It’s my first year at Warwick University. I’m sat in my bath at Lakeside accommodation. I started to cut myself with a bic razor as a “test” for slitting my wrists and committing suicide.
Rewind to when I’m about 13. I’m sat in my Dad’s car on my way to school. I turn to my Dad and say “I don’t think I want to die today”. He says probably the only thing you could say in his position: “you’ve got your whole life ahead of you mate; you shouldn’t feel that way”.
I came to Warwick a bit messed up. BUT, I didn’t want to admit it. I thought I was fine. Depression was not on my radar. Thinking about suicide was just normal, right? It was probably a result of listening to My Chemical Romance too much, right?
Sadly no. I had real problems.
Something that had helped me for a few years before coming to University was my ex-girlfriend. She was a fantastic foil, and a brilliant emotional crutch. For example, I never went clubbing back hom…