To those who have heard my complaining...

Thank you for listening.

Thank you for caring.

Thank you for voicing you support and your optimism.

Thank you for sharing in my struggle.

I will never be able to thank you enough. For laughing with me when it's dark. For standing with me when I most need comfort. For being there, available to me. Thank you. For everything.

But I want you to know, more than anything, that I know it's not all bad.

I want you not to worry, because I'm a fighter. And even on my darkest days, I know that who I am is a fighter. That however many times I say that I am giving up, what I really mean is that I am just going to lie on the ground and let the darkest parts of the storm pass and then get back up and keep fighting. I like to say that I give up. But I know myself well enough to know that I will never be a quitter when it comes to the things that matter most.

I want you to know that I know God loves me. I know this trial isn't because of him, and I don't blame him for it. Yes, I have struggled to stay close to the things of the spirit, but I still believe them with all my heart even though it's more increasingly difficult to live them.

I want you to know that I see tender mercies every day. That I believe in miracles. That I know that I really have a good life, and when I say that life sucks, what I mean is that living is hard.

I have an amazing family, however broken it may be. I have amazing friends, however far away they may be. I have incredible opportunities and unlimited prayers coming for me. And I know that I am blessed.

So I do complain. A lot. There is so much to say and so little time to say it...or to even remember what I was talking about in the first place. Please don't take my distractions as a sign that I don't care. I do care. And I'm so thankful. More than you know.

I just need you to know that I love you. And I need your love, even though I wish that I didn't. It's keeping me alive.

I'm hard to love. But thanks for loving me. Cuz you're doin it perfectly.

The danger of a diagnosis.

I swear, if I hear one more person tell me that they have anxiety...

I understand that I don't understand what other people go through. Let's get that out of the way. 

So maybe people announcing it at every possible opportunity is a side effect of their anxiety, I don't know. 

But the problem is that everybody these days claims something. And maybe it's because for some reason, this generation just has a lot of mental problems. I don't know. 

But the problem with a diagnosis is that it's used so much as an excuse. People stop working at work because their having panic attacks. Students tell their teachers they can't do this or that because of a condition. And it has essentially lost all meaning. Because if everyone has problems, then nobody really does, right? We're all just people living with problems and feelings, just like we've always been. 

Don't get me wrong, I have been that person at work. I got fired for my episodes. I don't take it lightly. I missed taking my midterm for a class because it was during the week where I was so far down and ready to get suicidal, and my teacher still wouldn't take it after I told her. I wasn't trying to make excuses, I just presented an argument, and I lost. 

But a diagnosis is not meant to be an excuse. It's not to say "please excuse my behavior because I'm mentally unstable." (and if you have a self-diagnosis, please just have some dignity and get an actual diagnosis, you're ridiculous.sorry, but seriously.) It's not an excuse to do whatever you want and have it all be okay because you have some sort of chemical imbalance. 

I believe there are blessings of a diagnosis too. But I think that comes when you stop proclaiming to the world that you have issues and only tell those who need to know. When you start using your diagnosis to explain rather than excuse. You then take a step from being affected by your circumstance to take back control (even though it's but a small bit) of how you're viewed and how you present yourself. 

I'll admit, I have been changed by my problems. I have been changed a great deal. I'm more easily irritable. I sleep a lot more. I cry a LOT. I lock myself in my room a lot. 

But the difference is, I don't tell the world. I keep it between me and the people who need to know. Because though I can't help it if it sometimes controls me, I can make sure that it doesn't define me. 

The danger of a diagnosis comes when you give it power to govern your life.  

I want so bad to be good

I went to training a few weeks ago. It was a training for the program I'm going with to teach English internationally.

Everything they talked about made me so excited. And I am just so excited to go, and I want to be able to teach them so well and I want to be just amazing. I just want so badly to be good.

I feel like this is a theme in my life. In classes, I feel like no matter how thorough I am, or how much I try to do everything right, there is always something critical I miss and it's my tragic flaw.

I remember on my mission, I wanted so, so badly to just be the best. I wanted to be the missionary that people back home thought that I'd be. But I can't help but look back and think how much I blew that.

I always go into things thinking and believing that I'll be awesome, but then I get there and forget. Or I get scared. And I shrink. I don't live up to who I know I am. I fall short.

Or maybe I do live up to who I am, but I am using the wrong meter stick to measure me. Because I tend to give too much thought to what other think of me.

So I realized when I was getting excited that maybe...maybe this time wont be any different. And I'm still not sure of my footing in these situations and what I'm able to control.

but I hope that I don't shrink this time. because man, I want so bad to be good.

The Happiest Place on Earth

is not always Disneyland.

My friend, a kid who has the absolute biggest heart of anyone I know, told me a few months ago that he wanted to take me to Disneyland. He said he thought it was something I needed because of my condition. He was really excited about it.

I warned him of my excessive sleepiness, my increased irritability, my lack of desire to get up in the morning and do anything, ever. He also knows that I don't share his intense love of Disney (I know, who am I). But he told me he could handle it.

Well, guess what. He couldn't. And I would never have expected him to, which is why I tried to discourage the trip in the first place.

I'm thankful for his consideration and his effort and his love. Don't get me wrong. And I enjoyed many aspects of that trip. But it wasn't the best thing for me.

What people who want to help need to realize, is that: if you take a depressed person and put them in what is said to be the happiest place on earth, it will not make them happy. Their depression isn't contingent upon their surroundings.

In fact, the heat, the over-stimulation, the stress of having to figure out meals and transportation in a city I've never been to, actually made my condition worse. I had gone a while without having a severe breakdown--but that is where the episodes came back. Outside that sketchy Anaheim motel.

This is what I was talking about in my post "Deserving of Love." People want to fix it. They want their love to mend and heal all the broken little pieces inside of you. But not even the magic of Disneyland can do that. And then it makes you feel like a super ungrateful person because you can't just be happy for what they're doing for you.

It's like if you were really stressed out in life and you were always at work and didn't have any time in your schedule and were also short on money and then someone, lovingly, says "hey I'll get you a puppy and that will help you be happier." You tell them not to get you a puppy, but they insist, and then you have this whole new stressor in your life. Not only do you not have time to take care of it, but you don't have money to feed it and get it the things it needs. Then when you're still not happy, that friend says "You know how much money I spent on that puppy for you? You're so ungrateful." When you literally told them not to give it to you in the first place.

It really is the thought that counts. And people show their love in so many different ways. It's just important that they know which ways will help and which ways will hurt. All love is good, but sometimes you just need to learn and then speak the love language of the person receiving.

