I have had depression since I was eleven years old. Most people wonder what exactly an eleven year old has to be depressed about. Well, that was the age when I was sexually abused. Not a whole lot of people know that about me, in fact, I didn't tell anyone that until I was about sixteen. I was a freshman in high school when I met my friend Ty. We became best friends, but it wasn't until we had known each other for about six months before I told him what happened to me. The next person I told after that was when I was nineteen. I told my best friend Abby, where she suggested I tell my parents. It took months of consideration, but I finally did it. But between telling the first person, to telling my parents, my depression became steadily worse.
When I was fifteen, anxiety and ADHD were added to the list of mental health problems. The pressure to fit into a world where I didn't fit in made my anxiety soar through the roof. Though I had plenty of "friends" in high school, I never felt like I had anyone to talk to. It was two months after my fifteenth birthday that I thought the world would be better off without me. I never attempted anything because I was scared to disappoint my parents and family. But for a really long time after that first suicidal though, I thought about it constantly. Of course, seeing the person who sexually abused me on a regular basis certainly didn't help. So many moments during that time, I wanted so badly just to tell my parents, but I didn't want to hurt them, so I kept it to myself. At the time, I blamed what happened to me on myself.
"You could have told him to stop." "There must be something wrong with you for him to do that." "If anyone found out, you'd have no friends."
Those were all things that circled in my head on a daily basis. I thought no one would believe me if I told anyone, so I kept it to myself while it killed me inside.Growing up, I never felt like I belonged. I had very very few friends and every time I felt like I had found a forever friend, they either moved away or they lost interest and we drifted apart.
High school was a pretty lonely time for me, even though at a glance, I seemed like any other average teenage girl. Sure I seemed like a happy and outgoing girl. I played in sports, sang in the choir and sang solos, I got decent grades, and I had a couple close friends. But truth be told, on the inside, I was dying.
My junior year of high school, I got my first boyfriend. At first everything was good, but I didn't see the red flags until months after it had finally ended. He was very sweet to me in the beginning, but soon he became controlling. He would call me a slut and a whore even though he was the first person I ever did anything with. He would pressure me into having sex even though I told him I was ready. When I told him no, he threatened to break up with me, telling me no one else would ever love me. When I'd had enough and would try to break up with him, he would threaten to kill himself if I ever left him. He told me he loved me after only a week of talking to me. I see now that the relationship was far from healthy, but I couldn't get out of it. It took me over a year to finally end things, and when I did, I still couldn't quite get away from him.
My mental health in high school was bad and I was really hard on myself for it. I saw everyone else around me getting their lives together and doing well in everything and I was jealous. I wanted to be as happy as them, and I kicked myself every time I wasn't perfect at something. I thought of myself as a loser who wouldn't amount to much in her life.
The moment I got accepted into Concordia, I felt this new wave of hope for my future. I graduated high school and finally was completely of my mentally abusive ex. I was so happy for the first time in a long time, and I was so excited and grateful for my opportunity to be at Concordia. Until I got to college and my depression got even worse.
Concordia has been my dream school for as long as I can remember, and I'm still super grateful to be here. I started out here as a nutrition major, which was mistake number 1. I knew science was not my strongest subject, but I thought maybe it wouldn't be that bad. Once my grades started to drop and I started struggling, it brought back that feeling of worthlessness that I tried so hard to keep away. Closer to finals my first semester, Abby noticed that I was becoming more and more withdrawn from everyone. She reached out to me, which is when I decided to tell her. She told me to tell my parents, but I brushed off the idea. Finals and Christmas vacation came and went, and my depression kept getting worse. I was skipping classes. I was having nightmares and losing sleep. I wasn't eating. I was crumbling under the pressures to be a happy Cobber and a good daughter and student, and it was killing me from the inside, out. Luckily I had a great friend that is Abby Monroe, and she told me that she was concerned for me and that I needed to tell my parents so that I could get the help I needed. I was reluctant, but I finally agreed and called my mom.
That conversation was very much needed. Once I told my parents about what happened, I was finally able to get the help I needed. My sophomore year at Concordia was a very rocky one. I changed my major to English and I was on a different mix of medications- trying to figure out what worked for me. I was in and out of therapy, only really going if I was feeling particularly motivated that day. Needless to say, I was a mess. But with a lot of determination and support from my family and friends, I'm in a pretty good place. I'm on a good mix of medication, I regularly go to therapy, and I have a wonderful support system.
Don't get me wrong, I still have (a lot) of days where I struggle with my depression and anxiety. There are many days where I can't get out of bed because my body is overwhelmed with an explainable sadness, and there are moments where I can feel my chest tighten up and my breath quicken when I become stressed. The road to recovery has been far from easy. I can't begin to tell you how many panic attacks my friends have witnessed and helped with. Or how many days I've sat staring at my ceiling, willing myself to get better. While I acknowledge my mental health and the things it's prevented me from doing, I certainly will not apologize for it. My mental health has molded me into the person I am today, and as strange as it may sound, I am thankful that I have experienced it.
Without it, I would not have discovered the amazing support system that I have. Nor would I have found out just how brave and strong I can be. I never would have become the kind, sympathetic, and loyal person I am today without my depression and anxiety. Because of them, I am the person I am, and I will never apologize for that.
