Depression Doesn't Discriminate (Part One)

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 realize how twisted my relationships were with some people. I didn't recognize the habits I'd developed in order to make everyone else happier; the habits that ultimately did me disservice.

I compared my lot to everyone else's and determined that I had no business feeling sad, angry, or broken in any way. I was not suffering, not compared to them. My parents were not divorced or dead; I had a close relationship with my sibling; my family was loving and accepting; I didn't have to deal with public school because I was homeschooled; there was no drama in my extended family; family reunions on my dad's side were not a chore, but something to look forward to years in advance. My mom made sure my brother and I led healthy lives, from diet to activities to social interactions. My brother and I got to do the things we loved to do; we were allowed to pour our energy into the things that inspired us.

Therefore, when I had my "meltdown" at age 16, the disgust I felt towards myself was overwhelming. Not only did my body and brain betray me, but I had no right to be falling apart. I had never undergone a serious trauma, I had never been physically abused, I didn't think I had a good reason to lose my mind.

Apparently, depression doesn't discriminate.

I remember the beginning of that day clearly. I remember how the day before I felt off, and I thought I was coming down with something. I think it was late Spring or early Summer. I was annoyed with myself because with Winter behind us I should've been feeling better. I thought, I'll sleep this off and feel better in the morning.

Looking back I know I was depressed since I was 15, but it was gradual and it snuck up on me. I didn't know what it was, so I told myself there was something wrong with me. I would tell myself to snap out of it because I didn't have a reason to feel numb about life. The more it took hold of me the angrier I got at myself. It's funny to look back and see how confused I was by how I felt - or didn't feel - because depression is so familiar to me now. It seems strange that I didn't recognize it once upon a time.

Then that day came, and there was nothing special about that day - or that week, or that month. Nothing obvious to trigger the panic I woke up with. It grew slowly over the course of the morning, till it caused me to tremble and start sweating. I remember running from the breakfast table to the upstairs bathroom to splash my face in some cold water and catch my breath. I thought I was coming down with a flu. I didn't know that what I was experiencing was anxiety. I've had panic attacks throughout my life, but I never knew what they were. When you're experiencing one, you tend to panic BECAUSE you're panicking, which heightens the experience; especially if you don't know what's wrong with you.

I thought I was well enough to go back downstairs to breakfast, but I ended up running to the bathroom adjacent from the kitchen and throwing up. Again, I thought I must have the stomach flu - but the feeling that I now know as anxiety was so nightmarish, it confused me. I'd had the flu before, but never accompanied with these sensations.

My parents treated me like I had the flu. I remember feeling hysterical. I cried because my body was scaring me. I was clammy and sweaty, nauseous and trembling. My heart was beating so hard and fast. My lungs felt as though they couldn't expand enough; I wasn't getting enough air. My throat felt as if it was closing up on me, and I couldn't eat or drink.

Little did I know that months would follow this, and all those symptoms would remain the same, and they would be constant. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, whether I was awake or asleep.

I didn't sleep much. When I was awake, I moved from couch to couch like an invalid. The fatigue was intense and the weakness was overwhelming. I fought to eat every day. It was my biggest struggle for that time. I threw up whenever I tried to make myself eat. My throat would close up as soon as I brought a spoon up to my lips and my stomach would clench. The anxiety would grow so large that I thought my chest would explode. I kept anticipating a heart attack.

I discovered coping techniques like watching TV during breakfast, because it was the only thing that could distract my mind long enough to get food in me. I'd sip on orange juice before consuming anything in order to raise my blood sugar and prepare my clenched stomach. I managed small meals, mostly fruit, or non-chewable foods like yogurt, apple sauce, or oatmeal.

My already skinny frame lost more weight. I cried A LOT. The misery of it - the unknown of it all, not knowing what was wrong with me or what the cure was - drove me insane. I'd bite into my pillow at night and scream internally. I believed I was dying but I didn't know why. The doctor said I was physically healthy.

I had never gone to a hospital before except to be born, but I went then - I went to CHEO, and saw a nurse who put me at ease, a feeling I was starting to forget. She suggested I was experiencing anxiety. I didn't understand what anxiety was (even though my mom had brought it up to me before in the past), and I thought my symptoms were too dramatic and serious to just be anxiety. I didn't know how brutal anxiety could be. I had this idea that anxiety was like stage fright, which I had experienced before. To me, anxiety equaled nervousness, and I'd been nervous before. This wasn't nervousness; I was dying. I was sure of it.

The nurse tried to give me some words of advice, such as how to be "mindful". It was supposed to help me come down from a panic attack, because my mind was swirling out of control - past, present, and future all warped together. She explained how to center yourself through breathing and thought control. While I'll always appreciate that nurse, and I understand the practice of "mindfulness" has it's place, it turns out it's not a cure for an anxiety disorder. Momentary anxiety, sure; but when the chemicals in your brain are no longer functioning as they should, mere thought processes hardly make a dent. Your brain can't fix it if it's your brain that's broken.

She couldn't prescribe me medication even though I begged. I had to wait on my doctor for that, and he was reluctant to prescribe me anything (I don't have that doctor anymore, thank God. He didn't understand mental health). She could only give me some over-the-counter stuff, a pack that had day tablets and night tablets. I have no idea what they were, but I know they didn't work; I took them anyway.

I'll conclude this story in my next post because this is lengthier than I intended. I've never told this story before, that I can recall. It's daunting to be open and vulnerable. It's triggering to explore an old wound. But this is my therapy now - my inexpensive therapy. Creating has always served me better as therapy than the traditional version. Whether it's filming and editing videos, painting a canvas, or writing a story - my therapy comes from within. Ironically it can be difficult to create anything when you're in the depths of depression, or in the thralls of anxiety - so I suppose this is a sign that I'm doing better, that I can write this now.

I'll see you soon, for the continuation of my story.