Surviving Mental Illness

I was born this way. It may not have shown immediately, but it did show over time. My mom had it first. She had a horrific childhood and when she grew up she became mentally ill. Perhaps, like me, she was ill all along and didn't know it. She would heard voices, and see hallucinations. The difference was she didn't know it wasn't real, I did.

I remember my visions as a young child, and I remember my "imaginary" friends. Friends I truly believed were there, even though they weren't. All in all my case is much more mild. I sometimes think, because I was mentally prepared for it. Growing up in a dysfunctional home, as most homes are these days, wasn't easy. Well, we can't really just call it dysfunctional, it was more like a horror show. My mom and dad both drank, a lot. My mom was also mentally unstable with schizophrenia. Alcohol and this doesn't mix too well. There were many nights where we would put dressers in front of our bedroom doors just to make sure she couldn't get in. She had beat us, tried to kill us on several occasions, but mainly invested most of her rage on my father and my older sister.

When I got older, I became a caretaker of sorts. She would often try to kill herself, by threatening to take all her pills. By this time, she stayed in bed practically all day, unable to walk well. I stayed home from school to make sure she wasn't successful for a period of time. It was a love hate relationship. I loved her because she was my mother, but I hated her because she was one of my abusers. My other abusers were neighbors, they molested me and their younger sister. For nine years I endured it all. I was also ostracized at school since a young age. Not really having very many friends and being made fun of and bullied everyday, when I went to school, when I got home, when we went to play with the neighbors, wore down on me. Finally in my adulthood at 18, I was sent away to go live with my grandmother.

I got a job, worked well, but a lot happened since then. Since all I had ever known was abuse. I dated abusive men too. I found myself often thinking, this was what I deserved somehow. I was very wrong. I was broke, tired, beat up, and done. I found myself aboard a bus at 24 having my first major panic attack, thinking I was having a heart attack. I found myself flying into rages at fast food drive lanes, flying into rage after my younger brother. Crying uncontrollably when even something small went wrong. Having visions, and delusions that everyone hated me. I was suicidal, depressed, and desperate. See, all this time, with my mood swings, my visions, my delusions, I didn't know I was sick.

When I reached my 40s I knew something was wrong, just wasn't sure what. I started seeing a therapist and he helped me realize that I needed help. In 2013, I had my first nervous breakdown. I ended up in a hospital for people who had breakdowns. It really opened my eyes that, hey, maybe there is something really wrong with me. I was seen by doctor after doctor, given new medications, sent home, only to go through it again three years later. Something had to change.

Something did change. It started from inside myself. I knew what I was experiencing wasn't right. I knew a lot of it stemmed from my trauma, and the proper way to deal with it was to get help. So I got help. I asked for help, and I finally accepted there was no shame in asking for it. You would be surprised, you might received help back when you ask, who knew? I accepted I was ill, Schizoaffective (Bipolar type) was my diagnoses. Also with PTSD, OCD, Depression and GAD (general anxiety disorder). I started taking medications, I kept going to therapy and seeing my doctors.

Through ups and downs, I stuck with it, became my own advocate. I spoke up when a medicine didn't make me feel right, I checked in early with doctors on emergencies. I took care of me, even in my darkest depression, and it was a dark one, I still remembered I mattered and the only one who could make me feel better was myself and God. I relied on God a lot. Now, that's not saying if you're atheist, I'm telling you you have to believe, it would be nice, but I am not. What I am saying is, my higher power gave me a purpose. One that helped me to pick myself up and dust myself off. It has been now 5 years since my first breakdown. I had to quit working a while back, because I kept getting too sick, I got on disability. I am working part time now and am devoting my time to a missionary so I can help other ladies like myself. All in all it has been good.

Was it easy? No way, it was very hard. There were a lot of days I just wanted to give up. Many months where my depression was so deep all I could do was sleep all day and all night. A lot I kept to myself. I did this because I felt like I didn't want to trouble anyone with my problems, but I was wrong. I had to open up from the inside out. Share my story with others, so maybe they can find an ounce of hope in it. That is what I am hoping for the most. Never give up. Even when the voices are screaming and you feel like you can't take anymore, just pick yourself up and pray, or meditate, or whatever it is you do to center yourself. You have to believe in yourself, even if it is just a little bit. We all start somewhere. Once you start and see the progress, you won't want to go back. That is how I survived, and how I am still surviving to this day. I hope you can too!