Betrayed by the school nurse

I'd been suffering with mental health issues for as long as I could remember.  As a child if I reached a certain level of stress I would repeatedly bang my head against a wall.  This was always done in private.  At the age of 13 I began self-harming and considered myself to be somewhat "depressed".  A school friend who had seen my cuts had told a teacher after I'd been self-harming for around a year, who had then told the school nurse.  I also saw a school counsellor about three times but found her unbelievably patronising.  The school nurse insisted I told my parents, but as a lot of the stress in my life came from my parents, who misunderstood my depression as being a sulky, moody, ungrateful teenager, I was determined they wouldn't find out.  I recall a couple of months where the nurse repeatedly told me to tell my parents, but I didn't want them involved.  I knew it wouldn't help at that point.

It was a dreary monday morning, and I was sat in a boring science lesson.  The school nurse would often turn up during lessons to take me for "a little chat", so I was almost relieved to be leaving the science lesson with her.  However, on the stairs up to the main office she dropped the bomb on me.  "I telephoned your parents this morning.  They're sat in there waiting for you".  I was nearly sick.  I felt totally betrayed by the nurse.  It ended up with a meeting between my parents, my year head, a trusted maths teacher, the school nurse and myself.  It was protocol.  Self-harm was very misunderstood ten years ago, and was definitely associated even more than today with attention-seeking or "being emo".  I was neither.  I also went to see my GP with my mum, but being an "old school" GP, and with it being a relatively new reason for visiting a GP a decade ago, she just checked the cuts for infection and sent us on our way.

My parents initially followed the typical reaction that most parents have when they discover their child is self-harming.  They took everything sharp and hid it away.  Of course they were unaware I had a special "kit" hidden under my bed.  I found the following months even more difficult.  They were more vigilant, although after about a week we never ever mentioned it again.  My mum, if she HAD to mention it would refer to it as "the time when you were silly".  I continued to self-harm for roughly another year.  I remember the last cut I made as a mid-teen.  It was shortly after the death of my paternal Grandad.  I was 16.  I'd just met the person who would go on to become my boyfriend and best friend for three and a half years.  Things were picking up and my days of feeling down and self-harming seemed forgotten.  I was sure I was "cured" and very relieved the "worst years of my life" were over.

Sadly, after the break-up with my boyfriend my problems returned, but I'll save that chapter of my life for a different post.


(To read my views on how turning to a new relationship to "cure" your mental health problems is essentially pointless please see an earlier post: Say no to Prince Charming )