Psyche logo

Diagnosis

The Journey to Finding My Voice

By Angel PeughPublished 6 years ago 5 min read
Like

Seven. Seven years old, and my first diagnosis appeared on my lap like an unwanted animal, begging for attention. I didn't know what ADHD was, or even if it was a real thing, and not just random letters in the alphabet. How was I to know that the reason for my constant "story telling," the way I always tapped my foot while the teacher was talking, or interrupting class just to say something that didn't even pertain to what was being taught, was my very own diagnosis?

It was mine, whether I wanted it or not.

That was the first time I started to understand what it meant to be called "crazy." I hated that word, and I still do, to an extent. But how else could I better describe the incessant way my thoughts flew through my mind and squeeze my brain until they burst from my mouth as if the dam in my mind broke? I couldn't. Not until I was 10 and could better tell my mom that I was sorry for calling her a bitch one night during dinner when I felt she was paying more attention to my sisters than me. Not until I was left alone one day after school, and my stepdad came home to the walls covered from corner-to-corner in purple hand paint because the thoughts in my head wouldn't stop until the walls were a lovely shade of eggplant.

"That's the last straw." "Why must you act so crazy?"

I always thought I was a bad kid. I couldn't understand the things I did, or why it took 30 seconds for my mouth to catch up to my brain, which left me constantly tongue-tied and confused when I was punished for being too loud. I didn't want this to be how people remembered me.The times I was picked on in school because not only was I the chubbier kid, I was the most obnoxious. The most likely to derail the teachers in the middle of a lesson because I just remembered I needed to tell them something right when we were about to get the answer for 12x12.

"Loser." "Fatty." "Big mouth." "Crazy."

Fast forward to middle school, and nothing really changed. Unless you count the multiple new diagnoses I received over the summer. Depression, ADD, OCD, and PTSD. Now I knew they were real, and not just random letters in the alphabet. I knew for sure there was a definite change in my moods, and the way I interacted with people who looked an awful lot like my biological dad. Also the fact that I couldn't leave the house without checking my shoes were tied exactly six times and I couldn't leave my room without making sure my bed was made exactly 12 times. (I got a lot of exercise that summer; still didn't change me being the chubby kid.)

High school wasn't the greatest either, honestly. I was still an outcast; the obnoxious one that asked too many questions. The major turning point was junior year. My very first actual friend. She helped me realize that the quirks I have weren't altogether irritating, and that there are people out there who really don't mind that I had to check and recheck locks in my house, and I had a panic attack every time I remembered I had to go home. I hated going home. I still do, even now. That's why when given the opportunity, I stay at a friend's house as long as possible.

"Kill yourself." "You don't deserve to be happy."

A few years after graduation, my thoughts turned more depressing. I didn't want to take care of myself, nor did I want to keep living. I'd tried to commit suicide three times in my adulthood, each time I didn't plan anything. I had written a note once, but I hid it. I didn't want any of my family members to find it and realize I was mere minutes away from ending my life when I'd written it. I was so ashamed of what I'd done I went to group therapy the next day, told them, and signed myself into the psychiatric hospital. I'm sad to say that wasn't my only stay in an inpatient hospital. I can't even count on both hands how many times I've been hospitalized for one mental health thing or another. Each time had always had one common denominator: suicidal ideation. I knew if I'd gone 24 hours longer without constant supervision, I would have tried to kill myself again. As much as I hated myself in those moments where all hope for anything good in my future was lost, I hated the fact that I'd be giving into that monster.

"Why do you sleep so much?" "I wish you'd get a shower."

I read somewhere that 80% of people with depression sleep more than 12 hours a day, and the other 20% with depression wish they could sleep at all. I was part of the 80%. About a year ago, I was asked by my therapist why I sleep so much, to explain it in my own words and not spit back at her what ever psychiatrist has told me over the years. I told her, "It's not the demons in my nightmares that scare me anymore. It's the ones I face when I have to open my eyes and try to get through the day. I'm not scared of dying anymore, I'm scared of living." That was the first ever time I'd seen any mental health professional cry. Up until that point, I'd never really opened up to her. She then smiled and told me that I didn't have to be afraid of my brain monsters. I didn't believe her.

When some people with depression reach the point of giving up, not only does their mental health deteriorate, but their physical self sort of decays as well. Just opening their eyes is the biggest hurdle some face on a daily basis. I was one of those people. It took all my energy to even jumpstart my brain; I couldn't even imagine getting out of bed for longer than five minutes. My hygiene is still something I struggle with, I'm not going to lie and say that I'm 100% recovered, because no one absolutely recovers from mental health battles. There's still going to be a lingering ghost or two, tempting people back into the abyss they fought their way out of. Another therapist I'd seen linked mental health to wheels. You can get over all the depression, all the OCD ticks, all the trauma you've lived through, but you'll never forget how you got to where you are. Those memories are your battle scars. Wear them with pride, knowing you've faced one more demon down and won another day of freedom. Even if your victory of the day is getting something small to eat. Even if it's just opening your eyes. Because you are so strong.

And our stories aren't over yet.

;

recovery
Like

About the Creator

Angel Peugh

I have struggled with figuring out how to express myself my entire adolescence and adulthood, and I finally found my voice. Most of what I write will be geared toward mental health awareness and LGBTQIA+ positivity. Happy reading! 🙂

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.