People are always preaching: "The grass isn’t greener on the other side.”
In the case of mental illness(es) that are out of control, the grass is greener.
From the age of 16, I suffered on and off from quite a few mental disorders, namely severe depression, generalized anxiety, panic disorder, bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder. The last two were under control for most of my life. My last major depressive episode was when I was about to be a junior in college. I ended up – last minute – deciding I wasn’t returning to Quinnipiac, my school at the time, for the fall semester of my junior year. I went on medical leave, and when November rolled around, it was clear something was very wrong.
Non-stop crying. Anxiety that was crippling. Not wanting to be around anyone. Losing touch with my friends. Failing to eat. Negative thoughts. The lack of will to live.
I had all of those things. I felt like I was drowning.
My therapist got me into a psychiatrist the day before Thanksgiving, and he immediately put me on medication. I had lost a lot of weight. My size 23 jeans were too big on me. To some people losing weight might not be a big deal; it may even be welcome, but for someone who already weighed less than 100 pounds soaking wet, weighing in at 87 pounds and not having the strength or desire to eat even a cracker was cause for concern.
I didn’t return to school come January. I struggled while my psychiatrist tried to find the right medication combination for me. He finally did in the spring, and by then, I had already been accepted at a university close to home where I could finish my Bachelor's degree in Journalism.
Since then, my depression stayed away. I still had anxiety, but it was manageable and only really came up around situations – say, the day before a final exam in law school.
I was one of the happiest, most confident people you'd meet. It never occurred to me that depression would strike again even though there was family history, and my mom, who is now 61 years old, suffered from it – sometimes severely – ever since I can remember (which is a good 22 years).
Last summer, I began to feel those same feelings again. I began to lack the will to eat. I began to cry at the drop of a hat. I stopped wanting to be around people. When I woke up in the morning, I was upset to be awake. I would count down the hours until I could sleep again. Half, no more than half, the time I didn't even leave my bed. My anxiety was so severe and crippling that I didn’t, rather couldn’t, move from my bed until it subsided (which usually wasn’t until I took anxiety medication).
The worst part was that the anxiety happened for no reason. Every time my parents or my boyfriend or my doctor asked if I knew why I was anxious, I would get frustrated because I didn’t know why. I would just wake up in the morning with a pit in my stomach and a feeling of complete doom washing over me. I started to lose the will to live.
The once happy, confident, positive girl that used to be me was now a shell. It got so bad that I wouldn’t leave my room for days on end. I would stay in the same clothes. I wouldn’t shower. I even stopped riding my horse, and if you know me, you know horseback riding is my no. 1 passion.
I have a few suspicions as to why my mental illnesses struck again; none of which I will reveal here. But, while I was going through it again, it was hard for me to imagine a life where I would be “myself” again.
All I wanted was to be the person I had been since my last depressive episode went away.
I bit the bullet and went to a psychiatrist, a new one. She asked the usual questions, did the usual first-time-patient assessment. I was diagnosed with depression, general anxiety disorder, panic disorder, bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder… among other things.
We once again went through the motions of trying to find a medication for me. I can’t tell you how many meds I tried… and how many completely and utterly failed. One day, I finally went to her, so desperate for relief, and said I wanted to try the medication combination that healed me last time.
When you’re in the throes of something like this, all you want is familiarity and comfort. To me, the medication that healed me last time was my comfort. I was convinced if I just went on those pills again, I would be okay.
My psychiatrist agreed we should try what worked for me last time, and aside from one adjustment (a different booster pill brand, which is a pill you can add on to an anti-depressant that makes the anti-depressant work better), it slowly began to work. I slowly began to feel like myself again. I began to eat again. I stopped crying over nothing. When I woke up in the morning, I wasn’t upset that I was awake. I woke up ready for the day. I actually wanted to get out of bed. I wanted to wear something other than pajamas. I wanted to wear makeup again. I went out with friends. I wanted to ride horses again.
I was happy again. I was confident again. I went back to being the person that hated having nothing to do.
And, at my most recent psychiatrist appointment, she suggested we go to me seeing her every two months rather than every month – which, in psychiatrist speak, means I am getting better, and she no longer has to monitor me on a monthly basis to ensure I don’t go downhill – or worse, do something to harm myself.
Why am I writing this?
It isn’t to document my history with depression or bipolar disorder or anxiety or the laundry list of other mental issues I have.
It isn’t to brag that I am better.
It’s to give hope.
If just one person reads this and sees that there is a way out that doesn’t involve ending one’s own life, then I’ve done my job; I’ve made an impact.
They always say the grass isn’t greener on the other side.
But when it comes to mental illness… the grass is greener and more lush than you could ever imagine.