It was a rough few days, but the fireworks--they were amazing. And I could see, briefly, why one might call it the happiest place on earth.

You think that things have gotten better

truth is, I've just gotten better at lying.

The fifth medication

I believe in jinxes. 

I know it sounds ridiculous, but whenever I say something is a certain way, it changes. 

Maybe that's my negativity talking. But it happened. The beginning of last week TANKED. 

I had another doctor appointment. I told him about the past month, the hell weeks and the higher weeks. He put me on a fifth medication. Another anti-psychotic. Woo, psycho meds. It's like the one that put me out for 14 hours a day, but on a super low dose. So, hopefully, I don't have the crazy increased appetite and sleep problem that I did last time....

Anyway, like I said--after my good weeks, I tanked. At first, I wiped the tears away real fast and told myself I was okay--like I usually do. But it's never that simple. 

I don't know why it comes and why it goes when it does. I thought that maybe it's because I have terrible coping skills. I thought, maybe when problems disappear, I'm fine, but then, when my teachers and grades and bank account and friends and whatever else flares up, I crumble. I'm not consistent or perceptive enough to realize if that's even a pattern, but maybe my coping skills are the problem? But if it is, what weakened them? Why so suddenly?

And I keep looking for reasons, for fixes, for possible causes, but it is what it is. I've come to find that my reality is unpredictable. Even when I know what's coming, even when I brace myself, even when I make a plan--I get slammed. It's like, even if you know the punch is coming, it still hurts when it hits you in the gut. And in life, there is no shortage of suck. Of punches and slamming doors. But you gotta love that opposition principle, right?

Well, I did what I do best in times of intense trouble and I took a road trip. While it wasn't perfect, it was pretty dang good. I cram packed my days full of stuff to do so that I didn't have to face my life. I mean, it didn't work all the time, but I had some pretty decent moments. 

Unfortunately, I get way too exhausted doing that all the time. But it was nice to be up high for a weekend. Usually the comedown is hard, but I've gone the last 30 hours without one. So we'll see how it goes (I said nothing definitive about my good mood, so it can't be jinxed :P)

Ask me how I'm doing.

Ask me how I'm doing.

Usually I hate that question. But now--try me.

Because for the first time in months, I can say "good."

I mean, I'm not doing great by any means, but that sense of dread and hating being alive...it's dimmed significantly. Maybe it's even gone? and I don't even know how.

There is nothing I've been doing differently. I mean, I started being more active last week, but it's not like I haven't tried that multiple times in the past year.

So the only conclusion I can think of is that my medication, which was supposed to kick in after a few weeks, finally started making a difference after two months?

Or maybe the storm has just passed? Or there's a break in the clouds? I have no idea. But after the two worst weeks, I never thought this relief would come. They say it's always darkest before the dawn,  but holy cow that was a longggg darkness.

But now, I think maybe I can start to become me again.

I don't know what else to say. I think I have motivation again, but since I haven't had it in months, I don't know what to do with it.

I still feel like crying, I still feel useless, I still feel unappreciated and whatever, but...the terrible, awful darkness has subsided, and I have only had about one breakdown in the past week.

I don't know how long this will last, but I can finally say: hey. I think your prayers are working.

When you don't hear the music anymore

I used to be a songwriter. I'd like to say that I still am, but I have only written one song in the past year. Two in the past year and a half.

They say that great art comes from pain. Songs, stories, poems, paintings, dance, and I'm sure many other expressive mediums. And that's what I used to do with my pain. I put them in poems. I let it flow into my hand, out of my pen, into ink-filled notebooks that encapsulated my soul's deepest hurt.

When I learned the guitar, I transformed my art into songwriting, combining my two loves of music and poetry. Every emotion could be put into a song, and those songs were my rock: my evidence that I knew, that I learned, that I grew, and that I lived. 

But my soul's deepest hurt has gotten deeper. And I can't hear the music anymore. 

My favorite thing used to be driving with the windows down and the music up loud, singing along to every word. But now, the wind just makes my hair a bird's nest, and the music doesn't speak loud enough for my heart to hear. 

I try to play the guitar and sing to songs I once loved. I used to be able to do that for hours and never tire. But now it feels like a chore, and I don't even like the sound of my own voice anymore. 

I can write again, and I am so thankful for that. There was a period of time that I couldn't even do that. But now the music is gone. And I wish that would come back, too.

I know I can turn this pain into art. I have had ideas upon ideas upon ideas that have piled up for a year. But how can I do that when I can't hear the music anymore? 

What do you do when the music has faded? When the only sound you hear is the distant wind, sweeping up all the remains of your brokenness and carrying them away to a place where you can't even try to put them back together?

I'm not okay.

I know it's not true, but I feel like I'm programmed to fail.

Every good intention, every honest effort to succeed, somehow seems to betray me.

And I can't win.

I'm not okay. This is the third time this week that I have been up all night, staring at blank documents, trying to make myself do something productive. But I've just been paralyzed every time.

These past two weeks have introduced me to a new low. After trying so hard this semester to stay on top of things, I've finally let everything go. It all started with a research paper and a conference grading session.

A week and a half ago, my research paper was due and my teacher wanted us to conference grade with her, so I signed up for the time right after class to get it over with, went in to her office, expecting that it would be bad but that at least I'd be done with it.

I felt very anxious in a one-on-one setting, but I wiped away my tears as quickly as I could when they would come so that she wouldn't see me being weak. It's not that I think people should go easy on me because of my condition (and also she didn't even know about my condition) but it's just that I am so fragile that I honestly can't handle criticism. Even when it is constructive and deserved.

So she started pointing out flaws in my paper. I didn't argue, I knew she was right, so I just agreed with everything she said. I guess that wasn't satisfying because then she started asking me questions, like

"did you even pay attention during class when we discussed this?"

"so you knew where to look to get help but you didn't look at it?"

"you transferred from a junior college, right? Didn't they teach this there?"

"what it looks like you did was just give me the minimum effort of what was required."

"this is your chance to defend yourself, don't you have anything to say?"

By this time, I can't even hide it anymore. Tears are just freely flowing from my eyes and down my cheeks while I sit there silently, not even knowing what to say.

"are you crying because you think I'm being hard on you or because you know this isn't your best work?"

I can't speak. I have no words. I just cry.

"did you feel like you couldn't come talk to me and get help?"

I open my mouth to talk and I just lose it.

"No, because every time I try to talk to a teacher at this school, they're condescending and belittling, and I can't handle that."

By this time, I'm sobbing. Every time I inhale, it sounds like a goose is honking. I am humiliated, uncomfortable... I can't believe this is happening. I wish I was curled up in a corner, away from sight and sound of anybody else, instead of in front of one of my professors during a conference grade, my hair a mess, my leg shaking uncontrollably, and gasping for breath in the same clothes I wore to bed the night before because I woke up ten minutes before class.

