I went into denial. The depression killed me slowly but steadily, and I started to cut my arms because I felt like I deserved it. I was just so angry about what happened. Those feelings got worse when I felt like I couldn’t remember his smile, the way he moved or our last moments together.
Over the years I disappeared a bit. I stopped calling my family back and seeing my friends. I developed a fear of getting close to people because I still am scared shitless that I will lose someone else.
The stigma on mental health issues stopped me from actively looking for help or talking about my depression and self-harm. Whenever the topic came up, people told me that time would heal the wound, that their grandpa died last year too and that I was just going through a rough patch.
In 2014, I eventually started to put my life back together. I moved away from a place with many painful memories, and focused on the things I love and value. I made a few really good friends and started to engage in various activities outside my studies. I will never feel okay about what happened, but over the past years I have learnt to live with it. I have proven to myself that I can push through.