So here's the deal. 

Below the Radar has taken off. I mean, like, BOOM, taken off. 9 countries, a couple thousand views, two dozen+ subscriptions, and this just in...

Featured on WEGO Health Blog:

Health Activist Interview: Amanda Kasper & Katie Anthony

Sometimes, when you least expect it, shit kind of goes crazy--I think that's a good metaphor for my life.

So here's what I'm going to do. Here's what I think is going to help. 

I don't need a book to transform my life, I need me to transform my life. I need to overcome my demons to transform my life. And I will, because 1) I have to because I can't live like this anymore and 2) because I'm living for someone. I'm living in memory of someone. 

Sometimes, I think all we need is someone to validate that what we're feeling isn't crazy. Someone to say "we've been there, and it sucks, but it gets better." 

So, while I am encouraged by the readings and assignments from this app (Transform Your Life, I believe is what it's called), I'm going to be encouraged, instead, by the memory of someone who I cared (care) about. Brian Ray Littrell Jr. 

I will be writing about my fight with depression. My good days. My bad days. The stigma associated with depression and anxiety. How I fought my family with my depression. The family history with depression. 

All to prove to society that the stigma associated with depression needs to change. And it needs to change now...as in yesterday. 

I have fought depression since I was 16. My mom was "slipping me" St. Johns Wart (a known herbal remedy for depression, since I was 13). 

I have been on some sort of anti-anxiety or anti-depression medicine since I was 16. 

I am 23. I am living. I fight every day. I am here to break the stigma. 

I am sick of the stigma. 

I am sick of being a number, a statistic. 

Today, the battle begins against these beliefs. 

Today, we become ourselves again. 

Who's with me?         

A redirect

I've started a new journey--a journey that is focusing on healing myself mentally and emotionally, while I struggle with increasing and worsening physical health and pain. Everyday, I will blog. Everyday, I will be given a quote and a prompt that I have to reflect on to work towards a healthier lifestyle. I go back to a different doctor tomorrow for my pain.

Yesterday: "It is only possible to live happily ever after on a day-to-day basis." 

Assignment: Today, consider what "happily ever after" means to you. Can you have a little of that today? 

In a word, "happily ever after" means "freedom." Freedom from the pain. Freedom from the medication. Freedom from the frustration and agony associated with the chronic illness. Freedom from not knowing. My freedom yesterday was allowing myself to just relax. To give myself a day to heal and the freedom to feel the emotions of frustration and try to move forward.

Today: "We turn to God for help when our foundations are shaking, only to learn that it is God who is shaking them." 

Assignment: What has been "shaking" you that you might be ready to see as a spiritual opportunity? 

This assignment was hard on me. It's hard for me to see the negatives in my life as a way that God is speaking to me to strengthen my faith. However, with the increase of my pain, I'm doing by absolute best to remember that the pain in my life, given to me, is pain that I know I can handle. Even when I'm on the floor in pain and feel like I've reached my breaking point--I always find more strength.

When I was laid off last week, my whole world shook. I had no idea where I was going to go next, I still have no idea where things are going to go from here. I've had one interview, two rejection letters and over two dozen applications were sent out--and I'm still applying. I'm going stir-crazy doing nothing all day, I'm doing Internet surveys to pass the time because I'm that desperate. I'm working out as much as my body can handle and I'm detoxing in the sauna as I can, too. As much as I would like to be working and need to be working in order to support myself--I can't help but wonder if this was God's way of telling me to slow down and take a look at my life. I was in a job that I didn't go to school for, and while I absolutely adored and loved the people I had the honor of working with every day, my heart just wasn't in that job. So perhaps that life shaking was God's way of saying "Wake up, Katie. It's time to find me again. It's time to get back on the path that I have made for you."

I believe this is going to be a good journey for me. I think this is going to be what I need to heal.

Love and hugs.