I sit there for about ten or fifteen more minutes (I honestly don't actually know because it felt like forever) and tried to answer her questions, but it was all completely incoherent.

"do you have anxiety attacks like this often?" she asked me.

"every day,"  I say. but it sounds more like...nothing. It probably, honestly, sounded like loud, breathy, noise.

She says she wishes there was something she could do to help.

I tell her that no one can help. Professionals have been trying for months and nothing has helped. but that probably didn't sound like anything coherent either. She told me I could take my paper back and try again, so I scooped up the pages and walked out of her office, still unable to compose myself and my uncontrollable blubbering.

That weekend, I do the thing that always makes me feel better: road trip. I can usually go a day or two without an episode when I take a road trip, and that was something I definitely needed. The first night was good, but then I woke up the next morning with nowhere to go. I tried texting people. Busy. I went to my safe place which was my car, but the air conditioning is broken (just in time for summer, yay) and it was miserable.

I tried to go into public buildings where it was cooler to work on some homework maybe, but I knew that I needed to break down. I knew that I needed a place where nobody would ask me if I was okay. Where nobody would see or hear me hurting. But I didn't have that place.

Finally, I ended up at the park and sat underneath the shade of the tree, laid on the grass, and wondered how on earth I was going to make it through the weekend.

Then I got some more bad news--my old real estate management company had inappropriately allocated the money I paid them when I sold my contract and was now ripping off the new tenant. I feel like this is a common thing, but nothing makes me feel more frustrated and anxious and stressed out than owing people money.

And then my dad talked to me about the test that my doctor had done to determine good and bad medications, and the test was $3400. Of course, that was before insurance, but the insurance wouldn't pay for it until they knew why the test was taken.

As I sat there, sweaty, baking in my overheated car, right outside my friend's house, I knew that that was the moment that I would most like to be dead. If there was any time I wanted it the most, it was then. I could not even imagine being able to live another day. It sounds so... dramatic. And by definition, I guess it is. But it was real.

I made it through the weekend, painfully.

The Monday after I got back was the first night I stayed up all night trying to get myself to rewrite that paper. I looked at sources, I looked at my document, and I couldn't even think. I couldn't even imagine how I could write it the "right" way so that my teacher wouldn't trash it again. Everything I typed, I deleted, knowing that she would probably cross it out when going over it.

I was on the phone with my best friend back home crying and said that I wanted to drop out and come home. He told me I should because I needed to do what was right and healthy for me. I texted my other friend what I was thinking and she expressed the same sentiments. I knew that my dad had told me he's support me in whatever decision I made.

So I decided: I will drop out. I will pack up, I will go home, and I will just cut my losses. I'll get a job so I can start paying back my debt. I considered the fact that I knew I had already paid for housing and school, but I came to terms with wasting that. I imagined talking to people back home and having to tell them why I dropped out mid-semester. I planned my entire blog post. My mind was made up.

I called my mom as soon as the sun came up to tell her what I decided, and she stopped me. She reminded me of how close I was and how I could do it. She told me to drop another class if I needed it, but that it was worth it to stay and finish the semester. I hated that she was right, but I knew I should stay. All I could think was that I probably shouldn't have even come up here in the first place.

I avoided that teacher's class for almost the whole next week. I forgot to take the midterm. I did all the homework, but since I knew it would only be torn apart again, I figured: why bother? I decided to drop just that class, but after wrestling with that idea, I just couldn't rationalize it. Great decision to try and stay after you blow it big time like that, huh?

That week was dark. I stayed in my room and didn't talk to anyone. I watched all 7 seasons of Parks and Recreation, so that gives you an idea of how useless I was. But I just sunk, deep. I didn't know it was possible for me to get lower than I already was, but it was. And it happened. My dad who I had leaned on for support started seeming more apathetic, and for the first time in months, I went a few days without calling him. It was bad, considering he was half of my support, but I guess I was hoping that he'd miss me or worry and call. He didn't.

One day I didn't go to any of my classes. I knew I would take a huge hit, miss a quiz, and a presentation, but I just didn't go. I just slept through it, woke up, and then cried and thought "I am ruining my life and all I can do is sit back and watch it burn knowing that it's all my fault but there's nothing I can do to stop it."

It's like I am rational enough to know that I am making the wrong decision, but not strong enough to stop myself. Luckily I have deep rooted values and live in a pretty safe place so my bad decisions aren't as bad as they could be, but it still terrifies me.

I don't know what other types of challenges are coming my way with this disorder. Every time I learn or experience something new, I realize how in over my head I am and how scared I am. I don't want to be classified as a psychopath. I don't want people to hear that I'm bipolar and think "oh, wow, that makes so much sense." I just want to be normal.

But what I'm learning--and what I hate to learn--is that I'm not who I once was. I can't do what I once could. I can't care about what other people will think of me if and when I decide that I need to do what's best for me. And let me tell you, it is the most hopeless lesson I've ever had to learn. Because that person I became? I loved to be her. Those things I could do? I took pride in those. Those people whose thoughts I care about? I hate letting them down.

People tell me I can be that way again--that I'm not a let down. I don't know if that's true. But I just hope that I can be happy to be me again one day.

I don't know what to do.

I say that a lot.

"I don't know what to do."

I feel incapable of making decisions, because all of the decisions I've made lately have just made my life even more of a tangled up mess. Even the ones I've felt good about. I feel like I am not receiving any revelation or direction or idea of where my life should go. So I keep on guessing. And just like the trial and error process with all the medications I've tried--it feels like they've all been error.

So whenever I try to sort out what I'm thinking, what I'm feeling, and figure out what to do with the all-consuming sense of dread and stress, I can only utter the words: "I don't know what to do."

I mean, obviously I know what to do. I know that I have to just get up and get on with my life. I have to keep on waking up day after day and stay away from the black hole of darkness that keeps sucking me in. I know that's what I have to do.

But I guess what I'm saying is: I don't know what to do with this darkness. It's overflowing and I don't know where to put it. I don't know what to do about the fact that I'm in over my head but too stubborn to take some of the weight off of my shoulders. I don't know what to do about the fact that I continuously let down people who are relying on me because I've over committed myself and am to ashamed to say it.

I just don't know what to do. And maybe that's okay. But waiting out this storm is harder than I imagined. And I don't know what to do.

Cycles.

Bipolar is a very cyclical disorder. And if that really is what I have (who knows anymore, I feel like a lost cause) it's so interesting to see, especially in retrospect, the cycles in my life. With my mood, my money, my pant sizes.

