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.

Getting help

So I saw my psychiatrist on Monday after work--our conversation was quite interesting.

I want to preface this with telling you that if you're experiencing any suicidal thoughts or thoughts of self-injury to call your doctor or go to the emergency room. Someone cares, you just can't necessarily think of someone at the moment.

Anyway, she asked me if I was ready to come back to her office and in my exhausted state of mind, I told her yes, but she was, in no way, prepared for me.

By the end of appointment, I was put on an anti-anxiety medicine that I can take every 4-6 hours as needed and she wants me to continue the ambien in conjunction with the anti-anxiety medicine. I'll see her again after Christmas and New Year's, unless something happens in the meantime--which, by God, I hope not. 

“The punishment of every disordered mind is its own disorder.”
― Saint Augustine of Hippo, Confessions 

Now, I don't know if this is all stress induced or anxiety induced--or, hell, all of the above--but my migraines have become more frequent and I'm spending a lot more time in the bathroom.

Thank God for an understanding boyfriend and family (most of the time) and friends. Yesterday was really frustrating, though, as I ate lunch and immediately lost my lunch right after. I certainly hope this isn't starting up again. I've been so dizzy today, the mysterious rash on my stomach is back and I have one heck of a headache. It's my boyfriend's birthday on Saturday--I don't want to be sick.

His friend and his friend's girlfriend want to do dinner on Friday night--and while that may not seem like a huge deal to most, let me give you some background. When all of these symptoms began (the running to the bathroom, the anxiety with that, dizziness, etc.), I was afraid to go anywhere. I didn't see a movie for month. I could hardly work because the bathroom was in the back of the store. I have been with my boyfriend for almost a year (a year in January) and have yet to meet one of his best friends because I have such bad anxiety, I can hardly leave my apartment sometimes--or I'm just too tired to go anywhere--or I'm too sick to go anywhere (let's be honest, most of the time, it's a combination of all of the above). His friends get frustrated with that, and I can't say I blame them. My boyfriend, bless his heart, defends me left and right, but I can't imagine he wants to date a homebody his entire life--and I can't blame him. That scares me because after spending so much time with one person, it's hard to imagine your life any other way.

Going out to dinner is a big deal for me. It's so much easier and more comfortable for me to order food and eat it in my apartment. There's less anxiety of being around a lot of people and that way, if the food makes my stomach upset, I know where there's a bathroom and it's private. Going out with his friends means being socially acceptable for X amount of time and then who knows if they'll want to do something afterwards or if the food will make me sick--and if the food makes me sick (and it probably will, because everything makes me sick, I swear), how can I excuse myself from them for a long period of time without it becoming a big deal--especially if I need to do so multiple times?

In defense of these people, they are truly amazing people. They probably wouldn't think much of it, and if they did, they surely wouldn't say anything to me--but this is what my life comes to. If I go anywhere, I have to make sure that there is a readily-accessible bathroom near me at all times, in case something happens. And this has been my life for the last seven years.

My brother, sister and I went to rent movies over Thanksgiving break last week. We were gone for a half hour, tops, and on the drive home (10-15 minutes), I literally almost had an accident in the car. I am 23 years old, I should not have to consider wearing diapers (not to mention, that's just an entirely disturbing and slightly disgusting concept).

My point to this blog post is a little strewed today but here it is: Everyone struggles--whether you can see it or not. I know I've breached this topic before, but it's one that is close to my heart and one that isn't talked about enough. I have chronic pain, chronic illness and mental health problems--but can you see any of that? Okay, sometimes you can tell when I'm struggling with my mental health--but does the fact that you cannot visually see all of my problems negate the problem? No. It doesn't make it any less of a problem.

Please, consider that the next time you want to judge someone. Just because you cannot see something does not make it any less real.

"We’re invisible because we look perfectly well.  It’s not always clear by looking at us that we’re severely ill.  We’re often invisible because we’re at home.  We’re not seen; we’re not out in the world.  But we’re also invisible because the medical conversation leaves us out of the picture.  In recent years things are changing, but back in the ‘80s and ‘90s there was virtually no medical language to talk about a chronic, persistent illness like chronic fatigue syndrome.  And that renders a kind of invisibility." 

