If you keep up with me on social media or talk to me, you know I don't mind telling you I have problems with depression and anxiety. But I don't always talk specifics because I don't want you to worry or because I'm not comfortable talking to you specifically about it or because I don't know how.
In Arizona, I had the first two problems with pretty much everyone. It was hard, living in a place where everything and everyone was essentially brand-new and nothing seemed to be working out. Things got worse for me when I got a job, as they do. Even though I liked my job, my employer, and it wasn't difficult, I was paralyzed by my emotions and couldn't work. And then the family I was staying with left for vacation. It is not good for Brooke to be alone, especially when she also needs to be working from the big empty space she's occupying for you.
I didn't feel better when they got back, either. I had had too many meltdowns in one week and started to spiral quickly. My mom called on Thursday, asking if I wanted to come home and that she and my dad could be in Mesa on Saturday. I jumped at the chance to go somewhere familiar and safe and get to a new counselor (and hopefully a new primary care doctor). We got back late Saturday night after dealing with some issues with my car's engine.
I'm still in a bad place. I don't want to do much of anything--not even watch a movie. I'll get mad at you if you tell me to do things I know will make me feel better because I can barely bring myself to take a shower and get dressed without being bugged to do it for half an hour first (and I'll find ways around your intent by taking showers that burn and wearing pajamas all day). I'm not suicidal, but dying by other means doesn't sound so bad, but then I feel bad for feeling that way because everyone else would be sad and because then my parents would have to pay too much to bury me. I guess that's better than three years ago when the only thing keeping me from my going through with my plan was not wanting to let my overseas bosses down.
Between now and going back to school I want to focus on recovery. Or want to want it, depending on the day. My problems make it hard for me to be around, especially now that the only things I can really focus on very long are things that are generally very serious and make me angry. But if you can handle it, please stick around for the good days or moments. I don't want to be alone. My problems also make it hard for me to be the kind of friend you need me to be and I want to be for you. I'm so sorry and I will keep trying.
Anyway, that's the scoop. I feel awful and have no plans to work anytime soon because I've become so ill.
Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
Monday, June 17, 2013
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Big Steps
I had my last counseling appointment!
At least I think I did. I'll schedule another one this semester if I need one.
I've come a long way since September. Here's to many, many years staying on this good track.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
What it Means
A friend of mine suggested I write about what it's like--what it means--to be mentally ill and in political science. So here goes.
It means that the complexity and the importance of my field will often overwhelm me, making it hard to focus or think deeply enough about it to do good analysis. I'll shut down and be turned off from politics altogether for a while. It's not because I'm not smart enough or because I don't care. My emotions just won't let me think.
It means that my assignments and class discussions involve a lot of this kind of analysis, and it's really hard for me to keep up. It makes me feel dumb.
It means I've more or less given up on running for office, which had been my original goal. I have a very long way to go before I could handle that kind of stress.
It means that I feel at a constant disadvantage against my brilliant friends and classmates who are going to have stellar careers and make large impacts, while my own ambitions have diminished so far as to consider not going to grad school.
But it also means that I'm learning how to help make things better for people with sicknesses like mine.
It means that my brilliant friends and classmates and professors are open-minded, understanding, and supportive.
It means that any success I have in my field will help to eliminate the stigma associated with depression and anxiety disorders.
It means that the fact I'll have a degree in the first place will mean that much more.
It means that the complexity and the importance of my field will often overwhelm me, making it hard to focus or think deeply enough about it to do good analysis. I'll shut down and be turned off from politics altogether for a while. It's not because I'm not smart enough or because I don't care. My emotions just won't let me think.
It means that my assignments and class discussions involve a lot of this kind of analysis, and it's really hard for me to keep up. It makes me feel dumb.
It means I've more or less given up on running for office, which had been my original goal. I have a very long way to go before I could handle that kind of stress.
It means that I feel at a constant disadvantage against my brilliant friends and classmates who are going to have stellar careers and make large impacts, while my own ambitions have diminished so far as to consider not going to grad school.
But it also means that I'm learning how to help make things better for people with sicknesses like mine.
It means that my brilliant friends and classmates and professors are open-minded, understanding, and supportive.
It means that any success I have in my field will help to eliminate the stigma associated with depression and anxiety disorders.
It means that the fact I'll have a degree in the first place will mean that much more.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Talking About It
I want you to think about something very carefully before you continue to read this and as you respond to this. I'm trusting you with some very sensitive and important information about my life and my thoughts about it. If you can handle that, keep on reading. If not, please leave. Thank you.
A year ago today I was feeling very confident that my life was only going to get better. I was about to leave for my third year of school, I was seeing a boy I was crazy about, and I was finally going to get treatment for my depression.
Yes, that's right. Depression. I'm talking to you about it because the only thing worse than suffering from depression is trying to pretend it's not there. It worsens the pain and intensifies the loneliness. I'm trying to get you to understand a bit of me that I'm trying to improve upon. It's not a gloom that will dissipate with some "cheering up." It's not a lack of gratitude or satisfaction for and with my life. I want the stigma of depression as a disease to go away. I want your support, and keeping it a secret won't get me that.
