I have an illness. You can't see it, you can't hear it in my voice, you can't notice from the outside. My illness is Major Depressive Disorder (MDD).
Unfortunately there is still a perceived stigma with psychiatric illnesses. It is the one that makes us hide, pretend that we're OK, go through the motions until we can no longer live life like a "normal" person does. I work everyday to recover from an illness that put me in the hospital for 8 days, and has kept me in a program for the past 6 weeks. Next week, I graduate from that program, and step down into individual therapy.
For me, the symptoms reared their ugly heads in middle school. It's a tender time, especially for girls where the bullying can be unrelenting, and mostly verbal, which takes a heavy toll on how your view yourself. My first thoughts of suicide came on in 8th grade. I never attempted, but the thought was never gone. In high school I overcompensated. I laughed all the time, acted happy, and seemed just completely high on life. After so many people telling me to buck up and "fake it till I make it", I was trying to do just that. Inside part of me was dying. I hurt. It physically hurt to smile and pretend that things were hunky dory. I wanted to stay home, sleep, isolate. I found a niche where I fit in and the thoughts of dying faded from time to time. I made it through that chapter of my life, hoping things would get better as time went on. They didn't. I went away to college. Things got worse. FAR worse.
My first semester at college, 5 hours away from home, was filled with challenges. A roommate I hated, feeling isolated, trying to balance schoolwork and friends. 9-11. I woke up that morning and wanted nothing but to be home with those who I loved. I couldn't go. I had no car. I was supposed to stay at school, except for holidays. I was stuck.
I made it through that semester, and even did pretty well in my courses. I came home for winter break and didn't want to go back. I did, at the urging of family to at least finish out my first year. At this point, I had a double-single, meaning I had a two person room all to myself. PERFECT! I could effectively isolate. I rarely left my room the second semester. I would skip classes to sleep. I was so tired all the time. When I thought about going to classes, I would get extremely anxious and just stay in my room. I stayed off the computer during class times, and I didn't have a TV. I did ~nothing~. No one knew. I came out to eat, and socialize with friends, but more and more I isolated myself in my little hole. I flunked out of college.
Instead of going back to school on academic probation, or transferring to a school near home, I quit school all together. I got a job. A full time job with benefits, and moved out of my parents home at the age of 19.
I got up everyday and, again, went through the motions of life. I got up, got dressed, went to work, came home, ate, and went to bed. I was alone. (noticing a pattern?) A coworker introduced me to her son. He was a little odd looking, and not too bright, but he was interested in me. He thought I was beautiful. A mere 4 months after we met, we were engaged. I ignored his temper, thought he'd be better with me, thought I could change who he was, thought I couldn't do any better. 4 months after the engagement we were married. 5 months after we were married I was pregnant.
Things really hit the fan after my son was born. I was so deeply depressed I actually asked for help for the first time in my life. I went onto my first psychiatric medication with the diagnosis of post partum depression. I felt like a zombie. I was off and on zoloft a few times, saw a therapist for a bit, tried to work through some things, but didn't get anywhere. It was like running in quicksand. I was getting nowhere, really fast, then...I was pregnant again. Alone this time. My husband was working 8 hours away most of the time, occasionally coming home for weekends. For 6 months, it was me, and a 2 year old. The house was a disaster, we watched way too much TV, I slept. When he came home it didn't get any better. He started to get aggressive towards me, and my son. I slipped into a deep depression, but couldn't do anything about it being pregnant. Toward the end of my pregnancy I was at the doctor 2 to 3 times a week to make sure that I was doing alright, and making sure I was able to cope. 5 days after my due date, I was induced. About an hour after she was born I went on Paxil.
That served me well for three whole years. I was functioning. I had friends. I liked my kids. I wasn't so afraid to leave the house. It was amazing. Then the slide came. I left my marriage, went through a grueling divorce, weaned my baby (hormonal changes anyone???). The Paxil wasn't working. I was working in a job that caused high anxiety. It was all I could do somedays to go to work and face the world. I went back to school. After missing a couple of classes, I just stopped going, too anxious to face my professors. I came home and hid. I slept. I felt horrible. I knew I was going to fail at school again. Then, I cut. I watched the knife go into my skin. I watched myself bleed. I felt nothing. Thoughts of dying were in my head. I never made any motions to kill myself. I couldn't. I couldn't leave my kids. Plans to die were in my head, but I couldn't...I couldn't leave my kids. At the urging of a friend, I called my doctor and set up an appointment for the next day. I went to my appointment 4 hours early, sobbing uncontrollably. From there I was sent to the hospital, admitted, and treated.
That is the beginning of my story.
No comments:
Post a Comment