About Me

I wrote my first suicide note when I was 8. I ran away from home more times than I can remember. I started cutting in middle school. If you don't know much about mental illness then you might automatically think I had a bad home life. This couldn't be further from the truth. My parents are amazing people. I had a good home, plenty to eat, video games to play, and friends to hang out with. I wasn't abused, mentally or physically. But for some reason, I always felt on edge. I was called a "Drama Queen" quite often as my moods changed frequently, often in the span of minutes. I'd get so angry I'd hit things (not people, just walls mostly). I'd cut in frustration. Pain was the only way I knew how to release all of the emotions built up inside of me. And through all of it, no one even mentioned the words "depression", "anxiety", "ADHD", or even just a generic "mental illness". It was just "teenage angst". I'd grow out of it. I needed to get over it. And, my personal favorite, it was all in my head.

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Getting the Help I Need: The First Attempt

When I was in 9th grade, I had to do a poetry project. We had to write poems, find poems that inspired us, and create illustrations to go with the poems. To put it mildly, my poems were very dark. They were angry and/or depressing. I even drew a picture of a large tress with my grave under it. My teacher was concerned. As she should have been. For some background, I hated this teacher. Looking back, I think it was because she always pushed me. As an adult, I can see that it was her way of caring. She knew I wasn't living up to my potential and wanted me to do better. As a teenager, I just saw her as a mean bitch. That being said, she forever earned my respect because she tried to do the right by me. When she saw my poetry project and felt that something was wrong, she didn't just ignore it. She intervened and sent me to the guidance counselor. And that was the first time someone in the mental health world failed me miserably. Instead of doing his job properly, he told me it was just "teenage angst" and I would get over it.

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The Second Attempt & My First Diagnosis

Shortly after my 21st birthday, I was in a horrific car accident - the kind of accident where you hear the paramedics whisper "How did she survive that?". I wasn't drunk. I was just tired. I tried to drive and I shouldn't have. My beautiful dark green VW Jetta died protecting me. I still miss that car...

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The accident that should have killed me left me with a spinal injury. Nothing paralyzing, but 17 years later and I still have debilitating back pain sometime, especially on rainy days. What the accident did do, was give me PTSD. At the time, I was a commuter student attending a college about 30 minutes from my home. I normally had no problems with this drive, but after the accident any time I drove for more than 10 minutes I started to hyperventilate, shake, and cry uncontrollably. Panic attacks. So I made my first appointment ever with a psychiatrist. During the incredibly short visit, the doctor asked me some basic questions and then handed me a diagnosis of Major Depressive Disorder, Mild Anxiety Disorder, and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Anyone with a decent knowledge of mental health illnesses might already see the problem with this diagnosis, but more on that later. She put me on Prozac and sent me on my way.

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Prozac and I do not get along. It made me apathetic. I didn't care about anyone or anything. Worst of all it killed my creativity. Being creative was the one thing that kept me grounded. Without it I felt that I had nothing left. My cutting worsened and my relationships with those around me deteriorated even more. So I found myself sitting in my car, staring at a brick wall some thirty or so feet in front of me, wondering if the car I was in could go fast enough in that distance that the impact would kill me. Yes, suicide by car while suffering from PTSD from a car accident. Ironic, I know.

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Ultimately, I realized how much my death would hurt my parents and no matter how much I was suffering, I didn't feel they deserved that. Plus, I realized with my luck, I'd survive and then have to explain why I'd just wrecked another car. While I didn't go through with my plan to smash my car into a brick wall, I did drop out of college.

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My Second Diagnosis

Still in my early twenties, I started having physical issues alongside the mental ones. I started falling asleep at my desk at work - something I never even did in school in the most boring of classes. My body was slow and sluggish, stiff and painful, like I'd run a marathon the previous day, but unless there's a crowd of zombies chasing me, I'm not a runner. I felt sick, like I had the flu. My brain was foggy all of the time. I couldn't remember much of anything. In fact, to this day, that entire period of my life is a haze. Eventually, I went to see my doctor, a nurse practitioner by the name of Jessica Scalzo. She was the first person who took the time to really get to the bottom of things, and to this day, she was the best doctor I have ever had. Upon hearing my multitude of symptoms, she decided to test me for four things, starting with Lyme Disease. We never got any further than that because the tests were clear as day. Unfortunately, we're pretty sure I had the illnesses for over a year before I was diagnosed. That complicates things. I went on medication for two years. I took 30 pills a day - not an exaggeration, I counted. I wasn't in as much pain anymore, but after a while I was violently sick every day. It was clear the antibiotics were doing more harm than good at that point, so I made the choice to live with pain versus getting ill every day.

