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I liked to be nice. Or I thought I did. I was only raised to be nice, to be good. To everyone. Soon, that became all that mattered, but I didn't notice. I was supposed to be a role model who didn't care what anyone thought, and who was nice to everyone. The good girl, with my own little rebel side of it.
I thought I was strong because I sometimes was considered weird, but I didn't care. As long as I was nice and never disappointed anyone. When I was 14 it slowly started to tire me. I tried to help people with depression or other problems by texting and listening to them.
Without me noticing, I got depressed as well. I didn't manage school, sleep and other peoples problems and at the same time my own. I started to hurt myself 2-3 years ago, but the depression got more real 2 years ago, but I denied it. It couldn't be, I was just feeling sorry for myself.
My dad has been fighting with depression since I was born and a little earlier, because he worked too much, he "crashed". So me being depressed couldn't exist, or at least that's what I thought. It made it even worse. I wanted to tell people, my parents, but I thought I couldn't and that suffocated me.
I was depressed, suicidal and a cutter last fall. Then I finally told my parents about it. It was the scariest thing I've ever done, but I'm glad I did. Also, I went to school part time to regain some energy.
I've seen a psychiatrist for a couple of months and it has helped me in a few ways. Sure, I'm nowhere near fine, but I've sen some changes.
Mental health is shit, and some people go through so much. But no one on earth deserves it, and it shouldn't be such a shocking big deal to talk about.