The beginning of the journey

So, as I've said, from here on out I'll be talking about my battle/journey with depression/anxiety.

To reiterate, I can't really tell you when I "officially" felt sick. I was around 16-17 when I finally admitted that I needed help, that I didn't like my life, I didn't like who I was and that I felt like I was drowning.

For most people, admitting you need help is the biggest challenge--and that was no different for me. I love my family, I really do, but my mom is a Licensed Mental Health Therapist, and all I remember from my low days are her treating me more like a client than as a daughter. Sometimes, you just need someone to tell you that it's okay to not be okay and that sometimes, it's just going to suck.

What shocked me the most when I began fighting depression was the stigma associated with it. Clearly, high schoolers are mean and ignorant to the fact that depression is an actual disease, but you don't really understand how mean and ignorant they are until you're left to your own devices on a daily basis.

I remember that I cried a lot. I remember that I wasn't quite sure what was going on and why I was so unhappy, when I seemingly had no reason to be so unhappy. I remember the first doctor's visit, my doctor doing her job by merely asking "Has your daughter ever been tested for Bipolar Disorder?" and my mother virtually coming out of her skin because, "No, absolutely not. She is not bipolar. She's just unhappy."

I didn't understand that depression was hereditary. I didn't understand the fact that other members of my family had fought this same battle, because it was a taboo subject in my family due to the different opinions on treatment.

I remember the arguments between my parents as I sat on the floor crying. Mom arguing that I didn't need poison (aka any kind of medicine) as my dad argued that it needed to be considered because clearly therapy wasn't going to go over well with me.

Courtesy of "Fighting Depression" on Facebook

I remember, at this young age, being put on Effexor. A medicine that flipped my world back to where I felt normal, but didn't understand how severe my doctor must have believed my depression was to put such a young person on 75 mgs of Effexor.

I remember the words from my classmates, as they pierced through my skin and heart and did nothing but make my fight harder.
She's just being dramatic. 
No one is that unhappy all the time, she's just looking for attention. 
Haha, she cuts herself? What a psycho. She shouldn't be trusted. 
Just leave her alone, it's better that way. 

Depression is like having leprosy. No one wants to be around you, for fear that they're going to be sucked into your feelings.

I have fought, every day, against this disease (of some shape) for seven, almost eight, years. I've seen, firsthand, the stigma attached to it. Doctors see that you've been diagnosed depressed or anxious, and they treat you differently--thinking that it's just the depression causing your illness. Friends who don't understand the ups and downs. Family members who judge your life and way of handling stress. Switching therapists because there's only so much reconstructing of your life that one person can do with another. Fighting with insurance companies about whether medications for depression and anxiety are actually necessary, just furthering the depression of those of us who are actually fighting.

It needs to end. All of the stigmas need to end.

Depression is a chemical imbalance in your brain. You cannot merely just say, "I'm going to get over this," and wave a magic wand to better yourself. You cannot re-balance your chemicals without help and it's okay to ask for help, and to keep asking for help.

There are different kinds of depression but, regardless, we are all silent warriors.

According to the National Institute of Mental Health, the average age of onset is 14 years old. 14. When your body is changing and you're already confused and now you have this to deal with.

Almost 20% of all adults suffer from some sort of anxiety disorder and of those, at least 4% are considered severe cases.

Enough is enough. 

We are not crazy people. We are not who society thinks we are. We are not "emo," we are not just "constantly sad" or have "persistent boredom."  These are all parts of the definition of depression on UrbanDictionary.com--a reliable source, of course not, but it gives you a pretty good idea of how society views this disease.

We are sick. We are fighting.

We are the silent warriors.

And I'm through being silent.

Do you ever...?

Do you ever have those days where you just wonder why?

Why is this happening to me? What did I do that is so bad that I deserve this pain and suffering? Why was I chosen to suffer? Why can't they figure out what's wrong with me? Why can't they make the pain go away? Why isn't anything working? Why do they think I'm crazy?

The questions, at least in my life, seem to overpower the answers--especially when it comes to my health and well-being.

Towards the beginning of this journey, I had a lot of pity parties. I remember crying a lot and just asking my mom what I had done that was so terrible to result in such misery. She didn't have an answer, but I think I made her feel bad--no one wants to see their child feel like that. I still have my days where I just don't understand, but I'm just too busy to wonder why. It's a waste of time to have a pity party.

Now, that's not to say that I don't have them. Because I do. I really do wonder why I've been dealt this hand. I wish things were different. I wish I could do whatever I wanted to do, eat whatever I wanted to--all without consequence. Unfortunately, there are always consequences, and in my life, my consequences tend to be worse than those of you who lead "normal" lives.