Now this is a pretty sensitive topic, because I've done some pretty stupid things, and I continue to do stupid things almost on the daily because of it.

So if you've been reading my posts, you pretty much know about my mood cycles. I mean, I usually write about the bad because that's when it all hits me and I have to slow my boat, but I mean, I'd be lying if I said there hadn't been any good moments. On the whole, though, the past many months have definitely been low. Very, very low. Throughout my life, I've seen some definite periods of high and low, but I don't know if that's just how life goes or if that was this...disorder. I am having a hard time differentiating the two, it's still all pretty crazy to me.

But lets talk about money.
So about a year ago, I was good, right? And then I spent all my money on tuition and was broke again. And then I was broke for the summer and then moved to Provo and had a job that paid super well, right? and I was pretty much a star employee, what with never calling in sick, always doing what I was supposed to do, etc. But then I just started slipping into bad habits. I stopped working effectively and did the bare minimum. I took longer breaks and lunches than I should have. And then I started leaving early sometimes and not even coming in other times. That was around the time that I was having a hard time even getting out of bed in the morning (or afternoon, because I didn't work til 1:30 and let's be honest, I didn't get out of bed til 1:10.) I remembered that when I sunk into a depression at 15 years old, one of the things that got me out of it was shopping for new clothes. It was some real retail therapy. So I thought, why not do that again?

So I took all the money that I had saved up in my account, and spent nearly all of it. About $2000 of it was on the Russia trip, so that was fine, but then a couple more hundred was on some really useless stuff that I really didn't need. A 3DS, for example. When have I ever in my life been a gamer? Never. But for some reason I just needed that.

Let me just say, I am the kind of person who doesn't spend more than $10 on an article of clothing. Mostly I even think $10 is too much. I am ridiculously frugal. I get it from my mother. But in this instance, I just didn't care. I just spent a lot of money.

A few weeks later I spent a few hundred on a road trip. And then, I spent $100 on a perm. ON A PERM. you know how much I spend on my hair? About $1.50 a month on the cheapest shampoo and conditioner I can find. And then like $20 twice a year for a haircut. But I shelled out $100 on a perm because why the heck not.

And then my recklessness at work finally got me let go and I had...not a lot. So for the next few months I did nothing. I only ever spent money on gas and medical bills. I started donating plasma so that I could make some extra money. I started applying at other jobs, knowing that I couldn't handle having a job but also knowing I wasn't going to make it without having another source of income.

Well, another job never did come. I had a heck of a time trying to sell my contract, and moving up to Rexburg was a trip. I had to borrow a lot of money from my dad knowing that my tax returns were going to come back soon so I could at least pay him back and then after that, nothing besides plasma money was gonna help me out.

Then, one of my friends from home who lives up in Rexburg invited me to what she called a "beauty night." I knew that she did Mary Kay, and I knew how those beauty nights worked--they wanted to sell to you or to recruit you--and I was not even thinking about it. But then I ended up being recruited. I thought--if I look better on the outside, I'll feel better on the inside, and if I join, I'll have to look presentable because I'll need to represent the product I sell. And then I'll sell and make so much money. So I used my plasma money for the $115 start-up fee, and then the director talked to me about having inventory on hand and how I could get a loan or open up a credit card to make that happen. I don't know what happened, but I felt excitement and that I wanted to do that, and they made me feel like I could, so I opened a credit card, got approved for a $3000 credit limit, and spent nearly all of it on ordering inventory.

I then realized what I did and called my dad and my mom crying about how I couldn't afford that. My mom ended up getting me out of it by having me just send the packages back, but for a second there, I was $2700 in debt. I felt really bad about sending the stuff back at first, because I hate backing out of a commitment, but I am so up and down all the time that I am glad I don't have to worry about that debt because it would make my low points so much lower. And I can't take that right now.

But hey, all that money on accessories and my hair and make-up and guess what? I'm still ugly, and I still feel awful, because I cant get out of bed to even make myself presentable before I have to rush to class in the mornings.

And then in addition to my moods and bank account fluctuating, so does my weight. It's a particular kind of sadness when you don't even want to look in the mirror anymore because you're afraid of your own reflection and what it will do to you. A year ago, I was about 50 pounds lighter. 6 months before that, I was about the same as where I am today. I went through a period of hitting the gym 5 times a week, viewing food as only a means to fuel my body, and caring about my appearance, to barely moving, using food as a means of comfort, and not ever wanting to leave my house because of the lack of things I have to wear that will fit me. I didn't just stop exercising and then get depressed. I started getting depressed and then became unable to do anything but stay alive. People always think it's the other way around. Trust me, it's not.

It's been, well, terrible. Can't sugarcoat it. Those highs are great but those lows are so hard. And the hardest part is I know that when they pass, they are just going to come back again and punch me in the stomach when I am least expecting it.

They say that suicide is selfish...

...and I understand why.

It is selfish because one person thinks they have the right to play God and take their own life.
It is selfish because it makes other people suffer.
It is selfish because that person who is taking their life is focusing on themselves and their own pain rather than the problems or feelings of others.
It is selfish because they are leaving behind their mess for other people to clean up.
It is selfish because it hurts the survivors.

Yes, they say that suicide is selfish...

...but I don't think they should.

Because first of all, a person in that position is already dealing with enough. What is calling them selfish going to accomplish? I think it would only make them want to die more.
Because a person wanting to take that step is hurting so much.
They hate living, they quite possibly hate themselves.
Every thing that goes wrong in their life is another wave in a pool they're already drowning in.

It's true that everyone experiences hard times. There is no shortage of disappointments and struggles and tears and pain. But if we're going off the comparison of keeping your head above water, there are those who are swimming, who are getting stronger, who are able to kick and fight and, yes, they're exhausted, but they do it. They make it. But then there are people with broken arms, with legs that are paralyzed, with lungs that are filling up with water, who, with each passing second, wonder how much longer they can fight the waves until they drown. Sometimes they just can't take it anymore. Sometimes they give up trying and stop trying to prolong the inevitable. Sometimes they let go.

Lately my thoughts have travelling to darker places. Like, really dark. And,

dare I write this?

I want to kill myself.

I'm not going to, and here's why, but the desire grows stronger as the time passes without improvement. And I think of all the people who have been there for me, helping me, caring about me. And I hold on for them, because I know it's not fair to them.

It's not fair to my family to talk about how much I want to die, because I know how hard it hit them when my brother died. I know it hurts them to even imagine that happening again.
It's not fair to my friends, who try every day to help me, to say that the only thing that sounds good is death.
It's just not fair to them.

