ITS ALL IN YOUR HEAD

entery two

How do I feel about my diagnosis? One would think it would be of indifference, I mean I've been in and out of doctors offices my whole life.

But actually I feel strangely... relieved.

Psychologist have been shoving antidepressants down my throat since I was eight years old. But I knew deep down it wasn't just depression. So they added the word 'chronic' in front of it, and an anxiety disorder as well.

I remember first time taking medication.

"Mental illness runs in our family, X. It's good to start going young to find a balance."

That's what my parents told me. But it felt more like they were trying to fix me. Trying to make me normal, because even at that young age I knew I wasn't. I loved too hard, too fast, and hated with just as much intensity. I was a rule follower, never being able to see the grey between things. I ran on paranoia and the goal of wanting authority figures approval. Which was easier then I had expected. Stay silent. Smile brightly. Push down your feelings. Only speak when spoken too. Obey.

I was so well behaved as a child. People always used to say "you are so mature for your age!"

But maturity came with a price.

My parents were big believers in physical and emotional punishment. I guess most millennials were as well. Never were my siblings or I able to show emotion, because emotion was annoying, and emotion is weak. If we were angry or sad we would be hit with wooden spoons and leather belts— don't get me wrong it wasn't 'abuse' per se. We never went to school with bruises, teachers never worried. It was just fear. If they couldn't punish us physically, they would do so verbally. Rants and raves about how they failed as a parent to make us feel guilty, screaming and yelling about how horrible we are. Sometimes they would even add in the usual tactic of what a disappointment we are.

I can quote it by heart.

"Do you know what I sacrificed for you? Do you have any idea? I didn't have to give birth to you! You wouldn't be here without me! I don't know how you can be so ungrateful. I've done everything for you. I would never treat my parents like that! You kids are so spoiled. Ungrateful brats. Did I really raise you to be this way? No! I did not!"

Yada yada yada, it goes on and on I'm sure some of you know the rest.

Actually the mental punishment was worse then the physical. Because all I wanted was approval, so hearing that I don't have it absolutely broke me. Every. Single. Time.

Sometimes I wonder if I was raised with emotionally available parents if I would have turned out this way. So scared to show the smallest bit of emotion that I hide it all away inside of myself until I have to cut it out.

Despite it all I love my mother. She raised me. She did. And she did the best she knew how for a teenager raising a baby.

I guess you can say I have daddy issues. But I won't get into that now.

When I was finally able to see a new psychiatrist I was scared, I won't lie. Thinking this was going to be the same old routine— tell them what's happening, have them look at me like I'm crazy, taking a few tests to give them an idea of what's inside my mind, talks of therapy, and finally a shrug and more antidepressants.

But this time was different. I had completely forgotten that they take your blood pressure at the mental health center, and I didn't plan accordingly. Fresh cuts from the night before left swollen red crevices and old purple scars littered my arms, and I asked if I had to take off my large hoodie, they told me yes, so I did. I stared straight ahead at the wooden door, not wanting to meet the eye of the woman taking my blood pressure, knowing she is seeing me at one of my most vulnerable. I thanked her quickly and left the room as soon as I could. God that was embarrassing.

When I finally saw the doctor I was surprised at his mannerisms. I had looked him up on the mental centers website so I knew what he looked like, but he surprised me with the way he spoke. His voice was soft and sincere, he looked at me like I was human. Not a science experiment.

It was refreshing.

So I told him everything. I find it hard to articulate the hurricane of emotions and thoughts I have, so it took a while. We sat in that office for the better part of three hours. We went over my past, and my present. He listened and wrote down everything he possibly could, by the end of it he had a goddamn book.

He asked about my self harm... a question I normally lie about to avoid being hospitalized. But for some reason I trusted this random man I had known for a few hours. So I spoke the truth. I told him I had cut my arms and legs last night, they are still fresh. He didn't grab my arm and roll up my sleeves like my other doctors, he didn't say it was for attention like my family, he didn't bring someone to hold me down and force me to show him. Instead he asked me kindly if I could show him, just to make sure they are being cared for. 

I made a stupid joke about doing this long enough to know how to care for them before realizing that was probably a dumb idea. So I rolled up my sleeves, showing old scars and new. They weren't superficial, but they weren't deep. They were that perfect sweet spot for not needing stitches.

He wasn't disgusted. Or even trying to convince me to stop.

A coping mechanism is a coping mechanism even if it's self destructive.

Finally he relayed everything back to me, making sure he understood me correctly. And he agreed with me that it's more then just depression. He agreed. He explained why each and every medication on my record I had been pumped with hadn't worked for long or hadn't worked at all. He realized I was interested in the science part of it and he took the time to explain it to me. So I can finally understand. Then he had me take one single test. Just one to see if his assumption is correct.

And it was.

Borderline personality disorder. I fit all but one on that test.

When he explained what it was, I was so overwhelmed.

I'm not crazy.

There is an explanation. There is actually something wrong with me. I'm not crazy. Others are going through similar agony. I'm not crazy.