Meg is a beautiful soul. We connected through Instagram when I was living in New Zealand. She is a strong girl and most definitely has overcome some hurdles in her life just like the rest of us. Make sure to show her some love today for being so vulnerable and authentic, and connect with her on Instagram @meg.weston. If you would like to share your story of freedom, don’t hesitate to contact me!
Have you ever experienced depression? It’s a dark, damp, gritty old place. You think you’ve lost everything, and everyone.
Nothing feels worth it, and the idea of getting out of bed feels impossible. It’s like you have these bricks attached to your feet, and somebody just keeps pushing you down and punching you in the stomach, every time you try to stand.
My days were consumed by my mental heath. My days spent in bed, sleeping the sadness away. The thought of school made me sick to my stomach, even in primary school my Anxieties were beyond me. And mum thought I was faking.
The thought of being so out of control bought me tears, while fighting them back in class. Because every other nine year old was happy.
So why couldn’t I be?
As a kid I had everything. I had a Barbie dream house along with a Barbie mini van. I had every pink thing a girl could ever want. I want on family holidays over seas.
By the time I was five I had been to Sydney three times. But I was sad deep within my soul. No external thing could fix it.
And because of this,I felt extremely guilty. Bad that I didn’t appreciate what I had. My life was picture perfect, but I was miserable.
By ten I had developed social anxiety.
Hiding in the school bathroom.
Going to bed earlier every night. Restricting my food intake at twelve.
At thirteen my parents took me to a child psychologist, where I was diagnosed with clinical depression.
I didn’t understand it.
My parents hushed whispers in the corridor.
My teachers talking behind my back.
I didn’t know what was so interesting. Why were they talking about me, instead of to me?
It was suffocating having someone hovering over me all the time. A teacher.a parent. It was awful.
I remember in year nine we learnt about depression. I turned to my friend and I said “I think I had that”. She laughed in response and said “you can’t have depression, nothings wrong with you, you wear bright colored clothes, you have blond hair and you smile lots”.
Apparently you had to look a certain way to be considered “depressed”.
High school was the worst time of my life.
Don’t get me wrong. I made some friends. I learnt a lot about myself. I actually enjoyed the learning part. It was just the interacting with other kids that got me.
When I was sixteen I lay in my bed beating back tears, holding my wrist while it bleed over my white sheets.
I remember my mum came into my room and was screaming about how stupid I was for not thinking of anyone else.
Eyes blurry. Arm bleeding . Ears ringing.
The next day I took the walk of shame to the counselors office, with a teacher directing me into the office. Because somebody took it upon themselves to tell her teacher I was troubled, and she thought because I had self harmed I would end my life.
I was from then on considered the “strange girl”. “the troubled girl”. “The naughty student”. The one everyone had to step on egg shells around. The one teachers talked about, and students avoided. The loaded gun walking around the school, about to go off at any time. Always being called out of class. Sympathetic looks from teachers.sad eyes from the students. Meetings with the principal. I was being treated like some sort of freak.
I was embarrassed. I avoided talking about my feelings to anyone at all. The school nurse assured me it was an okay thing to talk about, but at my school you were considered weak if you suffered from a mental illness. Having a mental illness doesn’t get you very many friends, that’s for sure.
When I left high school, things started to look up. I was assigned a social worker, a therapist and I made more friends.
The more I started talking about my feelings, the less guilty I felt.
My new friends were very supportive.
As I grew into my early twenties, my life became a bit brighter. I stopped hurting myself. I started talking about my feelings, which I soon discovered is not something to be ashamed of.
When I first turned twenty one, I made an Instagram account. I started writing about my struggles, because I had seen other people do it, and they helped me speak up, so I wanted to be that person for someone else.
I never new in my life I would reach people from America, Australia, England, or Sweden.
It was incredible, getting these messages from complete strangers. Waking up to a new direct message every morning, someone telling me how I helped them in some way.
Today I wear my heart on the outside of my chest.
I shout my struggles from the rooftops.
I speak my truth. And I feel incredible for it.
I’ve never felt more in control in my entire life.
And of course I still struggle every day, to get out of bed.
But talking about it, makes it that bit easier.
I don’t talk about it, so people can feel sorry for me.
But so someone who might be afraid to speak up, wont be.
Because if people know they aren’t alone, maybe they will pluck up the courage to reach out.
Maybe even if just one person saw this and resonated with my words, that would be enough for me.
And if you or someone you know is struggling with depression. Speak up. It’s not as hard as you make it out to be.
Also sometimes you can find depression in the places you never thought you could see it.
Love, Meg