Depression And Anorexia...

Hi, I’m (my name) and I have major depression, panic disorder, anorexia, epilepsy and ADD. My social anxiety is undiagnosed, but will be next psychiatrist appointment. This is not how I normally introduce myself, because it does not define who I am. It used to think my disorders defined me, and acted as if everyone saw me how I saw myself. Now, I’m the person who is defined as that short, dog lover, Dave Matthews fanatic, and an art and science geek. Yes, I am “that girl” who has 250 + volunteer hours, and is everyone in my town’s therapist. I am the world’s most anxious driver and have an unhealthy addiction to caffeine. I've given the coat off my back to a homeless girl and yelled at a mother abusing her child in public. That is what defines me.
I grew up knowing normal as chaotic, busy, super crazy or super strict. There was never a moment where my mother was sober. My dad went on frequent business trips so my mom watched us. And by watched us, I mean locked her door with two bottles of cheap wine. Normal for me was taking care of my brother and sister. They were, and always will be first in my life.
When I was ten, I was sexually molested by a middle aged man during an acting class. My emotions were mixed about myself and my trust in others. Just as he told me, I was a worthless ***** with nothing to live for. I always smelled like alcohol, so he said I smelled like a hooker. My parents had tried to give me a strong backbone, but in my chaotic house it was almost impossible. Anyone could shape my thoughts about others and myself easily. I was a disgusting worthless kid. I was small so I was vulnerable. I was acting and dressing provocatively so the assault was my fault. I trusted no one, including my family and best friend. This event caused me to wear masculine clothes and not want to look like a girl so no one would want to hurt me like that again. I was bubbly, goofy, talkative and basically loved every new person I met. After the assault, I never was like that again, and probably never will be.
I fell into a dark depression. I would have anxiety attacks at least three times a day and always had the urge to take a shower because I felt dirty. My hands were never clean enough. I would cry myself to sleep every night. I found relief in nothing, until a friend much older than me told me about self injury. She said it was a type of free therapy that worked better and instantly. Hitting, burning, cutting myself would apparently give me a high. It was a free drug.
When I was twelve I was diagnosed with Epilepsy. Seizures have to be one of the most terrifying things I have ever experienced. I knew a second or two before a seizure was going to take over my brain, but could do nothing about it. I lived in fear every single second. I had a larger seizure on the bus, and people started shaking their heads and making noises imitating me. Even my best friend didn’t stand up for me because the bullies threatened her. They called me retarded, stupid, disgusting, and annoying.
My first medicine just pushed everything further downhill. I lost 20 pounds- about 25% of my bodyweight in a few months. The people on the bus then started to call me anorexic and an attention magnet. My vision rapidly deteriorated because of a suspected brain tumor, so I was four-eyes. This worsened my already terribly self-esteem, but was not as bad as my mother never being there for me.
The first time my mom went to rehab failed. So did the next four. I found comfort in injuring myself. Nothing else brought me relief as much as the blade to my skin and blood seeping out. I didn’t want to kill myself, but I wouldn’t have minded if the next morning I did not wake. The occasional cut or bruise turned into an addiction by the time I was 12.
In the midst of my mother’s addiction, she sobered up and drank off and on. I was her scapegoat. I was the cause of her addiction. My medical problems stressed her out, so she took all of her anxiety and depression and withdrawal pills all at the beginning of the month and was left with nothing for the next three weeks. During the three weeks, alcohol snuck in and took over. I was the target. She had these “crazy episodes” as my dad liked to call them, but he never saw what happened exactly when she had them. Unexplainable bruises and bald patches in my hair were blamed on my seizures. I told my teachers at school that fell out of bed a lot and was clumsy. In gym class, a teacher asked me about cuts on my stomach when I was attempting at sports, and I told her it was the dog. She believed me, but I wished she didn’t.
The fifth time my mom relapsed, it was on her birthday. This was the last day in my house for her to live, for good. She went to rehab in PA for a little over a month on my birthday. She was only allowed a 45 minute supervised, public visitation with us before she left. She got me a bracelet for my birthday, but I went home and threw it into the disgusting retention pond across the street from my house.
School came again. I got back on track with a new medicine for my seizures, and gained a few pounds back. This weight gain terrified me. My weight was the only thing I could control. My social anxiety spiraled out of control when my parents wanted me to go to NDA. I hate girls, I am agnostic, it’s far away, and I certainly did not want to go to the same school my mother went to. All the girls were preppy, and I hated preppy clothes. I could not stand the look of pea coats or Vera Bradley bags. They all had more money than me, and their perfect little lives intimidated me. I was ignorant of the fact that just because they went to Catholic school, their lives could suck to.
My mom came back, and, surprise! She’s a lesbian. Or bisexual, I’m still not sure. I had no problem with her being lesbian, because we’re all equal. This is where I really strayed from God. Why were all the religious people against gay people? They contradicted themselves. If God=forgiveness and God loved everyone, why were gay people excluded? I was mad at her, but I would have been equally as mad if she had cheated on my father with a man. I felt awkward about my whole life after this. If people found out, would they think I was gay? Would they think my family was crazy? (even though we were...) I could not be in the same room with my mother for about three years after this... because the second part of the conversation was that she drank again.
