Continued from Part 1
Yep, I got their attention.
A friend of mine saw the deep fingernail gauges on my inner arm, and the information made its way to the school counselor, who proceeded to tell me that I could either call my parents and tell them, or she would. Pretty standard. Of course my parents were shocked and confused and, despite believing psychology/psychiatry to be a variety of pseudoscience, took me to see a Christian psychiatrist, then proceeded to warn me that "if this behavior continued", I would be sent away to a mental hospital. I had read about mental hospitals and asylums, but nothing modern and certainly not regarding a character with self-harm tendencies. I pictured being dragged away from my loving family like a criminal, locked in a padded cell with no furniture, and drugged out of my mind for months on end, occasionally being electrocuted, or worse. Needless to say, I was absolutely terrified when, at my next appointment, my parents asked if I had told the psychiatrist about my latest self-injury, and I refused to go back. I also changed my methodology to things which caused pain, but left either no marks, or ones which were more easily hidden. I was no longer seeking help; I was downright petrified to ask.
I did wise up in the middle of 10th grade, and lowered some of my own academic expectations of myself, to my fathers gentle chagrin, dropping from the highest level of classes to the AP level in all but math, in which I dropped down to the basic intensity level (though still 2 grades ahead). Finally, I had a course load in which I could be moderately successful! The depression lessened significantly, until....
COLLEGE
I was determined to succeed. I was going to be a middle school band director, just as I had dreamed since 7th grade. With a reasonable 15 hour course load, and now determined to get help for my ongoing depression, I just knew I could do this.
And I did. I made friends, worked hard, tried a couple different medications, lost a bunch of (definitely excess) weight, and seemed to be on a roll in all but one particularly challenging class. However, by Christmas Break, it was starting to catch up with me, and unbeknownst to me, the medication that I believed was "working" (ie: I wasn't crying all the time), was in reality either numbing them, or preventing me from expressing them, the results of which would soon become apparent.
Spring semester began with a renewed determination and vigor, which was unfortunately short-lived. Only a few weeks into the semester, a series of migraines (which the doctor believed was technically one migraine fluctuating in intensity) forced me to miss multiple classes over a 2 week period. I was in a ton of pain, scared for both medical and academic reasons, and feeling like an utter failure and possible hypochondriac. "Who misses class for a headache, and who gets a headache for 2 whole weeks?!" I thought at the time, though now I know that this is FAR from unheard of. My teachers were incredibly understanding and gave me ample opportunity to get caught up, but in my mind the damage was irreparable.
See, part of me felt the fear, doubt, and shame, excessively even, but I couldn't seem to express it. I even feared to admit that it existed, because that would mean that I was too broken for the medication to fix. The self-harming returned. I dyed some of my hair bright pink, just to have something to smile at. And I continued to miss certain classes (especially math) due to "migraines", some real, but many more simply my shame and increasing depression causing me to hide from reality. This coping mechanism dated all the way back to 4th grade, usually taking the form of reading (usually fantasy), daydreaming, or forum-based roleplay. However, beginning in high school, I had also begun to use sleep as a way to escape from anything that felt too overwhelming: assignments, chores, and even my own mind. This became my primary escape during this time.
I didn't understand why I was falling apart. In my mind, I had no excuse, and was convinced that if *I* couldn't even understand and thought I was just lazy and a bad student, everyone else would see me the same way. More than anything, I dreaded disappointing my parents.
So instead, I made everything worse...
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