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.

Struggling

Clearly, it's been a difficult month.

Other than the time that I've taken off for my grandmother's funeral and then time for Thanksgiving--I haven't missed work. Even when I was out of town for the visitation and funeral, and even surrounding Thanksgiving, I was working. I'm constantly thinking about work and I'm constantly worried about work--what am I worried about, work related, you ask?

I'm worried that I'm going to lose my job. I'm worried that the fact that I'm struggling right now and that I've made mistakes, that I will be looked at as incompetent and I'll get that call into the office and "the talk."

Anxiety has consumed me, as of late. Will I keep my job? Will I be able to sleep tonight? If I don't start getting any sleep, I'm going to get sick again. I have another appointment with my psychiatrist tomorrow--do I tell her that I think I need to be put on an anti-depressant, instead of just something for my anxiety and deal with the consequences from my family? Or do I just bite the bullet and hope it gets better? Can I deal with this any longer without the medicine? Does that make me weak? Do I actually run to drug therapy like someone says I do?

I can tell you what I do know.

I'm tired. All I want to do is sleep, but I can't. If I don't take some sort of sleep aid, I will not sleep. The ambien isn't helping anymore--so that medicine is going to have to be changed. Every step I take feels like a million pounds--I feel a lot heavier, and I have no willpower to do anything. Taking a shower is exhausting. Going to work and sitting at my desk and working my eight hour shift is exhausting (and I'm just SITTING and looking at a computer!). The thought of going to the grocery store and cooking dinner just feels unrealistic in the sense that I just have no desire to do it--I just want to sit. I want to sit and do nothing. I love my coworkers and (most days) I love my job--they keep me going most of the time--but going out with them on a Friday after work is socially terrifying to me--and that's not me. I was always called the "social butterfly" growing up, and now I don't even want to go out with some of the closest people I have in Des Moines--and I can't really tell you why.

I think about going back to school to get my masters or above, and I can't do it. I talk myself out of it, even though I've always known, going into journalism, that I'd want to get my masters. But it's expensive. It's time consuming. I can't make my schedule work with it. I don't think I'd get in. I don't think I'd pass. Bottom line: I would fail and I cannot handle failure right now.

I haven't been this low in awhile, and I'm definitely going in between being high and low--and that scares me. The people in my life are only going to be so patient with me, and I feel like their patience is already running thin. I can already hear it now...

I mean, honestly, who actually suffers that much loss? 
I can't handle being around her anymore, she's suffocatingly depressing. 
What is wrong with her? Why is she so upset now?
Why can't she just get over it? 
She's not herself anymore and I just don't like to be around her anymore. 
She's being so dramatic about everything. She needs to just grow up and get over it--it's time for her to face the reality of being an adult. 
She didn't know Kelley and Mary extremely personally like she did her grandmother, she shouldn't be as upset as she is. 

I can go on...and on....and on. Why? Because I've heard it all before and it would not surprise me if I heard it all again.

I apologize for the pessimism in this post...with everything I've endured this month, it's hard for me to see optimism or a positive end result.

*sigh*

I think it's time for me to get help. If you can do it, so can I, right?

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 

Doctor Assisted Suicide

Had someone asked me a few years ago what my stance was on doctor assisted suicide, I probably would've jumped down their throat and told them that they had no right to decide who lived and who died.

I've been around death since the age of 12, when my first friend committed suicide. Since then, I've lost three other friends to suicide--and you'd think I would be the biggest supporter against any form of suicide.

But lately, I think my views on doctor assisted suicide have changed more and more.

My grandmother, my dad's mom, was diagnosed with Alzheimer's a couple of years ago. Above are pictures that were taken nine months ago.

Nine months ago, you could tell that grandma was struggling. She was sleeping more, tripping over some words, clearly having memory issues--but you could still see the life in her eyes--the evidence is right there.

In the time it takes to make a life, one has been taken away.

Grandma is still alive, but 'alive' can have different definitions, can't it? Some days she's forgotten how to walk, which has resulted in three ER trips, a recent hip fracture (and thus partial hip replacement surgery), she can't feed herself anymore, she's angry (which isn't a known grandma quality) more and more and there isn't anything we can do about it.

My grandmother has always been the one reminding me that she's been praying for me when I'm sick. That even though it seems hopeless, she has hope. And now, she's suffering. I don't know anyone who has been wholly Christian, wholly wonderful, and she is constantly confused, in pain, lonely and just doesn't understand.

So before I go any further, let me define doctor assisted suicide.

