The Doubt Monster

Part One of this story is "Depression Doesn't Discriminate" and Part Two is "The Summer From Hell". I encourage you to read those first for context. By no means do I want to discourage people from seeking help from health professionals. My aim is not to slander those who work in medicine or therapy. There are thousands of wonderful doctors, nurses, psychiatrists, and therapists in the world. This post is merely to recount my experience with my personal doctors and therapists, during a challenging time in my life. As I've said, my doctor was not terribly helpful in the event of my mental breakdown. His expertise lay only in the physical, and so anything brought to him that was mental or emotional was met with a lack of professionalism. My mom and I had to fight to get me anti-depressants, which no one suffering a meltdown should have to experience. I had no energy to fight for anything. I needed HIM to advocate for me and help me, but I had to prove I ...

This is a continuation of my "meltdown" story; please read "Depression Doesn't Discriminate" first for context. I call it a meltdown or breakdown because that's exactly what it felt like. Everything came crashing down for no apparent reason. I remember that summer being full of friends' weddings, and how I couldn't attend any of them because I was a wreck. Literally, I sat on the couch with a wool blanket draped over me, the cats cuddling me, shaky and weak and pale. My heart was constantly pounding and my stomach was in knots. Whenever the anxiety would subside, I'd take notice and it would surge again. I got used to watching my family walk out the door to experience things without me. That summer we had a vacation planned to attend a family wedding, followed thereafter by a visit to friends and family in the United States. It was going to be a day-long drive, with an intermission during which the wedding would take place. I had newly ...

I woke up from a dream an hour ago and I'm still in the midst of processing it. My dreams have always been vivid, colourful, detailed, and intense. Sometimes they appear to have profound meaning, while other times they're merely ridiculous. In my dream I shared an opinion on social media. I've been trying to remember what the opinion was about, but it's escaping me. I know it was something controversial. The part of the dream that filled me with a feeling I've been trying to shake since I woke up, was how my friends reacted to my opinion. I received dozens of direct messages linking me to my post, warning me to "watch yourself", "be careful", "you might want to take this word out", "you might not want to include this hashtag", as well as blatantly disagreeing with me in an unkind way. The interesting thing I noticed was that each friend who was offended or worried by my post were the friends I value the opinion of th...

Therapy. Feel the stigma that comes with that word. I was in therapy, multiple times. My first experience with therapy was so bad (and brain-washing) that I needed therapy to erase that therapy. I was 16 when everything fell apart. Everything had been crumbling for years before that but I'd been ignoring it, hence the dramatic collapse when everything came to a head. I never thought I had cause to be broken. My life had always been good. I often felt embarrassed by how good I had it compared to the people I knew. Not financially perhaps, but in regards to my family I thought I had won the lottery. In regards to my parents and brother, I have. It doesn't escape me how fortunate that makes me. I try not to take that for granted even though I know I do, because it's all I've ever known. Again, how lucky am I? I didn't recognize the old wounds I carried though, the not-so-obvious ones. I didn't recognize the darkness in my extended family. I didn't rea...

The Good Book tells us to love others the way we love ourselves. I need to learn the opposite. I need to love myself the way I love others. My love for others is unconditional, judgement-free, and loyal. It doesn't keep a record of the times they've hurt me. It doesn't pressure them. It has no agenda. It doesn't have to be earned - it's free of charge. So why, then, do I not love myself in the same way? My love for myself is conditional. It's given or taken away based on how I feel that day, or in that moment. I judge every aspect of myself daily. I'm harsh to myself; I pressure myself. When I disappoint myself, I subtract any love I had for myself. I have a very, very long list in my head of all the times I hurt someone, or disappointed myself, or failed. I look in the mirror and I point out my flaws. I pinch and poke at myself, punishing myself for how I look. I say things to myself that I would never say to anyone else. I say sorry even when I d...