’t worry”, and all that bullshit. It meant a lot at the time, but now I can see it was just a load of hot-air.

I had a target on my back and was beginning to take bullseye hits almost immediately.


If you're experiencing mental health issues don't suffer in silence - contact Mind, the mental health charity, here.

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