Mental Health, Alcohol, and Finding Yourself

"Who are you?"

"What are your interests?"

"What are you good at?"

"Where do you see yourself in the future?"

All of these questions. At age 23, still unanswered. How do you respond when you haven't known yourself in years, and are unsure if you ever did? My denial started 15 years ago. My diagnoses six years ago. I was always the quiet one. The girl who did not have many friends, and avoided relationships when I could. The girl who could not figure out why she lacked interest in activities. The girl who spent her days sleeping, and in online chat rooms, pretending to be someone else, avoiding actual human contact. At eight years old, all I wondered, is why I was so different than my peers. I spent many years wondering but eventually grew to think that, how I was feeling, was just who I was. I sat envious of the girls who seemed to have it together. The ones who were so popular and made friends easily. When people would try to talk with me, I gave short responses, if any at all. I spent all hour of the day and night locked away in my room, talking to strangers. "I am fine. I just did not sleep well," I would respond when people asked me what was wrong. I would burst into tears in the school counselors office, not knowing why I was crying. I could not control myself. Towards the end of high school, I was asked what I wanted to do in the future. But how could I respond to that question, when I did not see myself being alive after the age of 18. Two failed attempts at my life, and I was determined to get it right eventually.

When I finally heard the diagnoses of anxiety, depression, insomnia, paranoia, and panic disorder, I had an out of body experience. I could see the psychiatrists lips moving, but I could not hear a word she was saying. I did not want to believe her. "NO!" I was screaming in my mind. I am not crazy, I am just different. There is nothing wrong with me! "Meds?" No! I don't need them. Medicine is for psych patients and I have nothing wrong with me!

From 16-18, I found my relief in prescription pain killers. Laughing at this "diagnosis," because there was nothing wrong with me.

When I was high, I was different. I was able to be "myself." I "enjoyed" life. I was everything that I was told I had to be. Mental disorder? Yeah, there is no way. I just need an outlet. Something to have in common with others.

I became pregnant at 18 (with my saving grace.)

I left the prescriptions behind, tried to make my life right.

Motherhood, it started to consume me. They told me, on top of these "diagnoses," I had postpartum depression (HA), another mental issue that they are trying to pin on me? No, thank you.

I am not taking medicine for anything. Especially when I am fine.

My relationship hit a rough patch, I was failing at motherhood, and I hit rock bottom...again.

Suicide.

It was my way out.

NO!

I have a child. I have a fiancé. I need to change. Maybe, just maybe...that psychiatrist was right.

Maybe, I need to accept the diagnoses.

I look for help again. I prescribed medication. It began to help. I felt different, a good different. I was truly enjoying life. I was laughing, without having to force it. I felt happy. Truly happy, for the first time in as long as I could remember. I thrived as a mother and a spouse. Life was great.

Until it wasn't.

The medications only worked for a year. Then, I lost my psychiatrist. "Okay, I'll continue to take the medications, but I need something else."

It started with a birthday party. One shot of fireball and it snowballed.

I started by just drinking. Then blacking out every weekend. Then every. single. day.

I drank from sun up until way after sun down. My child was with her father or grandparents, so it was okay. At least, that's what I thought.

It made me happy.

Then, the drinking and driving started. The staying out until 5 AM. Going to my college classes intoxicated.

I did not want to listen to anyone. I was of legal age, so I did not see the problem.

At least, not until July 4th, 2017 when I awoke in a hospital bed.

On July 3rd, what started as a normal Monday, turned out to be the day I almost lost my life.

My fiancé and I put our daughter to bed and I made a drink.

Then another. And another. And I guess, many more after that.

I drank 3/4 bottle of vodka. A 3-liter bottle of vodka. I fell down two flights of stairs. I became unconscious. My fiancé, unsure of what to do, called his parents. Asked what to do. His parents said to let me sleep it off. Only then, I began to throw up. I was choking on my vomit. I could not wake up, yet I could hear my fiancé yelling my name.

Six first responders showed up. Four paramedics and two officers. While in and out of it, I made a statement that I was in the position because I was making an attempt at my life.

(Of course, this is all what I was told, because I do not remember a thing.)

I arrived at the hospital, hanging onto life. All while, my beautiful three-year-old daughter, lay asleep in bed. The last memory of mommy she had was me kissing her goodnight.

She went to bed with a mommy, and almost woke up without one.

I had shallow breathing, an extremely low heart rate and an extremely low blood pressure.

After 2 liters of IV fluids in the emergency room, I finally woke up. I was in a daze but alive. My fiancé and his mother were at my bedside. That is when I found out what had taken place the night before.

I was ordered by the physician to attempt inpatient treatment, for a dual diagnosis. Mental health and addiction. I protested.

I don't have an alcohol problem.

I just enjoy drinking.

Not the case, so I came to find out.

I was an inpatient for three days. In those three days, I was asked all of the questions I still did not have the answers to.

However, I did find a group of individuals who, I felt, finally understood me. People I felt comfortable speaking with.

I was recommended outpatient treatment upon discharge.

Which, I ended up deciding to do.

After almost leaving my child without a mother and my fiancé without a spouse, I finally admitted to myself that I needed to change. I did not know how to go about this change, but I had to figure it out.

My only outlet and enjoyment (asides from mother/spouse-hood) had been alcohol. I don't play video games, I don't draw, I don't play sports. I tried adult coloring, but lost interest quickly. I tried gaming, but that did not last long. How can I expect to stay sober if I cannot find anything to fill my interests. Everything I tried, I lost interest in shortly after.

Until, my husband (we got married in November 2017) and his parents bought me a camera for Christmas.

I finally found something. My something.

It allows me to spend time with my daughter and keeps me busy.

It allows me to take a moment to slow down and enjoy the natural beauty around me. When I am having a rough time, I can go to the park and take a few snaps of whatever calms me. Although it is not a fool proof plan, it helps.

Now, almost nine months into sobriety, and I have yet to touch a drop of alcohol.

I am the healthiest, mentally, I have ever been.

Now, what do I mean when I say "finding myself?"

Well, when you've had depression for so many years, you don't know who you were before the depression, if there even was a time before depression. All of these years, I could not figure out what I liked to do, what my hobbies were, or where I saw myself in the future.

Now, I have a hobby. I found something that I enjoy doing. And something, to toot my own horn, I think I am good at.

I am starting over at life, and inventing who I am and who I want to be. Not only for my child and husband, but for myself.

I owe myself nothing less than the best, and with my second chance at life, the best is what I plan to give myself.