my long story - one I've never told before

[justsomeoneinacorner]

Hello all,
I posted a very short version of this in the "introduce yourselves here" thread but I've been wanting to share the whole thing for a long time now, and figured this is a good place to start. I've never spelled everything out for anyone before, but I believe that sharing who I am and what I've been through will be crucial in taking my next steps. So here goes.

I'm a 20-something college student who's "taking a break" from school which for me feels like taking a break from life. I've suffered from depression for a long time but I come from an extremely religious family of mental illness deniers. I lived in a world where there was no mental illness, only punishment for sin (especially sexual ones), demon possession, and the folly of upper middle class white americans who just want to feel high all the time. I suffered in silence for a long time.

In middle school I started to reach out, bit by bit, but could never make much progress. I could occasionally find threads of light and hope but they were never strong enough to support me, but were just enough to keep me going. In high school things improved slightly, with the stability and distraction of challenging coursework and inspiring teachers temporarily alleviating my struggle. However by the end of high school, I had reached a breaking point. I was beautiful and smart with a great future ahead of me but I collapsed under the combined weight of toxic family relationships, ignorant religious ideas, stress from the transition to college and the tragic death of a friend.

In my first semester of college, I spent a weekend in a mental hospital. I was confused but hopeful - maybe this would be when things would start to get better. But no. No. My father was furious about the expense; a ridiculous conflict that led to the end of my healthcare coverage with him and our relationship, period. (for the record, he has excellent health insurance and it was completely covered with the only out of pocked expense being a very reasonable co-pay) My mother deepened in her toxic religiosity. She somehow found what seems to be the only place where the banner of "mental illness is a direct result of demonic influences" is regularly flown with certainty and pride. I faltered. I stumbled. The kerfuffle with my insurance coverage brought my medical care to a halt. And my mother's new church promised all the answers for free, so I fell in step.

I was miserable. Did I deserve this? Was is the weight of some past sin? Some secret disbelief? Was I demon possessed? These questions and more weighed on me for almost four years. All the while the religious authority would just continue insisting that "it was impossible to be depressed if you TRULY believed in the Lord. Impossible to be anxious if you TRULY handed over all your cares to the Lord. And that if you were suffering from those afflictions they were a direct result from your sinfulness and doubt. Only in this church could you really find help. Psychologists were charlatans, just look how much they get paid! Psychiatrists are worse. Tinkering around inside your head with chemicals, promising something that only be found by committing yourself to the church. Maybe they can get you high, but there is no real relief there. They're dangerous! They're heathens! And if you felt the desire to want to kill yourself you must have committed some great sin. God would not allow such an affliction to come on someone unless they really deserved it. " They ground me down. They pulled me apart. I wanted to die. I can remember so many times just wanting to die. I could be sitting in class, walking to work, taking a shower, having a conversation with a cute barista and still want to die. It would come and go. I managed to live and study just barely, but was I clearly on the decline.

It was almost like I became two people. On my good days, I was the ambitious, hard working student who was always looking forward. I was the girl who'd organize a study group. I was the one who'd always complete the "recommended problems" that wouldn't be collected for a grade. I would take the time to read my textbooks and seek out other ones that could help me in my studies. I would go to office hours, full of questions. Organized. Dedicated. Ready. But those were only the good days. The bad days were a different story, and with time there were more and more bad days.

On my bad days, I must have seemed like the ultimate stoner, although I never did drugs. I was sluggish and slumped over if I could even make it to class. I wouldn't shower, wouldn't cook for myself, couldn't focus enough to study. I could lay in bed feeling heavy, streaming nextflix for hours, if not days, just eating delivery pizza. Sometimes I would gather all my strength and try to study, and discover that I genuinely could not. I was like all of my textbooks were written in greek. I could read a paragraph over and over and somehow not glean the information that I knew was there. That I knew I could find on any other day. This filled me with deep, paralyzing fear and anxiety.

But these episodes always lifted, sometimes suddenly. Sometimes I would wake up with a spring in my step and wipe all the residue of my depressive episode away in a whirlwind. I would shower, take out all the pizza boxes, clear away the dishes, cook some proper food, take care of my laundry, organize my textbooks and notes, sketch out a schedule, go for a jog, dance to a kylie minogue music video, contact my friends and arrange to see them over the coming days/weeks and of course, try desperately to catch up on my school work. Sometimes I could, but with time I just couldn't. The energy I had on my good days was just enough to keep me alive. There was just no way to catch up on my education, especially once the depressive episodes lasted longer and came more frequently.

