Understanding the Problem

I grew up in an Irish Catholic family with parents who were divorced and angry and with siblings who tried their best to survive like me. I don't think I ever understood my siblings until I became older and realized that they were trying to get by just like I was. Ever since I was little I was seen by my family as being the "bright" one, the caring, happy, smiling one which set me apart from my siblings and mother who raised us. I remember running free in the grass barefoot collecting pretty rocks and playing with bugs and tiny creatures in the back woods.

I also remember a strong feeling of being uncomfortable in my own skin and wanting to hide. I spent most of my time planning to run away into the woods or finding a good place to relax from home—usually under an overpass next to the river. I felt safe when hiding from my family and other kids in the neighborhood—off to imagine a better world of my own where I could be free.

As I grew up I found it nearly impossible to go home in the evenings. After school I would make my way to the library to read as many books as I could and bring home many more to read as I tried to escape my life. I would go out and walk for hours around the neighborhood, stuck in my own imagination, fueling angry thoughts and wishes I had. Some nights I knew it was getting too late to still be out and had to make my way back but I would get stuck. I would curl up in a small place and cry, praying that when I got home I could just slip into my room and sleep without having to face my family.

My doctor spent a long time trying to get me to say the word "abuse" out loud. I found it impossible to say, "I was abused" without feeling like I was lying to myself or him. It was like a disgusting word that made me feel dirty and judged–I couldn't stand it. I only said it a couple of times and haven't said it since. I wasn't able to say it until I asked my sister if she felt that we were abused when we were little. I heard the struggle in her voice as well as she explained that of those people who knew some of the struggles we went through, that we were in fact emotionally and verbally abused. In that second I felt bad for my sister because she probably felt just as alone as I did growing up and I never thought of her feelings until now, almost 25 years later.

When I turned 25, I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder, social anxiety, and borderline personality disorder. I had known my entire life that I was depressed. Since an early age, before I understood what it meant to take your own life, I prayed that I would die. I couldn't stand being alive in this world, in my family, so hopeless. My earliest thoughts of wanting to die were back when I was 5 or 6 years old. My family always made fun of me for being so sensitive and crying all the time, but I was miserable and couldn't picture a life worth living.

My mother used to set all of us aside, me, my 3 brothers, and sister in a circle around the foot of her bed on weekend mornings for a family "pep talk." One by one, she would tell us how we were messing up our lives: if we were overweight, not doing well in school, making mistakes, hanging out with stupid people, not doing chores, didn't dress well enough, weren't exercising enough, etc. My oldest brother, 6 years my elder, was in high school at the time, making us around the ages of 16, 14, 12, 10, and 8 (brother, sister, brother, me, brother).

Growing up I would hear my mother's voice ringing in my head during the day and when I was trying to sleep. I thought I was going crazy: "Quickly, Quietly, Correctly—the first time", "If it weren't for me you'd all be eaten by wolves", etc. I couldn't listen to music too loud or using headphones without thinking she was yelling my name. Whenever I heard a dog bark I felt that I was going to hear my mom yell at me right after to let the dog out. Whenever I heard a door knob move, fear would jolt through me as I immediately tried to find a place to hide. It took me too long to get past those things.

No ones life is perfect—and I know that I still had it better than most, but this story isn't to make people feel sorry—it's to help understand why I am the way I am. Knowing what made you something will help you change and become better.

I started self mutilation when I was 12 years old. I didn't do it because I was going to kill myself, but rather because of a release of the pain I was feeling inside. I ended up continuing to cut myself for other reasons, punishment, guilt, suicidal thoughts, pain, stress relief, etc. I'm not sure if my family ever noticed or if they just didn't care or act on it. I kept it well hidden by wearing long sleeves all year long and claiming I was just self conscious of my body image. Self mutilation is something I still struggle with today, but my scars have become deeper and wider as I sunk into my depression. Now I struggle with how I can cover them up or if I want to cover them up.

I also struggled with body image—like every other person in this world. My mother was extremely thin growing up and couldn't understand why all of her children were not the same. Everyone knows that looking back at old photos, you are not as fat as you thought you were! My family has always made fun of my weight and how horrible I looked. Always, "you would be the prettiest in the family if you were thin." When I was 15, I started starving myself and exercised until I lost 60 pounds. This was only done through pretending to eat and running every night—passing all my other time by sleeping from lack of energy. Throughout the years I have used throwing up and laxatives when I felt guilty about eating too much. Now I binge eat until it hurts and hate myself for it afterward.

There are many other horrible things that happened like being kicked out when I was young, being pregnant as a teen and losing the baby, being homeless for a brief period, and some other things that won't do any good mentioning.

When my depression kicked in full force I was 24 years old and was in a serious relationship with my boyfriend at the time. We had been together for nearly 4 years and I was completely in love. When I asked what our future held he couldn't decide if he wanted to marry me or have children, so I had to let him go. Before we broke up, I spent the summer in Montana on a paid field course for school. It was the most amazing experience of my life. I saw mountains, nature, beauty, and was the most relaxed I have ever felt in my entire life. When I came back and had to face my life and broken relationship, I fell apart.

The worst time period of my life—depression like I have never felt before consumed me and my entire life. I was just finishing up my Bachelor's degree and trying to figure out what I was supposed to be doing for the rest of my life. When I earned my degree I decided to get my Masters degree so that I could take out loans. It was too much for me to go and and work hard for money.

This was also the time when I sought out help for my problems by going to a counselor and psychiatrist. Knowing your problems is only a small part of healing. Discovering your diagnosis only provides a name to the problems you already knew existed and in my personal experience sharing them with others does not help.

"Major Depressive Disorder, Social Anxiety, and Borderline Personality Disorder."

Such a mouthful of nonsense to someone who doesn't understand what any of it means. When you tell people you have depression or anxiety, they look at you like you're the biggest self pitying loser in the world. I feel like a liar from the way they look at me when I tell them. My family—of those I have told, don't acknowledge that I have said anything at all. I have only really had two responses, "yeah, but like don't use it as a crutch" and "I don't really believe in diagnosis from psychiatrists because it's not really an exact science."

Thanks for your input.

One of the most important things I have realized will help someone is having a support group. Someone who can listen to you, believe in the things you are saying, and either sit there in comfort or tell you they understand. Of all the people I tell, and I am quite open about mental illness, not a single person has bothered to even google what these things are. Now, I could just have really crappy people in my life (probably), but I feel like I am not the only one in this situation.

It took 2 years to find a medication that helped with my depression. A lot of medications that made me feel worse or didn't do anything at all. Medication along with counseling helped me gain some sort of control over my suicidal urges and thoughts, as well as my self mutilation. However, in college you are only allowed a certain number of sessions with a counselor—and I had maxed my sessions. During this time I found a medication that helped with my anxiety so I was starting to feel like I could start addressing my Borderline Personality Disorder.

So here I am, still dealing with my depression and anxiety, while trying to address my personality disorder. At least I understand my problem but that's just the start.