Excuse me for my absence, as it was needed due to mental health. During this time, I’ve been struggling with myself. It’s not in the way you think, though. I have had a couple of decades of an identity crisis brewing in my mind, and now it’s finally getting resolved.
When I was younger, I used to have meltdowns. It was all because I had Binge Eating Disorder and was denied food. Sometimes, yelling and noises upset me, which would cause me to eat. I would also slam doors and cry excessively. Overall, I was described as highly sensitive by my mom.
Most of the time, I knew that anger was inappropriate and I bottled it up. I didn’t care to cause conflict, and I didn’t really know how to express myself until middle school. At that time, I turned to drawing and poetry. Both were a cry for help, and I don’t think many people saw that. They just said that my works of art were cool and my poetry was relatable. So, I still bottled it up.
By the time I was 15, my living situation caused tension, and I couldn’t deal with it any longer. I released every ounce of hate, sadness, and anxiety onto my skin, and that caused more hate and sadness. Though, it did give me a high for a few days, which was more than likely a manic phase. It distracted me from my emotions. I would always touch the wounds when I saw them or itched. I would obsessively count them and get happy as they stung me with pain. It was sick and twisted, but how could I express myself when no one was listening?
I remember ending an argument between my mom and sibling. They both were yelling at each other, and I started to sob uncontrollably. “This is why I’m depressed,” I screamed. They stopped and realized what they were doing to me. It seemed as though in that moment, they found out that I existed and I was doing so just because I could.
Before I knew it, I was in therapy. My first therapist was someone who disregarded my needs and began texting on her phone during my sessions. I wasn’t getting any better, and I wanted to be normal, so I turned her in. The second therapist was someone I stayed with for a couple years. I remember I was in a dark place, and she called me for the first time. I hoped God would send me an angel — no seriously, her name was Angel — and heal me. The first visit, I asked to be put on medication, and thus, my healing began.
Eventually, Angel was transferred to another office, and she picked out another therapist to take her place. This woman was going to change my life and she didn’t know it. She would help me push my boundaries in my mind, reach my goals, and openly swear and let off steam that I had bottled up inside. She was independent, supportive, gentle yet fierce… To sum her up, her name was Emily.
I worked my ass off in therapy for 1 year. My symptoms got better. I set boundaries in relationships. I found myself becoming more open with my struggles, and I formed healthy relationships and sorted some crap out. I let go of what I wanted and stuck with what I needed. I reached 5 goals within a year, and I was proud of myself, and so was Emily.
As of right now, I do not have a therapist. I don’t have a list of coping skills readily available for me. But I do have the knowledge of what I’ve learned, and I have the wisdom to apply it.
Last night, I realized my diagnosis may change if I get evaluated by another therapist at a different facility. I panicked, and then my mom made me feel not so good. I didn’t know what to do, so I posted a status on Facebook asking someone to chat with me and make me feel safe.
Can you believe it? Instead of isolating myself, I asked for someone to chat with me; instead of bottling it up, I wanted to talk it out. And I want you to take this to heart, my readers: I may have bad days, but I know how to make them better than bad with the help of 7 years of therapy. And yes, I might relapse into depression, but I know that I can stand up again and keep going on my journey.
Hoping this helps.