But this is where I am at.
I am at that place where the people I talk to about it have heard everything I have to say.
I'm at that place where nothing I say holds any weight anymore, because even though it does feel like it's getting darker, I don't have any more words to describe. It comes out in the same phrasing as it did the first time, even though its stronger now than it was then.
I am at that place where the words have become empty, but the pain has not.
And I can't think of many things that are more helpless than not being able to express that darkness.

But honestly, and maybe my rationality is altered here, but when I think about putting a stop to my mortal existence, I feel that I am not thinking solely about myself. I feel like there is definitely some selfishness in there, but it's mostly that I don't want to drag others down to the place that I'm at.
I hate having to let others help clean up my mess because I just cant do it alone. Believe me, I've tried.
And hate being a burden.

I'm sick of people asking how I am, because I'm not going to lie and tell them that I'm doing well. Because I haven't had a good day in a really long time.
I'm sick of my friends having to hear about my struggle all the time, and that I can't just be positive for them, put on a happy face and pretend everything is fine.
I hate having to call my dad and have him sit there on the phone with me, oftentimes in silence, because I can't voice the hurt.  I just need him there, on the line, just to feel his support. I know he's busy, he has things to do, but I just need him too much.
I hate being unable to hold a job and therefore broke and therefore needing to borrow money to get professional help.
I hate having already paid so much money on co-pays and tests and medications without any positive results.
I hate having to text people in the middle of the night because there are demons in me that I can't fight by myself, and I need someone to help me not succumb to them.
I'm tired of not even having an excuse, of there not being an actual problem to solve, of people who I can tell want to help but not being able to. It's frustrating for them, I know.
I hate being that burden.
And slice it however you want to and tell me that I'm not one, but I still feel like one.

I think of how dying would mean my parents would have to pay for a casket and burial plot, so I imagine how I can maybe burn instead? Or get a job that gives me life insurance before I do the dying so that they wouldn't have to pay out of pocket?

I think of how many mountains there are between Idaho and Colorado and how driving off of any one of them could cause the perfect tragedy. But then I think of those who have attempted and failed. And if there is anything that sounds worse to me than dying in that situation, it's living through that situation.

Like I said, my mind has been travelling to some dark places. Places that I'm not going to follow it, but places that I can't vocally speak of.

And that's why I can't call suicide selfish. I can't look at my friend from high school, who told me that if I ever killed myself, she'd bring me back to life and kill me again twice only to bring me back and slap me, who then took her own life, and say that she was acting selfishly when she shot herself. I can't look at people who are in so much pain and agony, who feel like they are burdens, who have grown weary of picking themselves back up again, and say that they are only thinking about themselves when they decide to try and take their life. Because in all reality, they are probably thinking what they're doing is the best, and sometimes the only, option for everyone involved. That may be warped thinking, but if you've experienced first or second-hand mental illness, you know that warped thinking is a part of the package.

I'm not advocating suicide. I'm not even justifying it. I'm just saying that I understand the desire.

Because if I didn't believe and know the things that I do, I would be right there with those who attempt, and hopefully those who succeed. And I can't imagine how people make it through this life without the knowledge and hope and faith that I have.

Deserving of Love.

When it got to the point of being really bad, even though I didn't tell people, I knew that people could tell. Not necessarily that I was experiencing a battle with my mental illness, but that something was deeply wrong and I was going through something. In these past six months, I have never seen so much kindness and service from people.
If I'm being honest, people serving me makes me cry so hard and feel so bad. I know that's exactly the opposite of the intention, but I hurt so bad because I know that other people are trying to help and they do it because they care, but I know that no matter what they do for me, they aren't going to be able to fix me. And they put all this love and effort into serving me and I'm still sad, and moody, and hurting. It's like there are road blocks up preventing me from feeling the love.
I want to so bad, I want to let it change me, but it can't. And I want to be better for them. I want them to feel like their charity isn't failing. I want their prayers to help me so that their faith can be strengthened. I feel like I'm letting them down when I don't get better. And it makes me want to distance myself from them so I don't have to hurt them anymore by making them feel like their efforts are wasted.
I remember when my roommate would constantly buy my food because I didn't have and couldn't find a job and was so stressed about money. I didn't go grocery shopping for 4 months, but she always made sure to tell me I could eat her food. I can't even count how many times she took me out and bought me food. Even when I'd protest it. I couldn't even fathom how she was so willing to do that. I couldn't even do anything to pay her back.
After my move and starting school, of course I took it pretty hard. My best friend from back home sent me this huge care package with a giant stuffed elephant, a coloring book, and other fun things. He even ordered me Chinese food to my house for me and paid for it. He is another person who has spilled his heart and wallet to help me with everything I go through, even though he is far away. He calls frequently and makes sure I know he's there to call whenever I need him.
My dad...oh my goodness. I.. not only has he been an incredible help when I needed to borrow money, but I have needed to call him every single day. And I cry on the phone with him for like an hour. And he always tells me that no matter what I do, he will support me. He encourages me and tells me there is hope. He then asks if there is anything that he can do for me. And then, after all that, I get a package in the mail from him with a bunch of treats and snacks. I call him crying and thank him. " I thought that it would make you happy," he says, confused at why I am bawling. Oh, dad, it does, but I just feel so bad for making you feel like you needed to send something. As if you don't already do enough. But I know he didn't feel obligated, he was just being wonderful like he always is.
And then, of course, there's Jenny. She texts me every day and asks how I'm doing. She's been doing that for pretty much a year now. Even when I go days without replying, she's texting me scriptures or quotes or telling me she loves me. When I lived closer, she would come to me when I needed her. When I needed to be alone, but I needed something miraculous to help me through the night, she'd come and leave cookies. She'd invite me to dinner, and when I said no, she brought leftover dinner to me.
All these people have done more for me than I could ever write in a blog post, more than I can even count or remember. They, and many others, have been such blessings in my life that no matter what I do in this life or the next, I will /NEVER/ be able to repay them. And I know that's not what they want, and I know they will be blessed abundantly in other ways because of their selflessness. But it hurts me to think that I am so incredibly blessed, yet so unable to receive that love and let it make me whole.
I feel like...it's like summertime in a block of ice. I can see the sun, I can see the beautiful things that come from the sun, but I can't feel the sun. I can't even move. No matter how many blessings I count, no matter what I try, no matter what things I know to be true about the goodness of life, I can't appreciate it. Even though I want to, so, so desperately.
It also scares me to think that so long as I don't get better, what if these people just get tired and give up trying? I know they're too good for that. But what could they possibly see in me that's worth fighting to keep helping me?
I asked Jenny that question constantly. I told her that I didn't deserve her love, she was too giving and all I did was take because I had nothing to give. And she related a story from Charlotte's Web.

