My Struggle with Mental Health (Part 1)

Statistics show that 1 in 5 adults in the United States suffer from mental health issues of any kind (Source: National Alliance on Mental Illness). With a prevalence like that, why is it that when individuals are diagnosed with a mental health disorder, they instantly feel alone? Why is the stigma around mental health still no negative? I honestly wish I could answer these questions in this post, but I actually want to get a little more personal. This post is going to be a little longer than my usual, but I hope you will come on this journey with me as I discuss my past and present struggles with mental health.

I have struggled with some sort of mental health issue for as long as I could remember. I remember seeing therapists as young as the third grade, where I would go to my appointment and they would get me talking about my feelings through play or games. I actually don’t remember much about my younger years. I remember being on medication for what was presumed to be Attention Deficit Disorder (when that was still a thing, see DSM V). I remember having behaviors that I couldn’t explain. My mom would tell you if I asked that I was defiant, difficult and downright rude. I cried a lot, always wanted my way and sought attention as if it were my job.

This went on for a long time. My Type 1 Diabetes diagnosis obviously made it worse, and my parent’s divorce a few years later pushed the issue to the forefront. I was bounced around to all different therapists and psychiatrists. I know both of my parents sought to understand what was going on with me. I just wanted to be a kid and do things my way. I am unfortunately still that stubborn sometimes.

I don’t mean to skip through my childhood so quickly, but I really can’t remember it all that well. What is more important were my teenage years, when things really started to get bad.

I was in tenth grade the first time I felt depressed. I was always bullied in school, but this was different. I wasn’t sad, because when I was sad, I could get over it. This was something else, something I could not push past. I carried it from school, to dance, to home and to sleep and all over again the next day. I didn’t understand what exactly I was feeling, so I wasn’t able to properly convey it to anyone, not even my parents.

My days went something like this:

1. I would wake up in the morning, maybe 20 minutes before I needed to walk out the door. I would shove everything I needed into my backpack, throw my hair up and clothes on. I rarely ate breakfast, and then ran to the bus just before it got to the corner of my street.
2. I dazed through school, half paying attention and taking notes. There were no phones allowed “back then” but we passed notes, gave looks to classmates, found each other in the hallways in between classes, ate lunch together. I almost never participated in gym class because they made us run a mile and a half every Wednesday. I even fell asleep during a math class once. I was always tired. I was also always eating.
3. When that last bell finally rang, I couldn’t get to the bus quickly enough. I never stayed after school for anything. I got on the bus, slept the way home with music in my ears. When I got home, I made a grilled cheese or some other sort of snack, and then I went upstairs in my room and went to sleep. When I had a laptop, I would go on the internet, and sometimes I would read, but mostly I just turned out the lights and fell asleep.
4. I was on the dance competition team, so I spent many hours per week at the dance studio. My participation was always lackluster at best in these years. I lost interest in what I once loved. My teachers noticed, my parents noticed, but I kept saying I wanted to do it. I grew jealous of all the girls that were more talented than me because they practiced, and I didn’t have the energy.
5. I would get home late at night. I wouldn’t do my homework ever. I also never studied. I stayed up late into the night on the computer, either writing or talking to random people online. Then I went to sleep.

I can see now how this vicious cycle got worse and worse over time. I gained a lot of weight because I was eating so much and exercising so little, and the bullying got worse as a result. I stopped getting along with my mom and my sisters, so I moved in with my dad. I faked injuries at dance so I wouldn’t have to participate because I was always so tired. I stopped taking care of my blood sugars because I didn’t care anymore. I was slipping further and further and felt like no one understood me and what I was going through. Eventually, after a very dramatic morning of phone calls, crying, a misunderstanding and a statement I shouldn’t have made, I ended up in the hospital.

I was treated for a week at a facility in New Jersey for kids. I don’t remember what I got out of it, if anything. The people that worked there encouraged us to all talk about our feelings and struggles, and I think at this time I still didn’t understand what was going on. I was just tired and sad. No one in my family that I knew of at the time suffered from depression, so we never talked about it. When I got out of the hospital, much remained the same. I continued to go to therapy. I continued different types of anti-depressants. I continued to gain weight. I continued to fight with my mom and my sisters. I was struggling

My senior year of high school wasn’t much better. I actually almost didn’t graduate because of gym and math. My sister, thank god, helped me pass gym but slapping my butt every single time she lapped me during running day as a “motivation technique” to get me to walk faster. She helped me write current event articles to get some of the credit back I had lost for not participating. In math my teacher graded my final in front of me so I could find out if I had the grade I needed to pass or not, and thankfully I did. Things were supposed to be looking up for me, but I was still sad and lonely and frustrated. I was still tired and hungry. I still didn’t care about my diabetes.

When I graduated from high school, I decided I was going to change my outlook and turn my life around. My mom allowed me to move in with my aunt in Florida to go to college. I cut my hair off and packed my bags, headed for the sunshine state. I was happy to finally be rid of school and everything I thought was wrong with my life. I was looking forward and looking ahead.

Until recently, that was the end of my story. “Things got better, I started taking care of myself, blah blah blah.” This is not the end of the story, just the end of this post. I have a lot more to share, so stay tuned for Part 2 coming later this week.