The news of my primary doctor wanting to delve into my mental health wasn't shocking. I knew I had a depressive past. I knew I had terrible anxiety. I knew I was more stressed than a 16-year-old ought to be.
Yet, for some reason, I did not want help. Looking back on it now, I think it was a 'pride thing'. I thought I was too tough of a girl to need medication or counseling.
While I was doing better, recovering well from the dramatic teenage breakup and draining hospital stay, I still had my rollercoaster moods. On cloud nine for a few hours, but sleeping off my worries shortly after.
I wasn't eating well. I dropped several pounds in a very limited amount of days.
I was weak. My muscle mass was decreasing.
I bruised very easily.
My motivation? Non-existent. Schoolwork was impossible. I began to fall behind in my classes, thus beginning the layering effect once again, due to the stress of the unknown.
While I was breathing, I certainly was not living. This lifestyle wasn't healthy, and I knew that.
It took some time, but eventually I sought out help, and I am so thankful that I did.
I began taking medicine for my depression and anxiety. They helped, regardless of how much I hated to admit they did, at first.
I began mental health counseling, and absolutely fell in love with my lovely counselor.
I was finally on the road to recovery, after many years of struggling silently.
YOU ARE READING
A Particularly Lovely Life, Despite the Stigma
Non-FictionFrom the mouth (or fingers, in this sense?) of an overly anxious, frequent panic attack-er, who has fought more battles than she knows... I'm here to end the stigma of mental illness, mental wellness, and everything in between. This is an ongoing c...