She said:
"Wilbur asks a question. You have asked me similar questions. If I were more eloquent, I would reply as Charlotte does."

"'Why did you do all this for me?' he asked. 'I've never done anything for you.' 'You have been my friend,' replies Charlotte. 'That in itself is a tremendous thing. I wove my webs for you because I liked you. After all, what's a life, anyway? We're born, we live a little while, we die. A spider's life can't help being something of a mess, with all this trapping and eating flies. By helping you, perhaps I was trying to lift up my life a trifle. Heaven knows anyone's life can stand a little of that.''

In his General Conference address in April of 2016, President Dieter F. Uchtdorf said something similar about being worthy of love and how Jesus Christ, the Good Shepherd, cares for His sheep.

"The sheep is worthy of divine rescue simply because it is loved by the Good Shepherd.
To me, the parable of the lost sheep is one of the most hopeful passages in all of scripture.
Our Savior, the Good Shepherd, knows and loves us. He knows you and loves you.
Ho knows when you are lost, and He knows where you are. He knows your grief. Your silent pleadings. Your fears. Your tears.
It matters not how you became lost--whether because of your own poor choices of because of circumstances beyond your control.
What matters is that you are His child. And He loves you. He loves his children.
He sees us worthy of rescue.
You may feel that your life is in ruins. You may have sinned. You may be afraid, angry, grieving, or tortured by doubt. But just as the Good Shepherd find His lost sheep, if you will only lift up your heart to the Savior of the world, He will find you.
He will rescue you.
He will lift you up and place you on His shoulders.
He will carry you home."

I know that though it can be impossible to feel it sometimes, I am still deserving of love because, if nothing else, I am a child of the supreme Creator. I know that eventually the ice will melt and I will feel the sunshine, even if that's not in this life. I'm grateful for the people who show me that through their service. I hope I can make other's feel the way they make me feel. Heaven knows anyone's life can stand a little of that.

What They Can't See

I went into the doctor's office yesterday to check up on my meds and make sure that there weren't any unpleasant side effects. Everything was going well, but I couldn't help but feel like he was treating what I was going through like it was no big deal.
Now, before you think I'm throwing myself a pity party for how people don't understand me, not even the professionals, let me just say that I can see where they're coming from. They treat this kind of stuff probably every day, from people who are dealing with milder things to people who are dealing with extreme things. ((And honestly, if there are people up here that are going to school with something more severe than what I'm dealing with, then I don't know HOW ON EARTH because I am one colossal meltdown away from dropping out and moving home.))
 But that's beside the point. When he said that he didn't think what I was dealing with was that severe, I broke a little more. I feel like I'm a strong person. I push through a lot. I have survived some tough stuff. And this past year has got to be harder than all of it. So am I actually just weaker than everyone else?
I guess maybe I don't explain it very well? I mean, of course I have my walls, but I feel like I say straight up what I'm dealing with. And that's why it scares me a lot of the time when I'm in a good place and I go to the doctor, because that's how they see me. They see me when I'm okay and just a normal person: the person that I've worked so hard to become for the six years before  this past one. They don't see my eyes puffed up and the pile of tissues stacked on my desk due to last night's episode that lasted til 2 a.m.
I tell them that I cry everyday, but I don't think they get it. It's not like I go home, lay on my bed, listen to sad music and let tears roll down my cheeks for an hour.
I go home and try to do my homework when out of nowhere I am seized upon by some emotional plunge that wont let me even speak. I gasp for air as I contort into strange, different positions on my bedroom floor searching for some relief, as if it can possibly come from the way I am physically positioned. The emotion won't let me sit still, and I clutch my chest, knowing that even though I know it's impossible that my heart is physically broken, there is still some sort of intense pain radiating from inside my chest that no amount of physical or emotional or vocal outburst will get rid of.
I don't just water my pillow. I soak my cheeks, I wear out my eyes so that most of the time I cant put my contacts in in the morning, I cover the book I am trying to study out of in snot, as I struggle to find enough tissues, I breathe in so deeply that I know that, though there is a wall between us, my roommates are hearing my breakdown for the 49234th time this semester. and I'm humiliated.
I'm tired of being this way. But it's gotten to the point that I'm afraid to get well again, because then it will feel like I was being weak the whole time and like it actually wasn't a big deal. That sounds silly, I know, but it happens every time that I feel okay. I think "I'm just fine. I guess I was just being dramatic." But then I catch another wave and suddenly it's a big deal again, because it feels like drowning every time.

Telling People.

Warning: this is a bit rant-y 

Telling people you have a mental and emotional disorder is the worst. I hate the way people react. And the thing is, no reaction is a good one. They all just make me angry.

Because you know what? These days, everyone claims mental illness. It feels like it is glamorized and everyone thinks they understand it and know what it's like. I don't belittle or minimize the struggle that other people have where they hurt and struggle through the day most days. That's real and painful and I don't wish it on anyone. 

...But I also don't appreciate being minimized by people who truly have no idea what it's like to not see any reason to getting out of bed in the morning, and even when they do, have the hardest time trying to. 

People who have no idea what it's like to end every day on end for months and months in convulsing sobs and have no idea why. 

People who don't understand how if feels to go through every day and have no idea how they're going to make it through this life because every day just feels like a push to end it all, yet they know they can't see that as an option even though it feels like the only acceptable one. 

People who aren't even stable enough to be able to hold a job and it takes everything in them to keep from telling off all their teachers for everything (when that's so against my nature!)

People who don't get it that it's hard enough to keep relationships up with friends and can't see themselves ever being able to have a family of their own--not because of nobody wanting them, but literally feeling like they will always be too unstable take care of anyone--including themselves. 

I know what it's like to have depressive periods. I went through those all my life. And I know that they are so incredibly painful and they still feel like you want to die. But I never called them a mental illness, because mental illness to me always meant something serious. And everything I've felt this past year has been something of a much different color than just being sad all the time and wanting to die. I have never, ever sought help before now because I am so so prideful--but this takes all my energy every day. Every day feels like an extreme episode of PMS-- the smallest things send me reeling and the slightest movement can trigger a full-blown attack. And the scariest thing is, I can't help but think:

So yeah. When other people try to relate to me, it makes me mad. Not always, there are some people who do it well, some people who I can trust really do have some insight to what I'm going through, but ugh... most people? no. 

