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I Lived to Tell

by Dawn Marie 4 years ago in depression

A Child's Journey Back From Bullying

I am 12 years old, and I am struggling with my desire to live. You see, I have been bullied for the last year. My mom doesn't know because I am afraid that if I tell, the bullying will get worse, so I remain silent. As time wears on, the words cut deeper. "Retard." "Stupid." "Ugly." "Weird." And that's only the beginning.

My teacher sees but does nothing. If she cared, she would've called my mom by now. It gets so tiring being pushed in the hall walking to lunch or being tripped in class. One time after being tripped, I fell and hit my head so hard on the corner of a desk that the bruise was near black. The nurse didn't call my mom. Nobody cares. My mom noticed, though. She loves me. She went in to the school the very next day to get to the bottom of the incident because she wasn't notified. I stayed home from school that day. My mom came home on her lunch break to check on me and happened to walk in when I was having a seizure. She took the rest of the day off to rush me to the emergency room and to make sure I was OK. The seizure was caused by the head trauma.

My bully didn't even get in trouble. How unfair is that? I'm beginning to think that the school themselves don't want me to attend either. Why does everyone hate me? Am I that big of a burden on everyone around me? Am I really that weird or different that no one likes me? I thought I had friends. I guess I don't. I thought people liked me. I was wrong.

How did life change so fast for me? Well, I know where the troubles began, but I had adjusted well, or so I thought. I am ADHD. I never let it define who I was, though, even at a young age. I was this happy-go-lucky, energetic kid who loved nature, animals, and making people laugh until I turned 12. Until everything began taking its toll. That is where the darkness started drifting in.

My 5th grade school year ended and we left on a west coast family trip. We were gone just barely under a month. It was amazing. When we returned, well, two weeks before my 6th grade school year was to begin, I had met couple kids from another school at the park one day, and the girl showed me this really cool way to deal with my pain: cutting. I tried it that night while my mom was sleeping. I discovered that she was right; it did help. I kept it hidden from my mom until a few weeks into the school year the school counselor noticed cuts on my arm. I tried telling him they were scratches from my cat, but he didn't buy it and called my mom. She confronted me and I couldn't lie. I gave her my razors. She wouldn't leave me alone in Walmart anymore after this because I had stolen them, but I had my ways. I found razors where I could. I continued cutting occasionally and my mom did her best trying to prevent it. I was eventually admitted to a behavioral health center to undergo an evaluation and treatment. I was put on a drug to help with the urges to cut when situations arose to cause me emotional pain. Namely bullying. Yes, it continued on into the 6th grade.

My mom and grandma spent hours and hours relentlessly fighting on my behalf. But again, the school would hardly cooperate. I often wonder what I had done that was so wrong to cause the entire public school system to dislike me. Maybe my bully had family who was on the school board or related to school officials. Hmm. The school year was exhausting for me and also my mom.

In January I finally broke and fought back. I defended myself against my bully and was expelled. Again, nothing was done. He didn't even have to stay home from school. Not one day. As always, I was at fault. It's OK. I'm tired of school and tired of people or maybe I'm just tired of life altogether. Is that odd for a now 13-year-old to say? In the community we live in, it really isn't. Sadly, suicide seems to be the only option that people like me work towards. And I would prove so in a few months. June, as a matter of fact. It was an average day; I went through the motions. At 11:30 PM, I hugged my mom and told her I loved her as I usually do before bed. The only difference this time is that unbeknownst to her I had taken close to 150 pills that I had gathered from her medication, over-the-counter medicines, and my medication. All of it combined was enough to complete my mission.

Around 6:30 that following morning I had fallen off my bed for whatever reason. My mom heard and came to check on me. She knew right away that something wasn't right, so she immediately got me to the emergency room. From there I was life-flighted to the ICU at a larger hospital. I spent the next few days unresponsive and barely clinging to life. I can't imagine what was going through my mom's mind seeing her only child in this state. She never left my side. I don't even know if she ate. At four in the morning on the fourth day, I spoke. I asked where my mom was. She heard my voice, popped right up, and said, "I'm right here." She had been asleep with her head on my bed beside me as she held my hand. My next words, "I told them I didn't want to go." My mom said, "I'm happy you stayed. You are going to be OK. I love you. Now rest. I'm not going anywhere; I will be right here when you wake up again." I drifted back to sleep. I must've slept another 9–10 hours before waking again, but this time when I did, I fully opened my eyes. And just like my mom promised, she was right there. I was eventually discharged from the ICU and transferred to the behavioral health center for further treatment. And that is where my journey back from bullying truly began.

depression

Dawn Marie

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Read next: My Mum's Attempted Suicide was actually a good thing.

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