*A Note to My Readers
As I share this blog series, ‘Reflections and Revelations,’ reflecting on the pivotal moments that have shaped my life, I want to acknowledge that these posts include sensitive themes such as bullying, self-harm, depression, anxiety, promiscuity, and substance use. These topics are deeply personal, and while I share them with honesty, I encourage you to proceed with care. If at any point you feel triggered or overwhelmed, please prioritize your well-being and step away.
I also want to clarify that while my stories may at times sound like I am blaming or accusing others, this is not my intent. With time, reflection, and growth, I’ve come to understand that everyone was navigating their own challenges and doing the best they could with what they knew at the time. I do not hold resentment toward anyone mentioned; in fact, many of these relationships have been healed through understanding and time. For this reason, I have changed or omitted some of the names in these stories. This series is about exploring how these moments shaped me, not about pointing fingers, and I hope it inspires others to reflect on their own journeys with compassion and courage.

Depression and Self-Harm
Over the days after the party, anger grew inside me—deep and consuming. It only took a strange look or one wrong word, and I’d lash out with something nasty. I managed to put a smile on my face when I was with my friends, but underneath, the anger simmered, waiting to boil over. At home, my relationship with my dad deteriorated even further. His mere presence incited rage and annoyance, making my muscles tense.

Then there was Mum—the last person I thought might be on my side—confusing me. She took Dad’s side. She didn’t fight for me. She didn’t defend me. She was either silent or attacking me for the way I spoke to him, for the venom I spat when I could no longer hold it in. She grew frustrated, yelling that there was something wrong with me. I never cried. I kept everything bottled up, pushing it deep, deep down.

To avoid my parents, I would either go out with my friends, where the tension in my chest would ease a little—especially if I had a bourbon or two—or I’d lay on my bedroom floor, the speakers of my CD player right above my head, blasting Linkin Park, Korn, Limp Bizkit, Eminem. As loud as I could get away with before my parents banged on my bedroom door, yelling at me to turn it down. They hated my music, which only made me love it more.

I cherished my time alone before and after school. I had terrified my sister so much that she avoided me whenever possible. I was angry at her too—angry that she was now the golden child, the one who smiled, who was happy, who never gave our parents any trouble. Meanwhile, I was the angsty, angry, troubled teen. The broken one.

The anger festered inside me, morphing into self-loathing. I hated everything about myself. I understood why I had no real friends, why no one liked me. I’m not sure what prompted me—I’d never heard of self-harm before—but one day, when the anger and self-hatred threatened to consume me, I took a razor from my shaver in the bathroom and sliced it across my left forearm.

Relief.

The anger and self-loathing eased just enough that I could breathe again. From that moment on, I would give myself superficial cuts—enough to bleed, not enough to do serious damage—to help manage the thoughts and feelings that raged within me that I didn’t have the ability or tools to process.

On the outside, my friends thought I was just normal old Linda—a bit of an oddball, always ready for a good time, smiling and laughing. One day, someone I thought was my friend saw the cuts on my arm and started telling people I’d tried to take my own life. I hadn’t. The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. I didn’t want to die—I just wanted to stop the pain, the overwhelming feelings surging through my body. That was all.

When Mum eventually found out about the cutting, I felt like even more of a letdown. She took me to a counselor and asked them to “fix me,” as if I were a pushbike that needed a new tire. The counselor tried to get me to talk, but Mum answered most of the questions for me and I sat in silence, hating every moment. Then, after just one session, the counselor announced she couldn’t help me and that I needed a psychiatrist.

Mum was upset that I was “that bad.” That’s when I realized—there was indeed something very wrong with me. I was broken. Not normal.

I never went to the psychiatrist. Once Mum told Dad the price, I knew he’d say no. As a teenager, I believed money and work were his main priorities. In saying that, they seemed to be my Mums too. That was, however, the first time I was put on antidepressants. The first of many times over the years.

Throughout the rest of my high school years, depression, anger issues, and self-harm haunted me. I would go to parties and be the wild one, soaking up any attention I could get, drinking to get drunk—but never enough that I wouldn’t remember the night. Despite my issues with my parents, I still followed the rules. Mum gave me a curfew, and I was always outside, waiting to be picked up. I could have skipped school, but I didn’t. I could have vandalized property or done worse things, but I didn’t.

Still, to my parents, family, and friends, I was nothing but a rude, spoiled brat who made my parents’ lives hell.

By Year Twelve’s end, I’m unsure if I even had real emotions anymore. Between being on and off antidepressants and burying every feeling deep inside me, I was just a shell of myself—stuffed to the brim with unprocessed emotion. As a youth worker, I would later use the metaphor of being a can of soft drink. Every emotion you don’t release is like shaking a sealed can. And what happens when you shake it to the point where it can’t contain the pressure anymore?

Ask for Help
If you or someone you know is struggling, please seek support. Here are some Australian helplines that can help:

• Lifeline: 13 11 14 (24/7 crisis support and suicide prevention)
• Beyond Blue: 1300 22 4636 (Support for depression and anxiety)
• Kids Helpline: 1800 55 1800 (For young people aged 5–25)
• 1800RESPECT: 1800 737 732 (Support for domestic and family violence)
• Alcohol and Drug Foundation: 1300 858 584

You are not alone, and help is available.