Since high school, maybe even junior high, my default mood seemed to be sad and lonely, even when I had no reason to be. I didn't have energy and motivation expected of me. My grades were not as good as they could have been. I would spend hours crying and trying to figure out why. Once home for my first summer in college, it escalated to feelings of uselessness, of unloved and unworthy. My work slipped and I ate only when I felt I deserved to. I even had a plan. I had to move back in with my parents to keep myself from spiraling any further down, but I didn't improve much. I went back to school having promised my mom I would seek help. I was too proud to keep that promise then.
I did alright for the next year. I muddled through as I had before, with the sadness just being a part of me. But the crying started again when I came home last summer. It happened more frequently and with an intensity that kept my brothers awake in the other rooms. By the end of the summer, I finally had an appointment to deal with it. I had decided that I would take them for a little while, just until I got into better habits of taking care of myself, and poof! I would be cured.
My doctor asked a few questions about the nature of my depression (there's a spectrum, you know) and gave me a sample of something he promised would help me. And it did. I took those samples for about a month, and I felt great. I stopped hating myself, even when the boy I was crazy about broke up with me in an hour of crisis. But then switched to a cheaper, generic version of those same meds. They made me so sick. I dealt with that for a month before that misery got to be enough to switch again (causing me to miss the two assignments that kept me from an A in one of my favorite classes--and I did poorly in my other classes as well). This one wasn't quite right, either.
This summer I came home to a new antidepressant that I think is working pretty well, as well as an anti-anxiety drug. But I still had many, many radically "down" days. The anti-depressants don't magically make me happy. They lighten the mood enough for me to try to get things done. Most of the time. (And let me tell you, I am going to be on them for much longer than I had expected.) But this summer, I found myself despondent again. I failed my online classes. I didn't much feel like socializing. I just wanted to sleep and read and watch TV. I had no appetite and sometimes an physical revulsion toward food. And I hated that feeling. It's taken a lot of prayer and tears and priesthood blessings, but I made it through.
It's been a very hard year for me, and it might be the first of many. I don't know if it's something I'll ever be able to overcome in this lifetime, but I am certainly going to do the best I can. I believe that this trial, just like everyone else's, is meant to help me learn to depend on Christ and gain a better understanding of His Atonement. I don't know what the causes of my depression are (I know it's not because I'm a bad person--I know that I'm not), but I do know that I'm on Earth now for a purpose, and I know that if I can stay faithful to the Gospel I know to be true, my Heavenly Father won't let depression stand in my way.
A year ago today I was feeling very confident that my life was only going to get better. I was about to leave for my third year of school, I was seeing a boy I was crazy about, and I was finally going to get treatment for my depression.
Yes, that's right. Depression. I'm talking to you about it because the only thing worse than suffering from depression is trying to pretend it's not there. It worsens the pain and intensifies the loneliness. I'm trying to get you to understand a bit of me that I'm trying to improve upon. It's not a gloom that will dissipate with some "cheering up." It's not a lack of gratitude or satisfaction for and with my life. I want the stigma of depression as a disease to go away. I want your support, and keeping it a secret won't get me that.
Since high school, maybe even junior high, my default mood seemed to be sad and lonely, even when I had no reason to be. I didn't have energy and motivation expected of me. My grades were not as good as they could have been. I would spend hours crying and trying to figure out why. Once home for my first summer in college, it escalated to feelings of uselessness, of unloved and unworthy. My work slipped and I ate only when I felt I deserved to. I even had a plan. I had to move back in with my parents to keep myself from spiraling any further down, but I didn't improve much. I went back to school having promised my mom I would seek help. I was too proud to keep that promise then.
I did alright for the next year. I muddled through as I had before, with the sadness just being a part of me. But the crying started again when I came home last summer. It happened more frequently and with an intensity that kept my brothers awake in the other rooms. By the end of the summer, I finally had an appointment to deal with it. I had decided that I would take them for a little while, just until I got into better habits of taking care of myself, and poof! I would be cured.
My doctor asked a few questions about the nature of my depression (there's a spectrum, you know) and gave me a sample of something he promised would help me. And it did. I took those samples for about a month, and I felt great. I stopped hating myself, even when the boy I was crazy about broke up with me in an hour of crisis. But then switched to a cheaper, generic version of those same meds. They made me so sick. I dealt with that for a month before that misery got to be enough to switch again (causing me to miss the two assignments that kept me from an A in one of my favorite classes--and I did poorly in my other classes as well). This one wasn't quite right, either.
This summer I came home to a new antidepressant that I think is working pretty well, as well as an anti-anxiety drug. But I still had many, many radically "down" days. The anti-depressants don't magically make me happy. They lighten the mood enough for me to try to get things done. Most of the time. (And let me tell you, I am going to be on them for much longer than I had expected.) But this summer, I found myself despondent again. I failed my online classes. I didn't much feel like socializing. I just wanted to sleep and read and watch TV. I had no appetite and sometimes an physical revulsion toward food. And I hated that feeling. It's taken a lot of prayer and tears and priesthood blessings, but I made it through.
It's been a very hard year for me, and it might be the first of many. I don't know if it's something I'll ever be able to overcome in this lifetime, but I am certainly going to do the best I can. I believe that this trial, just like everyone else's, is meant to help me learn to depend on Christ and gain a better understanding of His Atonement. I don't know what the causes of my depression are (I know it's not because I'm a bad person--I know that I'm not), but I do know that I'm on Earth now for a purpose, and I know that if I can stay faithful to the Gospel I know to be true, my Heavenly Father won't let depression stand in my way.
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