She tried to call me while in rehab, but I never wanted to talk. I would get in trouble every night by not talking to her. The one time I did, she told me that Eminem and the drummer from Slipknot was at Hazelden with her. I thought it was cool, but still told her she was an idiot for telling me something ridiculous.
Freshman year I made friends. We did the most stupid things that I’m not going to say.... but we made a good group. I was still quiet, and felt like I was constantly being judged. No one liked me, so I didn’t like anyone. There was one girl who I could relate to up until today, one of my best friends Stephanie. She was quiet and awkward just like me. She was different than my other crazy fun-loving friends. I could trust that she was sober 24/7 and wouldn’t tell a soul anything I told her.
Sophomore year was terrible. I cut every single day, and surface cuts were not enough. I needed to make them deeper. I laid in bed starving every single night because that was all I knew to calm myself down. I couldn’t control anything but my weight. I was 105 pounds, and wanted to kill myself from gaining three pounds over a month. I needed to get back to the double digits. I was sexually molested again, but this time people were there and could see me. They walked by and called me a ****. The reality was that he had a strong grip on me and threatened to hurt me. I felt disgusting and dishonest to my boyfriend. He deserved someone that would be intimate with him and him only. I broke up with him because I felt he deserved someone better.
Summer was ok. I worked a lot and met a boy I really liked. This was motivation to lose more weight, and by the time I met him, I was 98lbs. I wanted to get back to my lowest weight. He told me that I was perfect the way I was, ignorant at the fact I was starving myself by restricting and purging, and was covered in scars. For some odd reason, him saying all these nice things about me came across as sarcasm. He told me he thought he loved me, and I thought he was being sarcastic. After all, who could love me? I was not thin, tall, pure, beautiful or emotionally stable. I would not even admit to myself that I may have an eating problem or depression.
In August, I was ready. The bottle of pills was opened, and in my hand. No one was home, and wouldn’t be for a few hours. One of my two best friends called me earlier that day and told me she was transferring schools. I was terrified to go back to school without her, and terrified to face junior year. I was literally shaking, but knew it had to be done. I needed to die. I hated every single thing about myself, and was just a burden to other people. Then my dog walked in. She came and sat all 80 pounds of her on top of me and fell asleep. I realized then that I could not leave her. I fed her, cleaned after her, snuggled with her... Then I realized my family needed me. My brother and sister especially, with their anxiety. I closed the bottle of pills, and never picked it up again.
Two days before junior year, my mother walked in on me with a pool of blood next to my leg. I tried to hide it, but she wouldn’t let me. I got stitches, and was told I was close to a main artery and could have bled out. I lied to the social worker about most things; suicidal tendencies, eating, depression, et cetera. I was threatened McLean’s on a daily basis. I had to get a psychiatrist and an eating disorder specialist, and join a dialectical behavioral therapy group.
I am a new person, after many disappointments and relapses. My past does not define who I am. Not everyone hates me, and my body is fine the way it is, even though I still am struggling with my physical appearance. I’m stitching the wounds up, literally and figuratively. It is not pleasant, but leaves a smaller scar and proves you worked at it. With countless hours of therapy and treatment, I am still not the bubbly person I used to think I had to be. I can have fun now, and smile without faking it. Sometimes I need a little push in the right direction, but doesn’t everyone?
I used to think that I can never get back what the molesters took from me, I can never get back my scarless skin, and I can never get that first day I decided to go from 2000 calories to 500, and that not being able to get it back was a bad thing. But... who honestly cares? If you make a bad decision, or have something valuable taken from you, you have to remember that you are human, and you are just plain weird if you don’t make mistakes at all. If you get a D on your math test, don’t let it give you anxiety. It’s just a test. If you gain a pound, guess what? No one can tell! If you think you are ugly, well you are not ugly just blind from not being able to see how beautiful you are. If you like girls, so what. If you’re like me and loathe Justin Bieber and Taylor Swift, you’re not weird. If you like mellow bands it does not mean you are a pot head and if you like SWS or Pierce the Veil, it doesn’t mean you’re emo. Nothing should come before a healthy relationship with yourself; accepting everything you are and realizing that what you think are flaws may be your best asset. Self harm, starving, too much self criticism is never the answer. This is a quote from my favorite band: “Make the, best of, what you got. Don’t waste time trying to be something, you’re not.” Listen to Dave Matthews and love yourself! Try to smile at least once a day, for real. Take a break from stress everyday and just take a walk or go on tumblr. Snuggle with your dogs, tell your mom about how much you hate someone, look up baby laughs on youtube, scream at the top of your lungs. Write out your whole story then rip it up. Eat some chocolate, have tea and run around! Look at the sky and find what a cloud is shaped like. Thank yourself every single day for being strong enough to stay alive. Believe in yourself above anything else, because you have a purpose. You are beautifully and wonderfully made, and never let anyone tell you different, including yourself.
carolinelola carolinelola
18-21, F
3 Responses Feb 28, 2013

Your story has a lot of similarities to things going on in my life, except you've been through a lot more. You are an amazing and strong person, a huge inspiration. you should be really proud of yourself!

It started in a dark mood, but the end was perfect, inspirational. May you get peace in what you do.

Beautiful. I've suffered in similar ways minus the molest and seizures, but with severe brain injuries about 14 months ago.
Anyway, very inspirational, I'm so happy that you made it out :) I'm still working on it.