Mental

When I was younger, I suffered silently from my mental illnesses. I didn’t feel normal and I couldn’t understand why. It wasn’t just teen angst, there was something seriously wrong with me inside that I just couldn’t brush off.

When I was 15, I started harming myself, when I was 16, I tried to kill myself. I truly felt like my life was just this black hole full of nothingness. I was tired all the time, I wasn’t hungry most of the time, and I distanced myself from my family because I just couldn’t stand being with them, or anyone.

I would lock myself in my room and listen to music, spending hours on the internet, or just laying down on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I would burst out crying or just grab something sharp and just start cutting, just trying to get a hold of myself.

Cutting for me was more about control. That was the one thing that I could control when I felt like everything in my life was out of control, I got to control how long or deep I cut, and the pain that came with it was the only thing at that moment that I could concentrate on. that pain was a distraction for me. But like a vicious circle, I felt worse after. The guilt set in and the worry and paranoia of someone finding out ate away at me.

I covered up my arms, even on the hottest days. I was ashamed of myself for resorting to cutting, but that never stopped me from doing it because the pain and sadness I felt were far greater than the shame that accompanied it.

I was 17 when my parents found out, it was probably one of the worst days of my life. My parents aren’t the most understanding people, especially with an issue like mine. Instead of trying to find the root of the problem, they just yelled and punished me. I am 22 years old and to this day, the issue with me cutting has still, never been spoken of…at all.

I stopped fully cutting when I was 18, but I still had outbursts at times where I would still do it until I was 20.

When I was 20, I was diagnosed with OCD, Depression, and Anxiety. They put me on medication. I took the medication for about three months before stopping it on my own. I hated being on that medication. I felt like I was someone else, I couldn’t feel anything at all, I truly felt lifeless.

Occasionally, I would have outburst of sadness and pure anger and then it would just go away and I felt nothing all over again. I didn’t want to do anything or go anywhere. I had no desire to write anymore because my mind was a blank, it was like my imagination was ripped straight out of me with every pill that I took.

I didn’t feel like me. I ended up cutting ties with my best friend of five years, who had been there for me through everything. The medicine only covered up the feelings, nothing else. I decided that I rather deal with my sadness and emotions than bury them in medication.

Yes, it’s been a tough road, and I still feel horrible at times, but this is the path that I chose to take. I will not give up on my life or my dreams because of my mental illnesses. This just means that I will have to work harder on myself. I will not let my mental illnesses define who I am, nor will I let it control my life.