A battle that never ends

**Edit: I wrote this while on Ambien. I'm making changes now so that it actually makes sense....those of you who know me and have read this, I would hope that you know I have better grammar than how this was initially written. My apologies!**

I apologize to those of you who actually read this for my absence. On November 2, 2012 at 11:55 PM, my grandmother whom I loved and cherished more than life itself passed away. Alzheimer's Disease finally won, and I am broken. I sat with her in her final moment prior to dying, crying and crying--telling her that it was okay to go see God and that we loved her and we so proud of her for everything she was fighting, but that she could stop fighting. 

It has been almost 15 full days since I got the notice that my grandmother passed away, and I'm left going through the motions. I met hundred of people at her visitation, telling me how special she was and what an impact she had on their lives--and that was truly touching. Many of them hugged me, including her best friend, and they shared my pain. I carried grandma's ashes up to the alter for the funeral mass and by some miracle was able to sing "In This Very Room"--which I had sung for her for two different Christmas masses previously, and it was one of her favorite songs...but I still feel stuck.

I'm battling scarlet fever right now, so I'm exhausted. At the beginning of me feeling terrible from the fever, I heard Grandma saying "honey, I'm always praying for you. Your grandpa and I are constantly thinking about you. We're always here. We're always so proud of you and love you so much." But not even that can bring an excess of comfort...I want her back..her hugs...her kisses..her calming and giving presence. 

So, I think it's only fair that this topic breach depression. Now there's clearly a line between grief and depression--but the social stigma that is associated with depression is what really bothers me. 

“Grief is depression in proportion to circumstance; depression is grief out of proportion to circumstance.” 

As grandma was getting sicker, with the transition of starting my new job, etc, my anxiety started to increase and I felt that my depression was getting worse. I've battled depression since I was 15, but I didn't admit that I needed help until I was cutting myself and I was 16. Why, you may be asking, did I wait?

My mom is a "licensed mental health therapist," and while that may seem like ideal when you're battling depression--it's the opposite. Because to her, I was no longer a daughter--I was a patient. She did what any mom would do and believed that she knew what was right for me and fought for that--but she did that without asking me. And honestly, we all know our own bodies best. This is clearly a sore subject, still.

Depression is a hereditary disease. My grandma struggled with it, my dad does, too. My aunt has really bad anxiety. My sister struggles. I have cousins who struggle--it's in my lineage. The imbalance of brain chemicals is literally programmed into my system. But what most people don't understand is that it's not just being sad. It's not a matter of "oh, I'll get over it. I'm stronger than this. I can battle this."..your brain chemicals are NOT RIGHT. 

Andrew Soloman, author of The Noonday Demon (which is a fascinating read and I highly recommend it), tries to explain it like this: "You are constantly told in depression that your judgment is compromised, but a part of depression is that it touches cognition. That you are having a breakdown does not mean that your life isn't a mess. If there are issues you have successfully skirted or avoided for years, they come cropping back up and stare you full in the face, and one aspect of depression is a deep knowledge that the comforting doctors who assure you that your judgment is bad are wrong. You are in touch with the real terribleness of your life. You can accept rationally that later, after the medication sets in, you will be better able to deal with the terribleness, but you will not be free of it. When you are depressed, the past and future are absorbed entirely by the present moment, as in the world of a three-year-old. You cannot remember a time when you felt better, at least not clearly; and you certainly cannot imagine a future time when you will feel better.” 

When I was at my absolute lowest, nothing made sense to me. I thought everything went wrong because of me and there was no telling me any differently. I slept a lot, I cried a lot, I started a lot of fights with people just to avoid talking about anything else. In actuality, I didn't want to do anything. I wanted to sit, alone, and just be. 

The day that I "confessed" about my depression and told my parents that I needed help--I'll never forget. I was sitting on the step that went into my living room, holding my arms because I had just cut myself (parents didn't know that, I don't think) and I was crying harder than I'd ever cried before. All I could say was "I think it's time I get help. I'm not okay. I need help. I'm not okay. I'm not okay."

To which I got the following responses: "We knew you weren't okay, we just wanted you to admit it. But now you're just being dramatic."