The other thing I hate is when people try to tell me how many other people struggle with the same things I do. There is someone who doesn't experience any of it, but wants to tell me that there are so many other people who get it. How is comparing my pain to the pain of everyone else going to make me feel better? I guess they are trying to convey the message that I am not alone, and that I shouldn't feel bad for experiencing it because it's pretty common, but it just feels like my pain is being minimized and like what I'm going through doesn't matter because, well, everyone goes through it. Bull. 

Then there are those people who try to tell you how to deal with it. You know, those one's who are like: "here are some talks by some general authorities about how to be happy!" "just pray!" "have you tried eating healthy and exercising?" "just try to see the good things in every day!" 

There are so many things that people say when you tell them. And the truth is, there will be like 2 who understand and are there for you without trying to fix you. There are 3 people I've told who I haven't regretted telling, not including the health professionals. And it's rough, because people wont understand why I am the way I am unless I tell them, but then they still wont understand if I do tell them. And there are people that I wish knew. But then after they know, it's not that I wanted them to know, it's that I wanted them to understand. But that's hardly ever the case. And it always feels like a
lose-lose situation. 

The Diagnosis (Part II)

I realize that there are some details that I left out of the original story.
The feelings, the appointments, the humiliation--those were pretty right on.
But I know what you're thinking: didn't you go see a therapist? Well. I did. Jenny had to find one of those for me, too.
Making the appointment was hard. I mean, I know these people get calls all the time for people who need emotional and mental help-- but this time, it was me. It was my pride on the line. I don't know, it just felt dark. I had such a bad feeling about the appointment for days leading up to it, as if everything with in me was screaming "abort, abort." I fought through it.
The night before the appointment, I was so nervous. The only way she's be able to properly diagnose me was if I told her everything exactly right...what if I left something out? What if I didn't say everything exactly right and then she misdiagnosed me? I wanted to make sure that I said everything, and since I don't feel everything at the same time, I had been meaning to write it all down but I could never focus long enough to write more than a sentence. So during my last break at work, I went out to my car and recorded myself saying everything that I've felt since the onset. It felt forced and awkward and just wasn't good. So after 12 minutes and gave up and went outside.
I made it to the appointment. Late, of course, because I can't handle the tiny bit of responsibility it takes to get somewhere on time, but I made it. As I was filling out the paperwork, I started to feel anxious. I felt trapped--like I was locked into being there and there was no way out. (I also think there's just something about giving a place my credit card information that just makes me feel very insecure. Especially considering that at this point, I'm broke, haven't gone grocery shopping in months, and barely getting by.)
The lady I met with was very kind... understanding...validating... she even tied things back to the gospel which is something I needed. But I just felt so uneasy the whole time. Like my walls couldn't come down. I just felt...crazy again.
When it comes down to it, therapy is something I've never understood. Having my parents divorced at a young age and then my brother dying not too long afterwards, I became very well acquainted with therapists of all kinds, very early on. No doubt those experiences tainted my view of talking to random people to solve problems, especially because I never had any noticeable feelings of relief or catharsis afterward. But people say it works. And Elder Holland says that if we have appendicitis, the Lord would expect us to get a priesthood blessing and seek professional medical help--and the same goes for mental illnesses.
So I did it. Nothing else was helping and the doctor kept recommending it and I was running out of options, so I jumped on it.  It didn't really do anything, but I thought that I couldn't judge it based off just the first time.
So I made another appointment, but before that appointment could happen, the lady in charge contacted me to let me know that my insurance didn't cover services at that particular institution. After all that it took me to make the appointment, to prepare, and to show up and try to let someone in...I was devastated. I cried the whole day that I had to call and tell them that I wasn't going to be able to afford to come back.
I didn't mention this earlier, but after I realized I was trapped at the bottom of a depression hole and I had no desire at all to live anymore, I felt like I needed to do something to make me excited about life. So I started planning. I made plans to go to school for the Spring semester at BYU Idaho, and I made plans to go to Russia and teach English for the fall 2016 semester.
So all the things from the other post happened during my time in Provo, and come April, I transferred up to BYU-I. The move to Rexburg was just like the one I had 8 months earlier to Provo: no job, no money, few friends, but high hopes...and extreme nervousness.
I mean, this was the last thing I could think of to make me me again, right? I loved school. Of course I was going crazy at my last job, that place was prison! Of course things didn't get better after I quit because I didn't have anything to do with my life and I was going crazy! So this had to be the answer, right?
I can't tell you how wrong I was.
The very first day of classes, I lost it. I was sitting in my bed about to go to bed at 10 p.m. and I just started sobbing. I was curled up in the corner of my bed and I couldn't even breathe I was crying so hard. I didn't know how to calm down, so I called my dad. And I don't know what it is about my parents, maybe it's just feeling safe to talk to them or something, but my walls came even further down and I cried harder. I didn't know what I had gotten myself into, but I didn't like it.
I committed to keep trying the next few days and give it a fair shot. Of course I continued having break downs every day...and the worst was when they'd happen in the morning, because then I'd be crying all day. So all of my teachers, classmates,  and even some random people on campus saw me crying like my whole second week. Putting on make-up in the morning was pointless because I'd just cry it off by the time I came home. What a nightmare.
Every day I'd call my parents and they'd say "you can come home!" or "drop a few classes, it's okay!" but of course it wasn't okay, because I'm a stubborn kid. So I kept all my classes and even added another one.
My friend, you remember Jenny? Yeah she told me every day to make an appointment to see a counselor at the student health center. Finally I did and I went in and a miraculous thing happened: I bawled the whole time while I was telling the guy what was going on. I was impressed, because my walls had been so high lately that any time I talked to someone about it (besides my parents) I couldn't express myself...like at all. So he recommended I go get a new medication, referred me to the doctor who could prescribe that, and then signed me back up to come see him again once every other week.
so I went and got a new medication (my fourth one, mind you, because the third one didn't do much of anything for me,) and the doctor actually said that if you try to treat a mood disorder with an antidepressant, it's going to make it worse. lightbulb. So instead, he put me on an anti-epileptic drug which also helps with mood instability (I'm glad to report I'm still epilepsy free.)
So I've been on that for two weeks, I go back in a few days to get the dosage increased, and it should start working like next week.
This week has been one of those weeks that, if I had had this type of week a few weeks earlier, I would have packed up and gone home. It's been a nightmare, I can't even tell you. I have never felt so much like I will never be fixed. There are times in the past week that I have felt bits and pieces of myself coming back to me, but then it vanishes...and I'm face-down on the ground soaking my stuffed elephant with tears and drool, left to wipe the dried tears off my phone the next day.
And that's the way the cycle's been. I made a goal with my counselor a few weeks ago. I haven't done it. I make goals for one of my classes. I don't do them. I don't know how to make myself be better. My dad says I need to choose it. But I feel like I can't. It's like choosing to fly--no matter how badly I want it, if I jumped out my window, I would crash onto the concrete below me.
I feel like even my best has become not good enough for anyone else, and I'm trying to keep believing that it's enough for me...but I don't know how long I'm going to last. And I just don't know what to do anymore--I don't think anyone can tell me something that I haven't already tried.