-Encounters with the Invisible: Chronic Illness, Controversy, and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome by Dorothy Wall

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

Struggling to accept help

So, you've read some about my amazing support system--I love each and every one of them. I'm extremely blessed and I know that my support system would do anything for me.

The only problem with that is, I don't like asking for help. Plenty of people offer help, and I'm sure my life would be a lot less stressful if I accepted the help, but I can't.

When the struggle with my health first began, I didn't mind asking my family for help. I will fully admit that I was whining left and right, because I simply had no idea what was going on. The pain was nothing I had ever experienced before, I didn't understand why I was sick all the time and I was definitely in the "woe is me" stage.

At age 17, I got into a semi-serious relationship...and the reason I say semi-serious is because, really, how serious can you be with someone when you're 17 and you spend 70% of your time in the hospital? I'm not saying it's impossible, but that just wasn't the case with me.

Anyway, this boyfriend (we'll call him Henry for privacy's sake...though I don't know that he deserves it), was with me when I was really sick. I was in the hospital at one point, and they had to do a bacterial culture of my blood...which required them taking an unhealthy amount of blood from my body...I mean, I could only see my left arm (the arm they were taking blood from) and I could tell I was pale just based on the color of my arm.

Back to the story, Henry was fairly supportive for 6 months, then he started to get distant, even though my health seemed to be on the uphill climb. After about 8 months, he sat me down and simply stated that he "had changed his mind" and that "I was a burden."

Those four words have forever changed my life. 

For most people, it would seem ridiculous that almost 6 years later, something like this would still have such impact on someone--but it seemed/seems so plausible.

I am sick constantly. The break in my posts these last few days is because I somehow came down with the flu...in August. I randomly spike fevers, I get debilitating migraines, I have to constantly watch what I eat because of my wheat/gluten intolerance and my hypoglycemia...it's constant with me. I can't just say screw it and go eat whatever I want--that's virtually a death wish.

Because of my health, my family has had to make changes. My brother, sister, mom and dad have been forced onto a different diet because of me. My mom, graciously, has taken different cooking classes to learn how to cook for me...all of this with minimal complaint (my sister likes to give me a hard time, and while I know that it's in good fun, some times it just hurts.)

Whenever I had to miss class, I apologized  profusely. Apologized to the point where I think I had more than one professor get angry with me for apologizing.

Honestly, "sorry" should probably be my middle name. If I have to apologize, I don't just do it once. It becomes an OCD-like trance where I am apologizing at least a dozen times.

At one point during my freshman year, a good friend of mine asked me, "Why do you apologize so much?"

The short answer? Because I cannot stand the thought of being a burden to others. I cannot fathom people constantly worrying about me. I hate it. I worry enough about myself. There are people dying. There are people who are fighting worse battles than what I endure--worry about them. 

I don't want to become a burden. I don't want to be that person.

Now, I can hear the protests of my friends and people reading this saying "BUT YOU'RE NOT A BURDEN IF THEY CARE ABOUT YOU!"

Yeah, I've heard that. I've heard pretty much everything. Unfortunately, that doesn't change anything in my mind.

If I so much as do something minimally wrong, I apologize for days. When Emily drove me to the hospital, I thanked her for weeks. It took me being on the bathroom floor, laying over the toilet for me to ask her to drive me to the Emergency Room because I knew I couldn't take myself. It will take me until I'm bent over in half in pain to admit that I need to go to the doctor and ask someone to take me.

Are there times when I'm sick and I call my mom crying and ask her for help? Yes. I'm almost 23 and sometimes I just want my mommy and daddy. But calling them is completely different than being at home and having them take care of me.

Every time I get sick, every time someone offers to help me when I'm sick, I hear Henry's voice in my head..."I'm sorry. I've changed my mind. I just can't. You are a burden."

Those words have ruined relationships because I can't accept help and they can't understand why, so if you're struggling like I am, accept the help.

Those people love you, they just want to help.

I just wish I could take my own advice.

Until next time, stay strong. 

“There's no need to curse God if you're an ugly duckling. He chooses those strong enough to endure it so that they can guide others who've felt the same.”
― Criss Jami

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