I have never been the type of person who could easily go with the flow. Whenever I'm not in control of a situation or said situation makes me feel threatened, I tend to clam up or become agitated, even overwhelmed to the point of immobilization. I've been this way since I was in elementary school. It never occurred to me that any of this behavior was abnormal, let alone what I now know to be called anxiety, not even when I got older and it started to affect my school work and relationships with other people. But as I got older, this behavior (which had been more of a personality trait at this point) became increasingly difficult to live with. I could never truly accept the fact that I was suffering from, at times, crippling anxiety. The more I denied it, the angrier with myself I got. Why couldn't I just do what I needed to do? Why was asking for help so difficult? I got depressed, and God knows I did not want to be labeled a depressed individual.
I spent the majority of my teen years drifting in and out of bouts of depression, my anxiety increasing with each grade I entered. I quit everything I had ever enjoyed doing: dancing, gymnastics, soccer. I limited my interaction with others to work and school, with the occasional football or basketball game and a dance once a year. My best friend was probably one of the only people outside my immediate family to have seen the inside of my room. My room became my sanctuary and my dungeon, providing comfort but also sinking its teeth into my anxiety and forbidding me to leave. I argued my refusal for the medication and therapy I had been prescribed by saying that I felt better, that things were better now, and that I probably wouldn't get that way again.
And for a while, they didn't. The summer after my senior year was difficult at first, but provided me with a week in Italy and a Fall Out Boy concert. I started my year at IUPUI nervously, but I met some of the most amazing people who created a home for me in their hearts. My roommate was my best friend at school. I was doing well. I was socializing, and I didn't miss my parents. Everything was perfect.
But after Christmas break, things started to change. It could've been blamed by the weather, which was absolute crap, and it could've been blamed by the added stress of difficult classes, but I knew what it was. My old friends were back and better than ever.
Countless hours were spent in my bed, earphones in, tuning out the world. Tons of calls to my mother on the brink of a major meltdown, begging her to come get me from school. I was crumbling. I put on a brave face like my mother told me to and tried to stick it out until the end of the semester.
It wasn't until I admitted to my mother that I felt pointless and that I wished I didn't exist any longer that I decided that I couldn't live the rest of my life letting these two companions dictate how I live my life.
This summer I've made changes to the way I've dealt with these friends. I've accepted them. I have accepted that I am a person with mental illness and that I will probably always suffer from mental illness. But I have realized that I don't have to let it control my life. I am by no means better. I still have a lot of progress to make, but by letting myself accept this part of me and realizing that I can do something to help myself cope, I'm taking grand strides. I wanted to share my story because I know that there are millions of other people like me who are dealing with the same things I have and need a story like this.
It gets better. It doesn't happen quickly and it does take effort, but it gets better.
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
(800) 273-8255
