Me, myself and the idiot

My drama teacher asked to see me after a drama lesson one day, sometime when I was in year 11. I figured she wanted to talk to me about drama or Rock Eisteddfod (which I helped back stage with). But she didn't.
I was kind of nervous even though I had no idea that we were going to talk about what we did - had I known I probably wouldn't have turned up... or maybe I would have. I suppose you can't really know in hindsight can you?
 
I sat down in her crowded, small room and listened to what she had to say. I can't really remember what was said but I know that as she started to talk about more personal stuff I began to withdraw.
 
At first I had tried to keep eye contact because that is what I have been taught it is polite to do. It was tough because she was such a strong-minded person, but as things got more personal it became impossible.
 
I began to look around the room: at the masks, photos, certificates, ornaments and teddy bears; things that filled her desk, walls and floor. Then I got more internal; I looked only at me, at my hands. I fidgeted because I was uncomfortable and pushed my legs up against my school bag that I had placed in front of me for some familiar support.
 
This was the first time I discovered that I suffer from depression. I didn't really understand what it was then. I thought it was just an emotion. Since then I have noticed more has been said about it. There are more articles in newspapers and magazines; more stories on TV shows like 60 Minutes and Four Corners; more interviews with stars who talk about suffering from it, like that guy who plays Xavier in X-Men (Patrick Stewart).
 
Although I didn't really know what it was I remember being very angry that someone who didn't really know me could think she knew me well enough to tell me something so significant and personal. And angry that my teachers and so-called friends had been talking about me.
 
People think I should be happy that people cared enough to worry about me and want to help me but I wasn't happy, it just angered me. If they had a problem with me, if they needed to talk about me then they should talk TO me. Even to this day I still get mad about that.
 
Since then I've learnt a lot about my illness. I've also learnt that I suffer from Social Phobia, which was kind of a relief to hear because I couldn't understand why other people who suffered from depression didn't want to lock themselves up in their rooms all the time. Why they weren't afraid of talking on the phone. Why other people suffering from depression enjoyed going out with friends and letting their hair down and socialising; why they were quite happy to have boyfriends, hug people, kiss and have sex. I figured that I was just weird, different, an outcast; that I didn't belong and so I withdrew further.
 
I think perhaps acceptance is the first step in the process to recovering. The path is a very long and winding one with so many steps to climb that it feels impossible, but knowing and understanding your problem helps - almost as though it gives you a hand rail to help you haul yourself up. And of course you have to know what is wrong with you before you can fight it; you can't fight something you don't know even exists. I have been depressed since I was about ten but I never knew. I just figured it was me.
 
Not that I didn't try to blame everyone and everything else. At first I was so naive I don't think I really knew what was going on but as I got more frustated, upset and angry I began to point fingers. It was the kids at school, my parents, my brothers, having an older brother with a disability, going to highschool, being one of the only kids who didn't came from the same primary school as everyone else, being the new kid, not being religious in a catholic school, moving to England, living with family I didn't really know, changing schools a lot, differences in countries, puberty, supposed friends who used me, teachers, and then as everything got on top of me school itself.
 
I shut myself off from everyone and got shut off BY everyone. Socialising became harder and as I tried to figure out why I couldn't fit in and why everyone apparently hated me I found it harder to concentrate at school and my marks fell. By the time I finished yr12 I was a goner. I went from being an A+ student who was always smiling and involved in everything, to a below average student with no friends and who was even absent from the school photo!
 
I think it's only fair to point out that I had lots to put up with that year: dealing with my new knowledge that I suffer from depression; not knowing I suffer from social phobia; having an operation to remove a huge cyst from my left ovary (and with it came the fear of death, cancer and the unknown); pressure from my parents plus the added pressure of everyone telling me how important the HSC is and how much mess I'd find myself in if I failed.
 
So as you can imagine I only got worse. What did I have now? I had no friends, I couldn't socialise, I had lost my confidence as an actor and now I was too dumb to get into uni and too AFRAID to go back to school or do any courses.
 
I tried to get a job at Michelle's Patisserie but I fell to pieces and cried as I fled in shame after a few days. It was then I finally agreed to see a doctor and tried Zoloft (but didn't take to it). I got a job at McDonalds and managed to keep with it. However I only seemed to be getting worse: I self harmed and attempted suicide constantly (although I always pulled out by myself). I had had enough of my doctor so stopped going because if I was happy I came out feeling like shit and, even if that didn't happen, I was sick and tired of talking about me - as far as I could see it wasn't getting me anywhere.
 
After a year of working at Macca's and thoroughly hating it, I finally stood up to my parents and quit. I figured if I reduced the stress I might be able to start piecing myself back together. The problem was I now had Mum drilling a hole in the back of my head with her stare whenever I was at home doing nothing. I could see no future, had a crappy past and my present was very lame. I began to have scary thoughts and see images in my head (like shedding off my own skin with a knife and laughing). I thought I was going insane. I was seeing a psychiatrist by this point but it didn't seem to make any difference to what was happening in my life and in my head.
 
However, just a couple of months later I am feeling a lot better. I'm not sure exactly why but I think it's because some things are starting to fall into place: I have plans for my future that for once aren't about what my parents want from me but what I dream about; I'm working at a newsagency which is better for me than Macca's and Mum is off my back now I have a job; plus my shrink has said things to me which have helped me think more clearly.
 
Don't get me wrong: I'm still a long way from getting better but things are certainly looking up; I can now see a little light at the end of the tunnel instead of having to fumble about in the darkness. I don't know what anyone can get from my story except I know that knowing someone else is going through what you are (or even worse have already made it through and now seem fine) doesn't make everything better, but it can at least make you feel a little more sane, a little less weird, and not so alone.