Archived Post: January 30th, 2019. Bell Let’s Talk 2019.
Those who know me probably know me for my weird, random, and quirky behaviour and for my bubbly personality. As you could guess through context, that’s not always who I am, and I mean that more than just when I get stressed out about school, work, and people who don’t use their turn signals.
The defining event of my childhood and arguably the most important day of my life happened 14 years ago when 8 year old me got some news that I’m pretty sure no 8 year old wants to hear. See, recent days I’ve kept a small circle of friends. But back when I was young all the kids around the neighborhood were all great friends. And the person who held this friendship together was named Brian. Now anyone who saw that name I’m sure knows where this story is heading.
He was my best friend in the world. And 14 years ago, almost to the day, Brian died. He died in a bus accident. And even after all this time admitting that to myself makes me want to cry the way I did when I first heard the news. I was left broken, and from that day on I just felt lost and sad and angry. I was severely bullied throughout grade school and I felt like I had nobody, and I spent a lot of time angry at the world and distancing myself because I wanted nothing more than to be alone.
This event shaped my life. I spent a long time pretending that everything was okay. I spent most of my life from that point covering up my pain with the personality you see. After a while, I learned to be happy with the persona I made up. So when I moved to London for school, life was amazing. I met awesome people, school was an absolute blast, and I just felt good as a person.
Since high school, I had dreams about making movies for a living. Anyone can tell you that I’m the movie guy. A few months after graduating from film in college, that dream turned to ash. I realized that I’m not someone who was suitable for a filmmaking job, and I never felt like I had the talent for it. So a 7 year dream, something I was so certain I wanted to do with my life, crumbled to dust. I was distraught, because what good am I if the one thing I always felt passionate about wasn’t meant for me after all? This occurred at a time when I was working at a job that had me convinced I was never good enough, that I was nothing but dirt to them. I lived in a city where I had very few friends left, and suddenly I began living in my own hell. For the first time in years, I hated life, and I hated myself. After almost 6 months, my psychiatrist diagnosed me with depression. Shortly after, I moved back home and things got better for me.
It’s been almost 2 years since I moved back home and it hasn’t always been great. I worry constantly, I have a severe lack of confidence in myself, and I might have a pinch of anxiety. But the good times do come. I’m around my family, I’ve met some of the best friends I’ve ever had, and I surround myself with things that make me happy.
Writing this was the hardest thing I’ve done. Only 2 people have heard the extent of this story. I don’t need sympathy and I don’t want attention. This post wasn’t about either. In fact, I doubt anyone read it this far. I just wanted to tell this story that I’ve kept secret so long because I was afraid. I don’t want to be scared anymore, and if youre struggling, I don’t want you to be afraid either.