Mental Health

• Georgia Nicholls, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2019

I first began to notice it when Dad said he was making his famous spaghetti and I didn’t feel the usual excitement. When Mum asked if I wanted to watch Gilmore Girls, I said no. I wanted to lay in bed with the lights off and the curtains drawn, to stop thinking.

Then came the exhaustion. I was constantly tired. The first time someone else noticed was in English, Mrs. Smith asked, ‘Is everything okay, Amy? You seem distracted in class lately.’ I plastered on my best fake smile, attempting to hide the hollowness beneath, ‘Yep. Everything's fine, I’ve just been busy.’ She seemed convinced enough.

Slowly my friends began to notice, ‘Amy why don’t you come out with us anymore?’ they’d ask. ‘Busy,’ I would lie. I spent my time in my room.

Eventually, my parents said something, ‘Hey sweetie, we’ve noticed you’ve been down lately, is everything okay?’
‘Fine,’ I’d say, ‘Just tired,’ at least that wasn’t a lie.

I lay awake at night trying to shut off the thoughts. I began to think maybe I was better off gone. Maybe that was the only way to stop hurting

That idea plagued me for weeks before finally, it broke me. I was in the girl’s bathroom when it happened. I looked in the mirror and I saw myself. For the first time in months, I really saw myself. The dark circles beneath my eyes, my sunken cheeks, like the life had been sucked out of me.

The world came crashing down around me. The pain of the past six months flooded in at once. It was too much; those long months of feeling empty and numb.
I couldn’t breathe. I was choking, drowning, sure the pain would kill me. With my eyes screwed shut trying to block out the hurt, I had the vague sensation I was on the floor. I could hear someone calling my name, shaking me, but they felt so distant, a dull thud in the back of my mind. I was sinking, but too tired to try and swim, I wanted to fall to the bottom and stay there.

The tapping got louder, the voice sounded closer. I managed to break the surface, to see my friend Emma. I rubbed at my face, trying to get rid of the tears. ‘Are you okay?’ she asks. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay,’ I say, trying to hide the tears. Emma just looks at me and says, ‘No you’re not.’

This time, when the tears come, they’re freeing.

Three months later and I’m trying to help myself. After my breakdown, Emma took me to the school counsellor, who talked about depression and the importance of reaching out. I told my parents everything. We all cried. I now go to a psychologist every fortnight. I know I’m not cured of my depression. Maybe I never will be, but life seems a little better.

I can’t wait for my Dad’s spaghetti. Mum and I have whole weekends of bingeing Gilmore Girls.