My Mental Health Story (So Far)

It’s important to share your story.

That sentence has kept popping up on my screens for the past few weeks.  Every time I’ve read it, I’ve felt a twinge of guilt.  As much as I preach against mental health stigmas, I still haven’t been completely open about my story.  I’m going to try to do so tonight.

Backstory

As many of you know, my father and aunt both died by suicide, about a decade apart.  After losing my dad in that way when I was 6, I started having problems.  These were problems I never really faced or dealt with.  I always pushed things aside and didn’t talk about them.  Of course, this was never a good plan.  Bottling up emotions only guarantees an eventual blow.  I never really knew about mental health or any actual diagnosable things until I was in high school.

My freshman year of high school, I had my first panic attack.  I didn’t know what that was, and so I didn’t really do anything about it.  I started having them more throughout my sophomore year, when stress started becoming increasingly more present in my life.  I had other physical symptoms of anxiety, too - like dizziness and chest pain.  This got so bad that I ended up in a cardiologist’s office for him to all but tell me:  I have anxiety.  

At the time, I was so ashamed and so scared. I didn’t want to be labeled with some sort of mental disorder at the age of 16.  So I tried to ignore it, and I tried to hide it.  I didn’t try to find any healing.  This was horrible.  Trying to hide my anxiety was almost impossible, especially when it got more severe. I wasn’t sleeping. Or functioning. Throughout the rest of high school, I’d go to the drama room to have anxiety attacks and cry like a child.  I only let things escalate.  And for me, suicide was always there.  I was always too busy to ever really consider it, but I guess in my mind, it was always some option, just one I never pursued.  

The last semester of my senior year was the first time I ever really considered getting any help.  But I had no idea where to go or how to start.  Once I graduated, I just wished it away.  I hoped I’d just “grow up” and “move on.”

Escalating

The summer after graduating high school, I started having worse anxiety, and with that, worse depression.  I started isolating myself.  I didn’t even realize at the time I was doing it, but I just shut myself off from my peers.  I didn’t know this was common of people with severe anxiety, but I did it.  And as I got closer to moving in, I got more and more anxious.  I slept less and had more anxiety attacks. I was barely functioning.  And after moving home from college and starting at Metro, things got worse.  I started thinking about suicide more and more.  This scared me so much, I finally turned to get help.  

Getting Help

My first experience of reaching out went quite poorly.  After a large anxiety attack in front of my mom over a new job, she agreed to go to the doctor with me.  I just went into my general family doctor.  When my doctor asked if I’d had suicidal thoughts and I said I had, his response was “Oh, okay.”  Needless to say, I am never going to return to that doctor.  I was also put on an anti-anxiety medicine and given a tranquilizing anxiety med, without being given any warnings about side effects or given a follow-up appointment.  

Finding the right medicine is difficult.  The first one I was on helped with my anxiety - I didn’t ever feel anxious - but I never felt anything else, either.  Also, if I missed taking it one day, I spiraled like crazy.  The first day I ever truly considered taking my life was the day before my birthday last fall.  I’d never felt more alone before, or less hopeful.  I’d gotten to a point where the only thing I thought I could count on was God and Jesus, and I prayed to be taken home.  I didn’t tell anyone for awhile. I also gave up taking my first round of medicine.  I tried to deny I had a problem.  I JUST WANTED TO BE NORMAL.  I wanted to be able to be bubbly and funny, and make friends super easily.  I wanted to be breezy and be able to have fun.  I wanted to laugh with and hug my group of friends… but I didn’t have a group of friends.  Every person in my life I had pushed away, and I couldn’t get up the nerve to try to invite anybody new in. I kept trying to prove myself to be "completely healed" to the few people in my life that were not being accepting of me getting help. I tried to hide it all again.

Getting Help Again

The second time I tried to get help, I tried to be more serious about it.  I tried to turn my life around.  I got put on new medicine, and finally started therapy.  It wasn’t easy.  But for the first time in my life, I actually talked about my dad.  I talked about all of the things I experienced throughout my childhood and throughout high school that were due to my anxiety and depression.  I finally healed a bit after over a decade of pain and grief and bottling everything up.  

