In light of the recent losses of Kate Spade and Anthony Bordain to suicide this past week and the recent talk about mental illness in the media I'd like to open up about my struggles.
The Darkness Behind the Writer
Sometimes I feel like the media doesn't have the required empathy when talking about people with depression or people who have taken their own lives, like they're trying to minimize things. Yes, maybe Kate Spade fixated on Robin William's death. Maybe it caused her to plan for her own suicide for four years. I don't know. Sometimes when you're in a dark place you just want all the pain to end. I understand that.
I've struggled with what I now can admit to myself is severe depression and anxiety for years. Different things stick out to me now; being hysterical and not wanting to go to school because of bullying, the winter I used the excuse of Seasonal Affective Disorder when I didn't want to get out of bed for weeks after a break up, the times after I'd argued with my now ex-boyfriend that I remember standing in the middle of the grocery store wanting to burst into tears. I put on a brave face for so long so nobody would see how I was really feeling.
These past few years haven't been the easiest. My grandmother, who raised me and whom I've lived with almost all of my life, began having mobility issues in 2013. At first she walked with a walker, then when we had to go long distances she'd use a wheelchair, then after a fall she was in the wheelchair full time, and finally in the past 9 months transfers in and out of her wheelchair became extremely hard due to a diagnosis of Spinal Stenosis. During all of this time I was more than her granddaughter, I was her 24/7 caregiver.
During this time my mood plummeted. I was irritable and argumentative, I was frequently in tears because what I thought of as a lack of freedom to live my life as others in my life got to do whatever they wanted whenever they wanted, and genuinely stressed out from the physical requirements of being a caregiver. I felt alone. I felt like I was screaming out for help but nobody could hear me or nobody was willing to help me.
In March 2018 my grandmother ended up in the hospital with a blood clot and I just couldn't do it anymore. She ended up going into a nursing home and I ended up moving in with my mother and sister. Since that time my depression and anxiety has gotten increasingly worse. I was crying nearly every day, sometimes for no reason at all. I feel guilt for my grandmother having to be in a nursing home and feel even worse when things aren't ideal for her there which makes me feel worse. On top of that I feel like I have to manage everything for the both of us which has had me near my breaking point on more days than I want to admit. That combined with my new living situation, where it feels on certain days I'm living with strangers - at least one of which has severe anger issues and I often wondered throughout these past months whether I'd make it through to the other side. I felt - I still feel at times - hopeless.
Because of these feelings my writing has suffered. I know I *should* write, I have ideas to write down, but frequently I just have no desire to write. Depression has slowly stolen the things I enjoy. I have either no desire to read on certain days or can't concentrate when I do. I used to enjoy taking pictures for bookstagram and talking to friends about books but lately it's been a struggle to keep up with it day to day and even when I do post I'm not very talkative.
I finally had to admit that I needed help. Though I know with 100% certainty I would never take my own life, I've had my fair share of days where I walked across the foot bridge in town and thought to myself it would be so much less of a burden if it all just ended and other days where I wanted to crawl into bed and never wake up. So I made an appointment with the doctor on June 1st.
I'll admit, it was more than a little embarrassing to talk about the way I've been feeling. But with a sympathetic third-party who has no involvement in my current situation I was able to admit the truth. I'm not happy. There are days when I can't even remember happy. And it's not "normal" to have three panic attacks in 24-hours.
I'm not a great pill taker, but the doctor placed me on a medication for the severe anxiety and severe depression and gave me a referral for counseling this coming week. I've only been taking the medication for 9 days so I don't know yet how well it's working, some days I feel no different at all but it's not as often as before so perhaps that's a start. I'm a little nervous about starting counseling, unsure of the unknown, but it's something I've known I've needed for a while and I'm willing to try anything to make life more tolerable.
Someone said the other day that Depression is a life-long disease and it's true. I'll have good days and bad, but it's about learning how to cope with the bad days that's important. I'm hoping that my story can help someone, at least to tell them they're not alone. There are others out there going through the same things you are. Don't keep it bottled inside. Talk to a friend, a family member, a doctor, or call the suicide prevention lifeline if you need to. Your life is worth living. It's not your time to go.
The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline:
1-800-273-8255