"Assisted suicide is the common term for actions by which an individual helps another person voluntarily bring about his or her own death. "Assistance" may mean providing one with the means (drugs or equipment) to end one's own life, but may extend to other actions. It differs to euthanasia where another person ends the life."

There's the argument that there's no place for doctor assisted suicide in society. That it's just downright wrong.

But I ask you this: Have you sat by someone's bedside, when they're begging you to kill them because they're in constant pain and confusion and don't want to be a burden? There is no cure for Alzheimer's. You cannot make some bullshit argument to me that there are "medical advancements" when I see people suffering every day. 

A British man, who had been paralyzed, went before his government and asked for them to approve doctor assisted suicide for him. He had talked this over with his family. He was in constant agony. They all understood he choice and where he was and yet his government said no.

I'm not saying that I agree with doctor assisted suicide in all situations. The cliche phrase of "this is a permanent solution to a temporary problem," that is so often associated with suicide is something that, in my eyes, does not apply to this. 

Do you have a cure for paralysis? 

Can you make my grandma remember me? Can you make her walk? Help her remember how to eat? 

Odds are, the answer to all of those questions are "no," but can you end her pain?

Would my grandma agree to this if she were coherent enough to understand what were going on? I don't know. It's not legal in Iowa or in Illinois, so it won't happen. She will continue to suffer and deteriorate before our eyes and there isn't a damn thing we can do about it except for pray that her suffering ends soon. 

And while doctor assisted suicide goes against my Christian beliefs--someone explain to me how it's fair to sit back and watch my grandmother, who has done no wrong in her life, has to sit back and suffer for God knows how long, while those on death row are guaranteed a lethal injection because of something terrible they've done?

They can rot in a cell. End the suffering of those who have done nothing bad. 


Please, if you disagree with me, comment. Email me. I want to hear what your opinion is on this topic.

“Bottom line is, even if you see 'em coming, you're not ready for the big moments. No one asks for their life to change, not really. But it does. So what are we, helpless? Puppets? No. The big moments are gonna come. You can't help that. It's what you do afterwards that counts. That's when you find out who you are.”
― Joss Whedon

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

WHAT did you just call me?

Over the course of my struggles, I've been called many things--from disgruntled friends, to frustrated family members--I've been called pretty much everything in the book. I'm pretty sure people have even made up words to yell at me.

However, if you want to light a fire under my butt, there are two things that people accuse me of that frost my cookie more than anything else.

Those two things are...

A hypochondriac and someone with Munchhausen's Syndrome.

Definition time!

Hypochondriac: If you have a preoccupying fear of having a serious illness you most likely suffer from hypochondria or hypochondriasis. A person with hypochondria continues thinking he is seriously ill despite appropriate medical evaluations and reassurances that his health is fine.(Definition courtesy of MedicalNewsToday.com)

Munchhausen's Syndrome: Munchausen (MOON-chow-zun) syndrome is a serious mental disorder in which someone with a deep need for attention pretends to be sick or gets sick or injured on purpose. People with Munchausen syndrome may make up symptoms, push for risky operations, or try to rig laboratory test results to try to win sympathy and concern.(Definition courtesy of MayoClinic.com)

Now, I will be the first person to admit that when I'm really sick, sometimes my anxiety will kick in and that will make things worse. However, in order for things to get worse, things have to be bad in the first place.

My own family has accused me of making up illnesses. In their defense, they haven't done this in a few years (probably because the last time they did this, I blew up in that person's face and told her that she couldn't handle living in my body for a week because I'm not making it up) and it was mostly done at the beginning of my health issues when the symptoms came one right after another, and no one could figure out why.

Please explain to me, anyone who has ever thought about accusing me or who has past accused me of these things, why I would pretend to be sick? I don't like the attention. I don't like the surgeries. I don't like being covered in bruises. I don't like the hours, upon hours, I spend in the bathroom. I don't like being constantly nauseous (actually, nausea is one symptom I cannot stand). I don't like feeling like I'm going to vomit 85% of my life (really, who likes throwing up?).

All of that being said, it's sad to say that people with 'unseen' symptoms get accused of these diseases everyday. If you can't see the nausea, if someone else can't feel your pain or feel how sick you feel--then it can't be real, can it? Wrong.

We're sick. We have no reason to lie to you. We have no reason to lie to anyone. Why would we lie? I promise you, we don't want the attention.

We have the strength to fight our illnesses. We shouldn't have to find the strength to fight everyone else, too.

Support us, or say nothing.

“You don't always get stronger on the days that everything comes easily to you.”
― Nastia Liukin

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