Bullying left me suicidal

I can’t remember ever feeling comfortable at secondary school. I was scared—first of the students, and then, as the bullying intensified, of the teachers too. I worried about what they might say alongside the students, and what they might say if I told them what was happening. I was never physically hurt, but I was never safe from daily verbal attacks. I’m 35 now, and  those years shaped so much of my life: my confidence, my choices, and the person I became.

"I wanted to believe bullying was something people grew out of, and that adulthood would somehow feel safer."

I don’t remember a moment where I suddenly became depressed, but I do remember the day I realised I couldn’t cope anymore. I had gone to my form tutor after another incident, and she told me:

“This might happen to you for the rest of your life. Some adults get teased too, so you need to decide if you’re going to cry every time someone says something hurtful”.

Nearly 20 years later, those words still echo in my mind. At the time, I desperately wanted her to be wrong. I wanted to believe bullying was something people grew out of, and that adulthood would somehow feel safer.

At 16, already feeling lonely and overwhelmed, I tried to take my life. Thankfully I didn’t manage to. By the time I got to school I was feeling unwell and confided in a teacher what I’d done. An ambulance was called, and I ended up in A&E.

At university, things improved. I found a more secure group of friends and started to open up a little more. But I still played a role—the loud, funny, outgoing one. The person who filled awkward silences and loved a night out, but who would drink too much and end up crying in the taxi home. It became a pattern that followed me into adulthood.

"I became an intensive care nurse, and for a long time that gave me purpose. So many people were going through worse than I was and I could help them."

Things stabilised when I started working full-time, but I continued to hide how I really felt. I became an intensive care nurse, and for a long time that gave me purpose. So many people were going through worse than I was, and I could help them—whether through my nursing skills or simply by listening. I was proud of the nurse I became. Outside of work, I travelled, went to concerts, and spent freely. For a while, things felt okay.

During the pandemic, I worked tirelessly with my colleagues. Living alone for the first time during such an uncertain period brought back feelings I hadn’t allowed myself to face in years.

Then In 2023, feeling burnt out, I left intensive care and took a job in complex care, which merges nursing with social care. After a year, I found myself working from home, alone more than I’d ever been before. Having always worked as part of a team, I felt disconnected. I needed something to bring people back into my life, so I joined a Couch to 5K running group.

The first group was a disaster. I was left behind within two sessions and walked home in tears. But a couple of months later, I found another group, and everything changed. I started to look forward to Monday nights, running with the same people and catching up about our weeks. Running gave me connection, structure, and something to build on.

I decided to return to intensive care and, after completing Couch to 5K, entered my first half marathon. Training was tough, but it gave me focus, and race day was incredible. Around that time, I saw an advert for volunteers to cheer at the London Marathon for Mind. Having seen a family member fundraise for them after losing someone to suicide, I knew it was a charity I wanted to support.

Standing at Mile 25 as a cheer volunteer was unforgettable. The atmosphere, the support, the sense of community, it was unlike anything I had experienced. That day, I decided I wanted to run the London Marathon for Mind.

“Crossing that finish line was something I’ll never forget. Weeks later, I’m still smiling. It was the best day of my life.”

When people asked why, I would say I wanted a challenge, or that I’d lost someone to suicide. But after attending a Mind training day, I realised it was time to be more honest about my “why”. I updated my fundraising page to share that I had struggled with my own mental health too. Supporting the charity was personal.

When marathon week arrived, it felt overwhelming to think that someone who had once struggled to even identify as a runner was about to take on 26.2 miles.

But I did it.

The same mind I had battled for so long carried me through 26.2 miles of uncertainty. Crossing that finish line was something I’ll never forget. Weeks later, I’m still smiling. It was the best day of my life. Running the London Marathon for Mind gave me the confidence to share my story, and to understand that support is there if I need it.

I used to hope that teacher was wrong; that bullying was something that ended with school, and that adulthood would bring distance from it. But I learned that some people never really grow out of cruelty. Sometimes the comments are subtle, other times they leave me feeling like I am still that frightened 16-year-old being spoken down to by someone in authority.

"I still get hurt. Sometimes I still sit in my car and cry. Sometimes I still want to scream back. But I no longer carry those words in the way I once did."

The difference now is that I understand those moments differently. I still get hurt. Sometimes I still sit in my car and cry. Sometimes I still want to scream back. But I no longer carry those words in the same way I once did. I have learned that not everyone will like me, and that says more about them than it does about me. I have learned to own my marmite personality rather than apologise for it.

The experiences we have when we are young shape us forever. Even as an adult, I still carry reminders of the past with me every day. Those years left scars, even if most people cannot see them.

I do not define myself by depression, even though it has been part of my life. Right now, I am okay—and that is enough. I also know there may be difficult periods ahead, because life and people can still wound us. But I understand myself better now. I know how to ask for help. I know how to keep going.

And perhaps most importantly, I know I no longer have to face those moments alone.

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