Turns out mom had been slipping me St. Johns Wart (basically an herbal remedy for depression for over a year, without telling me). 

Fighting between mom and dad commenced on if I should go to therapy or if we should do drug therapy. Mom is anti-drug therapy because "those chemicals are poison," (and she's clearly never felt like this before and had to "make a choice") and dad said that I needed to go to a doctor and let them make the decision. 

I didn't get much say in the matter. Welcome back to being 16, right?

To make a long story short, I've been on some sort of anti-depression medication or medication for my anxiety since I was 16. I've been on some pretty intense medicine and some of the lower stuff and all of it resulted in me not being able to sleep. I also was in counseling pretty steadily for the remainder years of high school and then sporadically throughout college.

That's the interesting thing with depression and especially when you're coping with medication--it can trigger other things like insominia. 

After doing a lot of reading on the subject ad I've spoken to many people, and while I've been blessed that my depression hasn't required hospitalization, many doctors and professions have considered my depression to be severe. I would either binge eat or not eat. I didn't want to go anywhere. I just wanted to sleep and I just wanted to BE. I wanted people to leave me alone, I wanted people to stop asking me questions and to just leave me alone. 

But my mom decided that that wasn't "healthy," so after a few counseling sessions (the first one didn't go so great), I just got to the point that I was so busy I didn't have time to think; I didn't have time to feel, to get upset. But that just made my lows lower when I finally slowed down. 

It's always a Catch-22 with depression. 

I'm currently 23, I've been on a lower-ish dose of an anti-anxiety medicine for about three years and the insomnia is beginning to be a problem again. Don't get me wrong, I'm tired. But I'm not resting well. I'm getting, maybe, five hours of sleep a night.

Most people would consider that a significant amount of sleep, but with my already depleted immune system--well, I've already said it. Two months of the 5 hours maximum and here I am fighting off "potential scarlet fever." Bottom line: my body doesn't like it when I don't get at least 8 hours of sleep and this is what happens. 

I'm back on a prescription sleep aid, but not without my mom finding out and giving me her infamous "you're sleeping FINE. It's probably just stress but you're being dramatic and it's all in your head. You do not need this medication. Stop overreacting. We've been around you, we know how much sleep you're actually getting and it's more than what you think."

Oh yeah? You stay up with me all night and watch me when I sleep? Get a hobby.

Game, set, match. 

My mom is in the wrong profession. When I have four or five doctors telling me that I need to get more/better sleep, clearly she's wrong, but I'm not allowed to argue because "she's qualified."

Anyway, I'm off topic. That's another soapbox, and probably my next post.

What I don't understand is WHERE and WHEN did the negative stigma become an attachment to those who are needing the assistance of medicine for mental health? 

Why can we not applaud them and say "good for you. we are proud of you for getting help." 

Instead, we belittle them and judge them for the medicine that they need. Yes, I said need. You can't just hit your head really hard into a wall in hopes that your brain chemicals will go back into balance--it doesn't happen that way. You need an MAOI or an SSRI to help your brain. 

If you feel depressed, you are not crazy--no matter what anyone says. This is a disease. It's a disease that needs to be, and should be treated with respect. Since I began my battle with depression and anxiety, I've heard...

"you're crazy."

"you're just sad."

"get over it."

"stop being so dramatic."

"just FIX it and be happy. clearly you're dumb if you can't figure it out."

"why do you cry so much? your life isn't that miserable, suck it up."

"You take everything so personal, just leave us alone. We don't want to be around you because you bring the whole group down."

I will fully admit that I don't know how to act in public anymore when I'm with friends because I've sheltered myself from them. 

Yes, I have friends, most of them know about my past, but they don't see my constant internal struggle. Such as...

"Katie, you've really been teetering lately. Do you need to get off of your anxiety medicine to focus more on your depression?"

