Hi.
I'm Dawnne.
We've met by now, hopefully. And if we have not, let me start off by saying that I'm a very nervous person.
This post is about what I refer to as my psychological struggle and how I've dealt with it over the years. I'm dedicating this post to my friend who is currently going through something similar, and who I sincerely hope will benefit from learning about this the way I have.
I've been dealing with depression for nearly a decade now. A long time. Especially when you consider I'm not even 18 yet (2 months, people). When I was in elementary school, of course, I didn't understand that I was experiencing depression; I simply thought it was in my personality to be quieter and more secluded from the rest of children my age. I didn't have many friends growing up--none that really stuck with me for a while, anyway. I was simply never a popular person, and I think that's okay.
Regardless of my popularity, I always struggled with self-esteem. I never thought I was especially pretty, or incredibly smart, and that I was slightly weird. Later I realized that it wasn't exactly that I wasn't pretty or smart, it was that other people were prettier and smarter. That was probably the first time that I realized my biggest fear in life: not being good enough.
Today I finished public school forever. No going back. I'm probably never going to see half of them again. Which is good, in my opinion. Maybe I'll finally stop comparing myself to them.
The depression I experience comes in waves. I'll be fine for months on end, without experiencing hardly any negative emotions, but then dive into a very bad, dark place in which I contemplate suicide and wish to die...and that can go on for just as long. The thing about my depressions is that I pretend they don't exist. I don't want people to know how badly I'm hurting, because then they'll feel sorry for me. Feel sorry for me? Fuck, I don't want pity. I want help.
The anxiety problems didn't come in until about 2 years ago. It started with something simple: balancing work and school. This was the first year when I had a part-time job along with going to school. I handled this surprisingly well. I experienced hardly any trouble. In fact, I was surprised by myself.
And then it hit me. Suddenly I was paranoid and worried about everything. I thought one small thing would lead to eventual devastation. It didn't take long before these kinds of thoughts infiltrated every square inch of my mind. I started doing things out of fear instead of doing them out of habit. I hate change. I can't stand it when something is different from the way I got used to it.
This is about the time that I started into psychology. I studied GAD (generalized anxiety disorder) as a class project, and realized how shockingly alike I was to this disorder. In fact, to this day, the only symptoms I do not experience on an almost-daily basis are the eating and sleeping habits. Before this time, I had never considered that I might be an anxious person. I knew I had problems with depression, but I knew those were different things.
Later, I noticed I also experience several obsessive-compulsive symptoms. Not all of them, like with GAD, but OCD was also likely for me.
With all of this going on inside my head, it drove me to eventual insanity. I practically begged my mom to take me to a psychiatrist so I could be evaluated by a professional, but each time it was always the same thing: "You're just being a teenager, everyone goes through this." "Are you on your period? It's probably your hormones." "I worry about things, too, you know. It's part of growing up." "You have it so much better than a lot of other people. What could you be so upset about?" (this one pissed me off the most)
And eventually I got this: "The insurance won't pay for a psychiatrist, anyway."
That really struck something with me. It hurt. Unbelievably bad. My mom cared more about money than she did my mental health.
I got so sick of being misunderstood and so tired of my mom trivializing what I was feeling, and how she made it all seem like it wasn't real or that it was normal...I knew it wasn't normal. It can't be. Regardless, I plunged into a frightening depression in which I attempted to kill myself, but failed. I was quiet for a while and didn't mention it to anyone, even though there was one person who I was sure knew about it. He never said anything, though. I'm sure he was never even worried, like he thought I was joking or that I wouldn't actually do it (watch me try). The fact that no one knew I was hurting, or cared that I had tried to kill myself only made me feel worse, if that was possible.
I don't know what it was that finally brought me out of that depression, but whatever it was, I'm glad it happened. Who knows what might've happened if I didn't get better. I might have attempted suicide again and perhaps succeeded this time.
After recovering, I realized that my anxiety and depression are something that's just simply part of my life, regardless of what caused it or why I have it. Even if I "cure" it, it won't go away completely and forever. I think this realization really helped me take a big step to recovery. Acceptance. I accepted that it exists. And because of that, I feel like I'm resisting it less, causing less of a strain.
For anyone who believes they are suffering from a mental disorder such as anxiety or depression, I encourage you to consider how much it impacts your life. After that, understand that this might be a permanent condition that might go away for a while and come back sometimes. It's not what attention-starved 13-year-olds on the internet glorify it to be. It's not fun. It's not a game. It's just...pain, in every sense of the word. I don't understand why some people go around bragging about it. By doing that, those people are only trivializing the suffering of people who really are hurting, and it's making it hard for those people to get the help they need. However, I do think that every suicide threat should be taken seriously.
Since I am unable to seek treatment from a psychiatrist at the moment, I'm left with self-diagnosis and self-therapy. It's really the only effort I can make to help myself get better. And honestly, I believe it's working. At least a little bit.
Many people dismiss self-diagnosis and self-therapy as laughable things that don't work. This is because often times, people self-diagnose incorrectly and then somehow end up causing a problem about it. But when done in a proper way, self-diagnosis is actually a really helpful tool, especially when one finally gets the chance to speak to a professional: the patient can simply say "I believe I'm dealing with ____" and the professional can have a springboard of where to start.
As for self-therapy, I know it might seem silly to some people, but I believe that my hobbies, particularly writing and knitting, are really helping to relieve my anxiety in a healthier, more productive way. It gives me something real to focus on, rather than imaginary fears that most likely will not happen.
I've started doing breathing exercises, and they've started working for me when I'm in an especially panicked mood.
I've been advised by someone with a psych degree to also study meditation and certain Buddhist philosophies, which I will certainly do when I have the time.
All in all, the whole self-help concept is really helpful for those who feel like they're trapped with no means of getting better on their own. Self-help is also the number-one remedy for anxiety disorders, anyway, even if you do get help from a psychologist/psychiatrist. :P
Why is that? Because anxiety almost always relates to the way you view and interpret things. This is something that only you can truly understand, and therefore only you can really be the cure for yourself.
I hope I've been motivational and perhaps even inspirational to those out there who might be hurting without speaking a word. Please consider these things, even if for a second. I wish the best of luck to all of those anonymous eyes behind the screens reading this post.