The one thing that I try to remind myself of, try to take comfort in when I'm asking myself "why," is this: If I'm not suffering, if I'm not the one to endure this--it could be someone that I love. If it's not me enduring the pain, crying out and asking for help, I could be sitting back and watching, helplessly, as someone that I would do anything for goes through it--and I would rather it be me than them. 

I would do anything for my family and friends, and I don't handle it well when they're struggling--especially when they're sick. I go into "doctor" mode (as I've said) and just want to solve everything. I imagine a lot of them feel the same way when I'm sick. Unfortunately, it's just not that easy.

I know that I have the strength to fight whatever(s) it is that's making me sick, and while I know that those in my life are strong, they have different types of strength that may not be the strength to endure long-term illness.

It's been a long couple of weeks. My grandma, who has Alzheimer's, is slipping downhill quickly, work is picking up, I'm bogged down with a migraine and stomach pain most days...and an inability to sleep soundly. Lots on my mind, and I'm left thinking of the injustices of the world.

That being said...

My next post will be on doctor assisted suicide, my stance, and why/how my thoughts have changed. 

 Until then,

“Listen to the people who love you. Believe that they are worth living for even when you don't believe it. Seek out the memories depression takes away and project them into the future. Be brave; be strong; take your pills. Exercise because it's good for you even if every step weighs a thousand pounds. Eat when food itself disgusts you. Reason with yourself when you have lost your reason.”
― Andrew Solomon, The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression

My Support System

The first picture is of my immediate family. My sister, brother, dad, mom and myself. This was taken last Thanksgiving, and we have a good time together. That was a loud thanksgiving, as you'll see in the bottom picture with all of the extended family that was there--aunts, uncles, cousins, and my grandparents. We made it work, of course, but it was loud. And hot.

My family is my biggest support system, hands down. They've been there for me since day one, and I haven't always been the easiest "patient" to deal with. Some of the medicine that the doctors have put me on occasionally (a steroid to help with my breathing or with general swelling called prednisone) makes me mean. That's not an exaggeration. I made/make people cry on this medicine. I do my best to be extra-conscious of my actions when I'm on that medicine, but sometimes there's no helping it.

Whenever I'm in the hospital, I always have a parent with me (unless it's an Emergency Room trip and I'm on my own...like the case is currently, or when I was in college...then the roommates and friends support system become my lifeline) and whenever they need or break, my sister typically comes and takes their place. My brother lives in Seattle and went to college in New York, so I don't get to see him much, but I'm normally sick when he's around. And in good big brother fashion, he puts his hand over his mouth and tells me not to breathe on him because he doesn't want to get sick--but that joke, I know, is in good humor and he never really means it. My big sister is easily my best friend, so she's always bringing me movies or trying to sneak my dog into the hospital or harassing me for being "doped up." She always tries to keep me laughing, and most times I need it.

Even when I feel like I don't deserve to be loved (like when I broke my leg on Father's Day and we had to spend the day in the Emergency Room and I had to leave the baseball game early because I was in so much pain...and my ankle/leg was the size of a football) my family's always there for me. Even when I'm screaming and crying and whining (all of which I admit I do more than any one person should do), my family loves me regardless. We fight, they scream back sometimes, but they do all out of love. They may be weird. They may drive me crazy sometimes. But they're my family and I wouldn't change or exchange them. Ever. (Note: I'll complain about them a lot--especially one, imparticular, who I believe just doesn't understand my health. But everyone is allowed their own opinions about my health. Family is always family).

“Be strong. Live honorably and with dignity. When you don't think you can, hold on.”
― James Frey, A Million Little Pieces

These girls surrounded me my freshman year of college and I honestly wouldn't have survived without them.

The Three Musketeers. Always.

The best roommate a girl could ask for. Three years living together.

My sanity and one of the best people ever.

Best friend a girl could ask for.

 















While I couldn't go through this journey without my family, I couldn't do it without my friends, either. Above, you see a handful of the people who helped me survive college. My freshman year, the girls would stay with me in the bathroom if I was sick, they'd be ready to drive me home at 2 am if I was so physically sick, I just wanted to be home (and they were always game for that road trip). They constantly reminded me of my faith and to remain strong and pray through some of the toughest days of my life after Brian committed suicide. They held me when I cried, made me laugh so hard I was crying again, and I have memories with them that will last for the rest of my life.

My Musketeers are ALWAYS my strength. They always make me laugh, they know what to say to lift me back up, and how to bring me back to reality when I may be lost out on my own. It's great that we're all journalism majors, so we understand each other on a level that others may not get. Their strength, courage and compassion inspires me to be a better person.

I literally would not have survived with Emily. I lived with her for three of the four years of my college career. She drove me to the ER more than any roommate ever 'should,' and never complained. We've had some of the oddest conversations ever (in the history of mankind, I swear), we share a love of Disney movies, and she was always there for me. Emily has seen me cry more than anyone probably should, but I think that probably evens out for the both of us. She has more strength than any woman I know, and she perseveres even when she doesn't think she can.

