Admitting something is wrong - Step I

I saw a therapist for the first time when I was around the age of 14. I was a Freshman in high school. I was an outcast and I was struggling with emotions that I had never felt before and had no idea how to deal with. I cut my wrists. There was a pain inside of me. I couldn't scream. I couldn't put into words what I was feeling. So I cut. Nothing deep. Just enough to bleed and burn. The act of doing this allowed me to turn this emotional pain into a pain that I could understand, a physical pain. It was a release.  I can't remember how long I'd been doing this before my mom found out, but I do remember that she was angry. She was scared. She was probably extremely confused. She scheduled an emergency appointment with my pediatrician who immediately handed me a prescription for an anti-depressant and a referral to a psychologist. 

I remember that first therapist's office. It wasn't what I had seen in movies and TV shows. It didn't feel warm and inviting. There was no comfy couch to lie down on and confess all of my deepest thoughts and fears. It was somewhat outdated. It was dark and it was cold. I don't remember getting the best vibe from her either. Shy and uncomfortable as I was, I talked. I gave her all of the answers that I thought she wanted to hear. She slapped a diagnosis of 'Depression' on me, gave me a "depression workbook" and upped my meds. I don't remember any deep discussions or being provided with tools that would help me crawl out of this dark hole that I found myself in. The workbook was the size of a textbook and I threw it on a shelf when I got home, opening it only to complete the given homework assignment each week. I went through the motions. I continued to go to the sessions at the urging of my mom, but I don't remember it helping. I went for a couple of months and finally gave up. I stayed on the meds, though. At least until I started to feel numb inside. That pain that I used to feel was gone, sure, but joy was also absent. I felt nothing. This was a feeling I didn't enjoy and I remember having to convince my mom to let me come off of them. - This is probably when I learned to become a high functioning person suffering from depression and anxiety, a trait that I would carry with me well into my adult life. - I still cut. I just learned to hide it better. Once I realized that perhaps the wrist cutting was just a little too visible to the outside world, it turned into ankle cutting, leg cutting, anywhere that I could cover up. I wrote dark poems, listened to dark music and expressed myself through an angsty teenage attitude while putting a smile on my face for Pom and choir performances. I went through the motions of life and I got by just fine or so I thought. 

I can't recall what provoked my mom to schedule an appointment with a new therapist a few years later, but I remember her office as well. This one was in a huge office building and her office was located on the top floor. It was huge with floor to ceiling windows all along the back wall. It was modern. Lots of black and leather. A large couch placed in front of a glass coffee table and her chair opposite me. I saw her once. She was mean and lacked empathy. She told me that she wanted me to bring my then 17 year old boyfriend with me to my next session. Umm, hard pass. You don't even know me yet. I didn't need couples counseling. I needed individual counseling. I needed someone to care and I needed someone to help. As you can imagine, this turned me off of therapists for quite some time.

It wouldn't be until my mid-twenties when I would give counseling another try. Upon walking into her office, I immediately loved her. Her office was dark, but not in a cold un-inviting kind of way. It was warm with salt lamps and an array of options for seating. I chose a couch as far away from her chair as possible. She embraced me for me, validating my feelings and making me feel safe. She knew I was nervous, but she gave me the room and the time to express what I felt comfortable sharing. I had been trying to get pregnant for over a couple of years at this point. I was sad and alone in my world of longing and loss, coming to terms with having to accept a future that I hadn't necessarily planned on. While my infertility is what brought me into her office, it was only the surface of subjects we broached. She didn't label me with a diagnosis, she gave me options for treatments, but accepted my responses and let me drive our sessions. In hindsight, I wish I had continued to see her longer, but again, I went in there with my one reason for needing therapy and I was not ready to admit that anything else was wrong with me, so I ceased going to our sessions. 

As the years have gone on, I have sort of blocked out any need for mental health help. Up until a couple of years ago, I wouldn't even pick up a self help book because if I read something in that category, it meant admitting that I needed help in the first place. I was on my own path to recovery. I knew I suffered from depression and anxiety, but I got really good at covering it up. I have mastered the fake smile and I know to always respond, "good", when someone asks me how I'm doing. While the stigma of mental health is only starting to ease, we must acknowledge that it still exists. I often wonder why we don't have mental health check-ups annually as we do physicals or dental visits. There is some unspoken language among us that we shouldn't share our emotional struggles. My Instagram feed is filled with happy people living their beautiful, perfect, happy lives with their perfectly dressed and well behaved children and their beautiful marriages on date nights. And this only contributes to this vicious cycle of depression and anxiety. I'm constantly comparing myself to everyone else, wondering why my life isn't as perfect and exciting as theirs appear to be. But, I mean, I'm guilty of it too. I only want to show the good parts. But maybe if we shared the hard parts, the not-so-pretty parts too, maybe just maybe, we might feel more connected with one another on a deeper level and, perhaps seeking professional help won't seem so scary and taboo.

I'd be lying if I said that it is only in the last year that on many nights my husband has come home from work to find me lying in our dark bedroom, still in my pajamas from the night before, wallowing in my own unbearable scent, unable to function, unable to translate my feelings into words. I'd be lying if I said that it is only in the last year that I will go from 0 to 60 in a matter of seconds, yelling in irrational anger at something so trivial that my husband or son may have said or done. I'd be lying if I said that it is only in the last year that I can go weeks on end without responding to texts or calls from family and friends simply because I can't find the energy to talk or the will to pretend. I can say, though, that in the last year, these moments have only been exacerbated and intensified. Living in the age of COVID and being withdrawn from the world has increased the amount of days and incidences when the above is true. But I can say that in the last year, my eyes have been opened more to this idea that maybe what I have been trying to cover up for so long actually exists and maybe I really do need help once and for all and maybe that's not such a bad thing. Approaching my mid-30s, I'm realizing the importance of health encompassing all aspects, including mental health. I have found coping mechanisms that can help snap me out of bad days - exercise, drinking water, sunshine, journaling, writing in this blog, reading those self help and motivational books. I've recently started meditating. I want to be mindful. I want to be present and at peace. I no longer want to wear a façade and pretend to smile when inside I'm empty and sad for reasons I can't explain. I have a beautiful life. I have a beautiful, amazing family. I have so many things to be grateful for and I want to learn to enjoy all of these things whole-heartedly. 

My baby boy is only one year from the age I was when I began to feel like there were two of me - the person everyone else saw and the person who was trapped inside of her body, screaming to get out, causing self bodily harm. If I hadn't experienced it myself, I would say that it is merely impossible to imagine someone so young experiencing such feelings and fears. I would take all of that pain and more in an instant for him not to feel those things, yet I do want him to know that it is okay to feel those things and it is okay to ask for help. More importantly, it is okay to ask to keep looking for better help when the current practice isn't working. 

Sadly, I feel as though I have missed out on too many good days, too many good nights, too many good weekends because I could not find the strength to overcome a pain I have no control over. And in those waking moments after a funk, I feel as though I have failed as a mom. For that reason and a million more, I am sharing this with you, this not-so-pretty, un-fun, real side of my story. And I am putting the fear behind me. I am stepping over the stigma. I am asking for help. The office of this new counselor will be the backdrop of my own home from behind a screen, but I am hopeful that my vulnerability and my willingness to be fully open will finally allow me to obtain the tools to make it through this wild and crazy life. The cuts of my past run deep. The scars are visible to me and show me where I have been, but they also show me where I can go, and where I'm headed looks good. It looks really good. 

I'll keep you posted.