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Life between Diagnoses

Life was rough. After the incident with the Prozac, I swore off all mental health medication. I didn't take anything for the Lymes except Naproxen when the pain made it impossible for me to function. I wasn't in therapy. No one had ever talked to me about therapy before. I thought I could do it on my own. And, as far as my Lymes went, I pretty much did. I worked full-time. I went back to college and graduated with my Bachelor's of Science in Business Management. I got married. I had the life I'd always thought I'd wanted. I was still miserable. I still cut. My husband and I fought constantly. I was not a nice person. I was kind deep down. I'd do anything to help someone I cared for, but at the same time, I could snap at them in an instant and be cruel, saying whatever I could to twist a knife in their heart. I am not proud of this but I accept it. I was an abusive person to those around me. I was toxic. And I hated myself. How could anyone love me when I didn't love myself? And then I hit the proverbial rock bottom.

 

The Third Attempt: Suicide or Help

I remember sitting on the floor of the dining room of our little two-bedroom apartment. No one was home. The light was on in the living room, but not in the dining room. The tan carpet felt rough on my skin. In one hand I held the black knife I always carried with me, clipped to my jeans. In my other hand, I held my insurance card. My phone was lying on the floor in front of me. I was crying and shaking and I felt more alone than I have ever felt. My thoughts were racing back and forth about what I should do. I didn't want to keep living with the pain I felt inside every day. I didn't want to hurt my parents, my friends, my husband, but at the same time, I didn't want to keep hurting them like I knew I was. I don't know how long passed before I finally decided to call the mental health helpline on the back of my insurance card. It was the most terrifying thing I have ever done, but it was also the best thing I have ever done for myself.

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My Third Diagnosis

I wish I could remember the full name of the doctor who saved me, but all I can remember is Dr. Caesar. He was a psychiatrist my insurance company set me up with. Before the end of the fateful evening I reached out for help, I was set up for a psychiatry appointment the very next day along, a week-long group intensive psychotherapy treatment, and individual therapy three times a week. They also sent an officer to do a wellness check on me. That terrified me. I've never been in any kind of trouble so I had absolutely 0 idea of what that meant, but the officer that was sent was one of the nicest people. He never came in. He just talked to me on the phone until he felt confident I was no longer a danger to myself and my husband and roommate came home. He explained to me my options if I chose to go to the hospital with him and what it would entail. He made me feel safe. In that moment, that was something I needed.

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Dr. Caesar was a tall man of color. He reminded me of the actor who did the All-State commercials, the one who played the president in 24. He had the same deep voice, the was oddly soothing. And he listened. He didn't just take a look at me and write down some half-hearted diagnosis. He let me talk and he listened. And I walked away with a diagnosis I felt confident in and a prescription for some new medications to try. When I decided to get help, I made the commitment to myself to try whatever it was that I was told to try. So I tried the medication, and it helped immensely. He gave me a better understanding of my illnesses, and what he said made sense. Originally I had been told that my depression causes my anxiety, but he explained how backward that was for me. My anxiety controlled me. It caused so many of my issues. I would get anxious and then frustrated and then depressed. My anger was an outburst of my anxiety. My depression is a symptom, not a trigger.

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Today

I would love to tell you that I was cured mentally and everything was rainbows and butterflies, but that would be a lie. I had spent almost thirty years living one way, that's not something that changes overnight. I still cut for 6 years after that. I went in and out of therapy as I could and couldn't afford it. I went on and off medications, constantly trying to find that perfect combination. My relationships with some people, like my parents, improved dramatically, while others died completely. But I became a better version of myself. I am happier. Hell, I am happy.

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Living with mental and physical illnesses is a part of my daily routine, it's a part of me. I now have the tools and the knowledge on how to combat my mental illnesses that debilitate me. I have learned to accept all of them as part of me. I have even embraced them as part of what makes me unique. The biggest lesson I learned through it all is that there is no one size fits all treatment. Just like we are all unique in our tastes and interests, how we look, talk, walk, and dress, our brain chemistry is just as different. Keep trying. Never give up. You are not alone and you will make it through this. I promise that's not just another person speaking empty words. My words come from my heart and from my own experiences. If you or anyone you know would like to talk to someone and you don't feel comfortable calling the #988 helpline, please drop me a message and I would be more than happy to talk to you. Just please remember that I am not a licensed psychiatrist or therapist. I can only give you advice based on my own life experience or knowledge.

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Current Diagnosis

Mental: Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Major Depressive Disorder, BPD, ADHD

Physical: Lyme Disease, Class 3 Obesity