The only male you see in the pictures is Pat. I met Pat my freshman year when his English papers badly needed editing. I'm proud to say he doesn't suck at writing anymore--thanks to me, of course (totally kidding there, bud!). Pat is, without a doubt, a best friend. I say one word to him, and he knows something's wrong. He's always honest with me, even if I'm being ridiculous. He always reminds me to find my way back to God if I've started to lose my way, and we always find a reason to laugh--even if we're both crying at the time. We've both had our reasons to cry over the years, but somehow we encourage each other to find the reason to smile, regardless. He's overcome so much, and still smiles every day. He continues to fight through his own trials, and still does everything he can to support me. I wouldn't be the person I am without him.

Finally, Ashley. Ashley and I have a common enemy of the English language. We endured many English courses together, and learned a lot about each other in our non-fiction class. Ashley's probably the only reason I passed my English classes because she was always willing to copy notes with me, proof my papers (multiple times) and keep me sane when I was ready to delete my 33-page non-fiction paper and just start completely over. She held my hand as I was shaking, reading my personal story to the class, and constantly reminds me that just because you have a rocky past, doesn't mean that you can't excel in the future and show people how awesome you are. She's also probably one of the smartest people I know. And craziest--but in a good way. :)

And then there's everyone I didn't put pictures up of...Erin, Ben, Sylvia, Kelly, Styles, Michael, Brian, Tracy, Lisa, Steven, Sarah, Ashley (different Ashley)...my friends keep me strong. I couldn't even list them all because everyone in my life touches me in some way that I find the will to keep fighting.

Enough of my support system though--who keeps you strong? Why do you keep fighting?

Coming soon: I may love my support system, but I hate accepting help. 

“In the end, some of your greatest pains become your greatest strengths.”
― Drew Barrymore

Background

Well, you know my name, age and that I lead a frustrating life--it's only fair that I give you some more background.

I graduated from high school in 2008, and then from Simpson College in 2012. Yes, I am a recent college graduate, and I'm one of the lucky few who got a job (almost) right after graduation. Sometimes I wonder how I manage a full-time job with my health. Hell, who am I kidding? Most days I wonder how I manage this job with my health.

I was 16 when the stomach pain started. I'm not talking the pain where I didn't want to go to school for a couple of days. I'm talking pain where I was doubled over, crawling because I couldn't walk, bleeding so bad there were toilet bowls full of blood, bad kind of pain. It was around this time that my depression got bad. I had to quit show choir and dance team because my body just physically couldn't handle it anymore.

I had been dancing since I was five, and now I couldn't anymore. Even now, all I can really do is Wii "Just Dance" and Zumba, and even that is in extreme moderation. Dancing was my life, my way of expressing myself, and my body just says no because it's too much.

Eventually, one doctor led to another, which led to another, and another and surgery and I received the diagnosis of endometriosis. I've had two surgeries for my endometriosis now, which has led to me having scar tissue on both the front and back of my uterus, and I've been told that it's going to be difficult for me to conceive children. All of this before the age of 18. 

I also infected my high school with whooping cough and the mumps. But I bet you're thinking "but we're vaccinated for those!" Ah, yes, you're vaccinated for the strain of the disease that the country that you live in. For example, I was vaccinated for the American strain of the mumps. My dad travels a lot for work, and ended up being the disease carrier of the European strain of the mumps...so that's what I got. And if you're curious, my dad didn't get it. Just me. That put me in the isolation ward of the hospital for awhile, gave me such a bad kidney infection (because my throat was so swollen, I couldn't swallow anything), I was almost in kidney failure, and my temp topped out at 103.6. On the bright side, I didn't have to take a couple of my finals my junior year of high school because my teachers were afraid that they would catch the mumps.

Let's just summarize my life for you: I've had tissue lasered off my uterus twice. One sinus surgery. I broke my leg and I have a screw in my ankle. I've had five colonoscopies. Two upper endoscopies. I've had my tonsils removed. I've had my wisdom teeth removed. That brings the grand total to 13 times that I've had to be put under, and I feel like I'm forgetting something. Take the number of times I've been put under, times it by two or three, and that's probably the number of times I've been in the hospital. I dehydrate really easily, I catch everything (see above mumps example if you don't believe me) and I'm allergic to a lot of antibiotics, so my body is stubborn when it comes to fighting off infections.

So that's my story, in a very small nutshell.

I fight because there's no other choice. I cry because I get frustrated. I laugh because if I don't laugh, I'd spend all my time crying. And I live because I'm not ready to die. 

“Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won't either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.” 

― Louise Erdrich, The Painted Drum LP