Throughout that time of recovery, I experienced two very serious, dark days.  Two days that easily could have changed my stored drastically - it could have ended it.  The first one was when my mom first asked me if she should take me to the hospital.  I honestly didn’t know what that would mean, so I said no. It was scary.  But I persisted.  

The other day was a time I was more scared than I’ve ever been.  I had consistently gotten worse over a two week time span, but I didn’t really know what to do besides spiral out of control.  I was easily angered.  I was always irritated.  And worst of all, I didn’t trust myself.  I started having nightmares every time I tried to sleep.  Each nightmare ended with me killing myself in a different way.  It got to a point where I just couldn’t deal with life anymore.  I was afraid to sleep, because each time I slept I woke up angrier than I had been before.  A plan started coming to my mind, and that was the closest I’ve ever come to actually doing it.  If it hadn’t been for my mom that night, I can say I probably wouldn’t be here anymore.  Again, I was asked if I needed to go to the hospital.  Since I still didn’t know what that would mean, I said no.  I slept on the floor of my little sister’s room for a week, knowing I wouldn't do anything that would hurt her (like hurting myself), and then I stayed upstairs for the next few months, knowing my mom was keeping an eye on me.  I basically put myself on surveillance.  All I tried to do was start being more positive.  My therapist honestly was not all too helpful throughout the entire process.  However, I got better, little by little.

This summer was much better for me.  The traveling I did refreshed my mind, and gave me something to look forward to. The small amount of times I met with people I am almost friends with at least gave me enough to push through the summer.

However, with fall rolling back around, things have gotten more difficult once again.  I keep hyper-focusing on the fact that I don’t have many close friendships.  Last night, I had the first anxiety attack I’ve had in about 3 months.  Having another anxiety attack has caused me to be nauseous and sick all day long.  I honest thought this part of my life was in the past.

Now

My goal now is to keep healing.  While I am much stronger than I was, I still have a long way to go.  I used to think I’d be completely healed someday, but I have finally accepted that this will always be a part of my life.  I’ll constantly need to fight to live.  I have more to go on building strength and finding positive friendships that value me.  This is part of my life.  This is part of who I am, and instead of continually being ashamed of it, I am going to try to embrace this part of myself.  If I can’t even love myself, this part included, I’m not sure how I expect anyone else to be able to, either.  I will have good days and bad days, just like everyone else.  But from now on, I will be more open about my story.  If me sharing can help people, I owe it to them to share.  Being open about my mental health will hopefully help stop the stigmas that I so passionately speak against.  

I also am continuing to educate myself on my options.  About hospitalization, and what that would mean to be hospitalized for suicidal ideation.  I’m going to attend a support group this year.  I’m going to constantly work towards getting better, knowing that I will hit some rough spots along the way.  Having a minor setback doesn’t mean I have to spiral back out of control.  I hope by helping myself, I can help others, too.  I will work to educate those in my life about mental health issues and topics as long as I can.  

Conclusion

If you have any questions about my story, please, do not hesitate to get in touch with me in any means (text, call, Facebook, etc.) and ask me anything you may need to know to get help for you or a loved one.   

If you are ever in a crisis, please know these numbers: (In the United States)

9-1-1 (Yes, when in an emergency, calling 911 is an option!)

For everyone:

National Suicide Hotline/AFSP: Call 1-800-273-8255

CRISIS TEXT LINE: Text HOME to 741-741

Boys Town Suicide Prevention: 800-448-3000

HopeLine: 919-231-4525

LGBTQ:

The Trevor Project: 212-695-8650

Trans Lifeline: 877-565-8860

Veterans:

The Veterans Crisis Line: 1-800-273-8255 Press 1

Deaf/Hard of Hearing:

You can contact the Lifeline via TTY by dialing 800-799-4889.

Or, you can use the Crisis Text Line above!