It crept up slowly, quietly, like a calm and tranquil symphony that suddenly crescendos into a sinister, heart clenching tone, that of Pink Panther comes to mind. It is infuriating with its large decibel; it is the impending doom that never ends. The waiting is the hardest: living your life, every second of it, waiting for the worst that never happens. If only it did, then you could pick yourself up, dust yourself off and confidently move on. Then the worst happens and you feel foolish that you ever thought waiting was painful. You find yourself the ghost of who you wanted to be.

The breakdown is the crash of the cymbals as the young beauty screams though the blackness. You scream too, but no one hears. You go a step further, you try to show them how you feel, they still cannot see it. You give up and retreat to the comfort and security of your bed. With that comes the eerie silence after the storm. Nothing matters anymore; even taking a shower is an inconceivable task of immense strength, let alone keeping up appearances. Now they all know, but you do not care. It is too late, you don’t want their help now. They will not leave you alone. You stop speaking because that is even more energy you simply do not possess. You stop eating because you don’t see the practicality of it. Nothing seems worthwhile, not even lying in bed, but you’re glued there. People plead, they cry, they become angered, they return to crying. Nothing goes through fully, they are just words floating in the air with no meaning. Then they force you into a doctor’s office and your trapped, but you still don’t care. Now you hear the word “hospital” float around and something triggers a response. You cry “no”, but it’s their turn not to care.

Within in a week you are in a car with a bag your mother packed and earphones somehow in your ears. Somewhere in your mind is begging for you to argue, to refuse, but you are too tired. You haven’t slept in days, weeks and you know you are not thinking properly but you cannot stop the irrational thoughts. The journey starts in comforting deep night and slowly gives way to a clear bright morning, reminding you only of the stark darkness within you. You find yourself in traffic, the city is near. You look out the window of those in the cars at your left and wonder if they can tell; do they know you are off to a loony bin? Can they see the tears in your eyes that refuse to flow? The journey ends, the panic starts. Your mother opens the car door; you have to tie your laces. She tries to hurry you up, but you have to tie your laces. You cannot steady your hand, but you have to tie your laces. Your mother grows tired of patience, annoyance emerges. “Give it here!” she snaps and immediately feels guilty. She takes a breath and ties them tenderly. She’s crying but you don’t see it, only remember it weeks later.

You walk up a path hidden from the outside by large oak trees that you feel hold a million secrets in the security of their grand barks. Now you have energy, energy to run back to the car, energy to find a bus, energy to just run away. It is all in your mind and the truth is you don’t. Where would you even go? You enter the foyer. Your mother talks to the receptionist. You are still shaking. A man comes down; he introduces himself as a nurse in the adolescent ward. You immediately hate him; he is the one making this happen right now. He is the one who is going to lock you up here. He gives you and your parents a tour; it consists of a lounge, a family room and finally your room. Your mother cries at the room and surprisingly you feel a tear dribble down your cheek; no emotion accompanies it.

A female nurse goes through your bag with you, it’s uncomfortable but she does it quickly. Then she brings you out to meet the others. You anxiety is through the roof. You want to stay in the room but you are too shy to refuse. You wonder where your parents are. The other patients are playing cards; they say hi but don’t seem too concerned by your presence. It isn’t until the nurse leaves they become curious; you don’t give them much, just what year you are in in school. A doctor asks to see you and you follow him into what you’ve come to have known as the “family room” with the female nurse from before. He seems nice but you are not very trusting. You don’t look at him in the eye instead you fixate your eyes upon the fingernails you are currently ripping to tatters. Eventually he gives up, you’re giving nothing away.
It took two weeks for me to break the silence. Once I did, it just all seeped out; slowly and sometimes tediously, but nevertheless the bits of pain left my body as they wafted out into the hospital air. I began to leave the hospital for weekends; some went terribly wrong, but now and again I had to admit to progress. I was afraid of progress, it just made room for more to go wrong. Once I opened myself up to the possibility of recovery, I began to work towards it. I found strength from the girl I used to be, it made me realise she was still inside. She soon became more prevalent as depression and its toxicity leaked out with my words; only this time she was powerful, determined and stronger. Then I took the terrifying next step: school. Anxiety reared its ugly head and I felt myself drowning once more; only this time I had support. It was just a Friday and it was only six hours and forty minutes if you excluded assembly, a break and lunch, but that felt like an eternity. I talked about it instead of locking the thought in my mind and letting it grow. It was new, I talked about the things that I found hard, and more importantly found relatively achievable. I soon went from a three hour school day to one feared full day. I still find school a very difficult place to be. It is a breathing ground for my anxiety, but I now have the power to talk and there are so many wonderful teachers who are on my side; teachers who have gone beyond the call of duty to help me in any way in my resumption to education.

Having the support of the hospital was key in trying to retain the life I had before depression and anxiety. I thought it was about going back to that healthy thirteen year old I was four years ago. I learnt that I could never be that girl again, that girl hadn’t gone through this cruel illness. Instead I would have to discover who I was now, who was I after this life experience, not with it. It became difficult to separate myself from depression; the two of them had become so interlaced the boundaries had blurred.

Eventually, without all the answers, I was getting better. Discharge dates started to be thrown around. The anxiety alarm went into overdrive. I spent the first month in hospital begging to be let home. Somewhere within those three months I began to depend to its safety; my bubble was about to be burst. I went downhill fast. I was miserably right; I let myself get well only to be vulnerable to more disappointment. I went home that weekend, with only one week to go, a mess. I went to school on Monday after completely disappointing and upsetting my family. My friends had come to the habit of waiting for me at my locker the two days a week I would be there. I walked up to that locker and with one look into each of their eyes, I broke down into tears. I confessed, confessed that I was terrified of the outside world; that I wanted to be hidden in the comfort of that hospital forever. Then they picked me up and hugged me tight. I felt within that hug my place, where I was supposed to be. They’d pick me up another hundred times thereafter and they still do more often than I care to admit. I owe my life to those girls, I owe my life to that hospital, I owe my life to me.