"Katie, you've been apologizing a lot to everyone--these people aren't out to get you, so you don't need to apologize so obsessively."
"You know if you get back on depression medicine, Katie, your mom is going to harass you about it and say you're just being dramatic and you jumped the gun--medicine can't solve everything..."

Living with depression, and I will live with it for the rest of my life, is like being in a itty-bitty house, that's crowded with about 200 in it. There's no room to breathe, no room to think...if you put one toe out of line, you've pissed someone off. If you move an arm, you've disappointed someone else. Even if that's not true (about pissing someone off or disappointing someone, good luck convincing yourself differently).

The pathetic thing about the stigma that's associated with depression is that I'm one of the ones who thinks by the stigma. Sure, I'll talk about it--I'll tell you my history. But to say "I think my depression may be coming back..." I can just hear it now...

Mom: "No honey, it's not depression. You're just grieving and it'll go away. You always want medicine to fix everything for you and that's not it in this case. You're not showing the same symptoms you were last time when you were clinically diagnosed with depression. (which was six years ago, after two of my close friends had committed suicide a week apart, and a year later, one of my closest friends would shoot himself). 

My mom, and a few others, make me feel ashamed for wanting to ask for help. For telling people that I need help and that doesn't feel right inside me and I think that I'm spiraling out of control...they just tell me I'm being dramatic. Sometimes, I think dramatic is the only way to get their attention. 

So I'm stuck. I'm not sure where I'm going to go from here because I do not feel, especially as of late, one ounce like myself. And there aren't very many people I can turn to and say "I don't feel like myself anymore," without getting the "you're just tired and grieving, you'll be fine" response that I know I'll get from at least my mom. 

Bottom line: If you think you have depression or if you're struggling, SEND ME A MESSAGE. I understand. I understand what it's like to not be able to sleep and to cry yourself to sleep because you don't think it's ever going to get better...I understand. You're not alone. You don't have to be alone anymore.

Together, we can change this stigma. 

“Depression is the flaw in love. To be creatures who love, we must be creatures who can despair at what we lose, and depression is the mechanism of that despair.”
― 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 

I would give anything for perfect attendance

My name is Katie. I'm almost 23 years old. I have asthma. I also have endometriosis. Migraines. A wheat/gluten intolerance. Permanent tendonitis in my ankles. I've struggled with depression and anxiety. Some of my doctor's think I have Crohn's Disease...some think I'm just unlucky. Some think I'm just a head case. Most just have no clue what's wrong with me.

By the age of 18, two close friends and another I considered a brother committed suicide.

I was uprooted to another state when I was 12.

For the last seven years, I have endured medical hell. I have been scoped, poked and prodded by more doctors than most people endure in an lifetime. In seven years, I have seen 16 different doctors, 15 of those being specialists. Only a handful of them have come up with answers.

I endured this through the last two and a half years of high school and all four years of college. I graduated college with honors. I have a full-time job now. While in college, I wrote for the school newspaper and during my senior year, I ran that newspaper (with a ridiculous amount of help and support from my mentors, best friends and peers mind you).

Two weeks ago, I had my second upper endoscopy because I'm currently force feeding myself, unable to go one day without being extremely nauseous.

Some days, I wake up hoping it's all been a dream. But when I open my eyes every morning, I realize that I'm facing my medical hell for another day.

I started this blog because in the last few months, people have been reaching out for one question: How do you do it? 

How do I survive? The simple answer is I have to. I love my family, friends and life (most days on that last one) too much to just throw in the towel. My family and friends believe in me, so I have to believe in me, too.

I'm here to provide support, to help you understand that you are not alone.

When you are being pushed to your limit because of your health, especially when it's a disease that cannot visibly be seen, it's the most lonely feeling in the world. People frequently question whether you're faking it, and there's no way to make them understand your pain, frustration, anger and sadness.

I understand. I understand what it's like to wake up in the morning and want to cry because the pain isn't gone. I understand what it's like to hear doctor's say "well, this isn't working...I'm not sure what else we can do for you," and to leave their office empty handed.

You're not alone. Not anymore.