Mental Breakdown

At some point in my adolescence, I subconsciously adopted the belief that I could not share how sad and depressed I was with my parents. I think the belief I held was that if they knew how miserable I was, it would only serve to make their lives more difficult. So naturally, I had to develop some kind of coping skill to deal with these emotions.

I figured out that people liked talking to me. And I genuinely enjoyed listening to them. This allowed me to make such meaningful and lifelong friendships.

I don't know if my friends ever truly knew how badly I craved their friendship and acceptance. And I was truly blessed because they always just showered me with love during some of the darkest years of my life.

One aspect of these friendships that I craved was being able to share their burdens and be the keeper of their deepest secrets. If I was putting out fires between friends, giving advice in a crisis, or spending hours on the phone talking someone through a break-up, then I was happy. It made it easier to push aside my own sadness. I loved my coping skill because I knew I was helping someone. And if I couldn't help myself, at least I could be there for someone else.

 This became my philosophy of life. Be there for others 24/7 so I never have to look too deeply at my own growing pile of issues.

My philosophy seemed to be working just fine up until fall 2008.

I had transferred to another university to study film my sophomore year, but it was like starting college all over again. New city, new dorm, new roommate. I immediately began regretting my decision once I started to attend my classes. I actually hated them because I could not focus on any of the material.

I began to have panic attacks daily, though I wasn't sure that's what they were. I made my parents come get me every single weekend because I was too anxious to spend the weekend with just my thoughts.

The panic attacks continued and increased in ferocity. There were days I couldn't leave my room and I would curl up on the floor of my door room and weep. I'd pray to God to take away this sudden irrational fear. But the attacks continued. I rarely left the dorm and never went to my classes. I found that I could calm myself by losing myself in a video game. So I would spend hours every day playing a game, just so I could keep my panic away.

But then I beat the game.

I decided to try one more time... I still had time to make up some work before midterms. But I never made it to class that last time. I had to stop halfway there and sit on a bench to calm myself down from a panic attack. I knew then I needed help.

My parents and I agreed that I would withdraw from school and come home. My father and mother were in a good place together, especially with my mom's new sobriety.

When I came home, I was set up with a psychiatrist and therapist. I hated my therapist. I would actually get more anxious before sessions with her. At home, when my mom was gone and my dad was at work, I would curl up into a ball on the floor and weep uncontrollably. I wrote how much I wanted to die from the sadness that seemed to grip my every waking moment. I even wrote suicide letters to each person in my family. While I never attempted to take my own life, it was a constant thought in the back of my mind. I had a plan figured out and everything. But I never tried. Something in me kept me from going over that ledge. I'd like to think God was holding onto the back of my shirt as I kept inching towards that precipice.

As luck would have it, I learned that you should probably actually like the therapist you go to. So when I approached my therapist about switching to someone else, she was very kind and gave me a list of 5 counselors and their phone numbers. I called the first number on the list and made an appointment.

I was not prepared for the disarming charm and empathy of my new therapist. She was completely unbiased, didn't push me into anything I wasn't comfortable dealing with yet, and she was genuinely invested in my mental health improvement. She equipped me with skills that I never knew I needed and she had a way of reframing negative thoughts or situations that made life just a little easier to handle. She is one of the main reasons I am still alive today.

As those of you with depression know, its not something that you simply take a pill for and it goes away after 6 weeks. Depression is a cyclical disorder, so while you have a good 6 months, you might hit a wall and your depression intensifies again for a period of time. It's lifelong. But it also treatable in so many different ways. For myself, I take antidepressants to help control my depression and anxiety. I also know that when I eat healthier and exercise, I feel better. Happier. And I still continue to see my therapist to this day, 8 years later.

As I write this, I am currently a happy young woman. Despite the trauma in my past and the mental health issues I will probably struggle with for a long time, I am happy. I have a roof over my head, food on my plate, clothes on my body. I have a Heavenly Father who loves me, an earthly father who loves me, and a boyfriend who challenges me to be a better person each day.

My mental breakdown was the best thing that ever happened to me. Because it brought me to this place and this moment and this life that I live today.