In those years, I tried to get into therapy and seek psychiatric help there was always the nagging suspicion that maybe I was being punished by God, bolstered my mother's toxic faux concern flowing into one ear and legitimate concern about long wait times, social stigma, cost and so forth flowing in the other. I tried my university's resources first, but they had a wait list of 6-8 weeks just to see a therapist, 2-3 months to see a psychiatrist. I tried to find some things on my own, but could only find a therapist. She definitely helped, and could have done more had I decided to throw off all the religious nonsense right then, but I couldn't. It had it's claws in me. It was the problem I had to deal with first, it was a problem my university didn't have the resources to deal with.

I hit bottom my fourth year. Rock bottom. Serious weight gain. Lethargy. Over sleeping. Suicidal thoughts. I began to plan my death. Did a lot of research. Gathered what I needed in order to kill myself. My roommate left for a weekend and I decided, this was it. I drunk myself into a stupor and cried until I fell asleep. The next night, nearly the same. The last day I had free before my roommate returned my head cleared up. I realized that all this time, I had never really tried to fight my depression. I always let something hold part of me back. So, before I killed myself I should go all in! Put my fists up, look this thing straight in the eyes and fight it. Put school on hold! No more religious crap! No more toxic family! No more toxic friends!

It took some months to really get a grip on things. Transitioning from full time student to ------ I guess, hourly employee on a quest to find herself, build a life worth living and tackle a crippling mental illness --- was awkward to say the least. There were also a death in my family that year and some other difficult transitions. But I made it. I found a job that can support me and I went to work.

First, I put some distance between me and that religious mess otherwise known as my mother. Unfortunately, for other reasons, this doesn't amount to as much physical distance as I would like (a few thousand miles might be ideal) but there are definitive boundaries. We now have a somewhat distanced, minimal but healthy relationship. I also began to unpack my own religious / spiritual / philosophical ideas. I read a lot, found people to talk to , and listened. I carefully weighed things and found values and beliefs I can be happy with. I simultaneously addressed my body. I had put on quite some weight but after about a year of counting calories (shout out to myfitness pal) and excercise (primarily walking) I managed to lose all that I had gained and then some. I am now almost healthy weight with less than 10lbs to go!

I wanted to believe that chucking my old religious ideas, nurturing the positive relationships in my life, drawing boundaries, eating well, exercising, meditating, stabilizing my finances, getting a handle on my identity, etc. would be enough to kick the depression - But it wasn't. I hit a road block where it was clear that I still needed medical attention, so that became my top priority. I found and arranged an appointment with a primary care doctor first. She was certain I was depressed and should seek therapy and psychiatric help. We also arranged to rule out other physical sources like thyroid malfunctions, etc. I simultaneously began to look for a therapist and a psychiatrist. After about 6 weeks, dozens of phone calls to nearly everyone in the area who takes my health insurance I found one guy, clear across town, who was accepting new patients. He could see me in just 3 weeks. I found a therapist right after that.

Things are clearly still on the upswing, but it's also clear that I still have a lot of work to do. I've managed to get here, mainly on my own, and I'm proud of that, but I don't think this will be enough to take me to that next step. So here I am, trying to open up about what I've been through and to learn from people who have been where I've been, suffered what I've suffered and hopefully are going where I'm going if they're not there already.

Thanks for reading.

[oak]

You are not alone.

If I may bare my soul for a moment: after the death of someone close to me, I remember being in my bed in my dorm. I realized that committing suicide would be incredibly easy if I could find the emotional strength to walk across the room. Of course I didn't have that energy. Life can be scary.

Happily, it sounds like you are making lots of good, strategic choices. I encourage you to keep in mind that it is normal and expected to sometimes takes two steps forward then one step back. Change is a fluid thing.

Hang in there.

[palko]

I have to say you are a very brave young lady. You are taking action and that like you said is something to be proud of...

I found your story to be very inspirational. I have been to many of the places you have. I want to encourage you to keep
up the good work. Exercise is very important. I found when I was exercising more, i felt good. The challenge was getting myself to the
gym. You have almost met your goal which is awesome.

Please hang in there and continue your progress.

You are not alone!

[Vonnesky]

First of all, I can't say how much I admire your effort and resilience. I can hardly imagine anyone getting out of a dysfunctional home like that alive, add to it what sounds like a biological component (have you been diagnosed yet?), and still you were able to seize the moments when you were able to help yourself. Incredibly level-headed despite so many factors working against you. You should be proud.

Have you considered writing your story as a book (fictionalized or not)? You have a compelling story, the intellect, and the writing capabilities. It might help you to work some of your issues out while also providing a creative outlet. It already sounds like a worthwhile read.