The diagnosis.

It was really hard to explain to people, so normally I didn't (and still don't.) Just my one friend-Jenny. And it was hard because sometimes I'd be completely fine, but then other times I felt like my heart was being ripped out of my chest. I wouldn't usually reach out for help or to talk, but when I did, these are the things I'd say:

It's hard to look back at those and truly feel the emotion behind them. I feel like people carelessly have thrown the phrase "kill me" around so much that it has lost meaning. But at these moments, I truly wanted it. I wanted it so badly. 

Anyway, after figuring out that I was probably depressed, I decided to take it more seriously. I realized that nothing was working; everything was just a temporary fix. This had gone on too long, so I decided to take action and get professional help. 

But of course, that was too overwhelming, so I just waited it out a little longer. Like I mentioned earlier, my friend had to come over and basically dial the number for me and let me talk to make the appointment. It was so embarrassing, but I did it. I had an appointment. 

So I went to the doctor's appointment, right? My coworker recommended this doctor because he is also her mental health doctor and she said he was really good. So I sat in the doctor's office and while I waited there, I was overcome with panic. What if I was just overreacting to the entire thing and I'm just fine? i pulled out my phone frantically and texted my friend:

The doctor ended up coming in and giving me tests. I explained my past to him, my present, all the feelings I had been having , all the thoughts I had. He gave me a "diagnosis" of depression and a prescription for antidepressants. He told me to come back in a month. 

I left feeling relieved. A little hopeful that maybe things would be good. Of course it took a month and a half to kick in. And of course I didn't go back to see him in a month... my bad. 

So about two and a half months later, not only am I really bad at remembering to take pills (I was pretty consistent, there was just a day here or there that I'd forget), but I also felt like I was going crazy. I felt anxious and that I had too much energy and I needed an outlet but there was no way to get that outlet. I can't explain it, but in short, I just felt crazy. And I wasn't really feeling "anti-depressed." So I stopped taking those pills. 

It wasn't quite a month later when I started having ridiculous lows again. I had a serious emotional breakdown everyday for at least two hours a day. The most ridiculous things set me off and I would be having a good day where I felt good and then I'd talk to someone about something and start crying and not be able to stop. Not just tears, but full on sobs. And I'd also get super angry, and agitated which as I previously said, is not like me at all. I quickly called to make another appointment with my doctor. the soonest I could get scheduled was two weeks away. I hung up the phone and sobbed in the break room. 

My rapidly fluctuating mood swings ended up interfering too much with my work and I was soon let go. 

I went on road trips to cheer me up. They did, too. But I always had to come back down when I came home. And even though I had been working for months making pretty decent money, my shopping spree of "retail therapy" that I had gone on a month earlier dumped basically all of it and I was left with some sparse remains. 

I was at a loss. I knew I couldn't handle having a job, but I also knew I couldn't really live on the money in my bank account, especially if I was going to be getting professional help. But I didn't really have a choice. 

Stressed, I returned to my doctor. He came in and said "I hear we haven't fixed you yet." I sobbed and explained what I had been experiencing. He had me take a sleep apnea test, added a diagnosis of a mood disorder (which he was suspicious of the first appointment but I tried to talk him out of it then). He gave me some really strong meds and said to come back in two weeks. 

I took those pills at an increasing dose as directed and boy. Those effects were immediate. They knocked me out. I slept for 14-17 hours a day. I felt like a zombie. I had a ridiculous appetite and ate everything, and I also had no energy. I would tell people what these meds were doing to me and they told me to stop taking them, but I couldn't. I couldn't say no to a potential solution. After two weeks, I went back to get more help. I was so discouraged. He came in the room just as he had the previous time and repeated his line "so I hear we haven't fixed you yet." I just looked at him and sad: "I'm unfixable." I really believed it at that point. Sometimes I still do. Much of the time, I still do. 

When I told him about the pills, he decided to do a genetic test to see what medications worked well with the enzymes in my body. I came back a few weeks later to see test results. No surprise, the second one was on the bad list. Turns out, there were only six medications that were on the good list. And one of them was the first medication they had me on. 

That was disheartening. If the first one didn't work, maybe none of the ones on the good list will make any difference. Maybe I really am unfixable.

It's been a few weeks that I've been taking the third medication. I don't think I'm feeling anything yet. I still have approximately 1 emotional breakdown a day. Last week, I think I went one day without one, but ohhhh boy did it catch up with me the next day. I cried so hard. I ugly cried. I cried so loud. I couldn't control myself. I couldn't talk. I couldn't be around people the whole second half of the day, or I would start crying. The amount of snot I produced was unreal. too much? tell me about it. 

I would be lying if I said that I think I'm anywhere near being able to function like a normal human being again. I'll be starting school again in a few weeks. I used to be so good at time management and getting my work done on time and not procrastinating and also being able to work part-time. Now I worry and wonder if I'll be able to make it. 

The reality is that it could never get better in this life. I have hope that it will, but my mood disorder diagnosis (also called bipolar) is something that is lifelong. I am really scared because I don't know when my episodes will happen. I don't how frequently the cycles will cycle. But I am trying to be educated and understand it so that I can help myself. I am fighting. And I hope that I never give up. 

Background.

I feel like even on my good days it gets worse. I get out. I enjoy the sunshine. I talk to good people. I am told that I am loved. I am served. I am complimented. I am offered so much of the good that the world has to offer. I count my blessings. But then, out of nowhere, I am in tears. Convulsing sobs in the confines of my bedroom or even the back seat of my car. I feel unworthy to be on this earth. I didn’t do anything wrong. The guilt comes out of nowhere. But it’s consuming.

 I go out to socialize. People say that having a strong social support group is important for happiness. But there’s always a moment.  A moment during the social interaction where it’s no longer enjoyable. There is a switch- a switch that just turns off and I feel a complete void. I don’t want to be social anymore. I just want to sink away to my room. But how do I tell that to people? How do I tell people that I’m too overwhelmed—even though my daily activities have consisted of nothing—yet I’m too exhausted to be around people. How do I tell them that without them taking it personally that even though we were laughing and having a good time a minute ago—I just have to be alone?  They notice that something is wrong. But it’s never the time to get into it when there’s a bunch of people around. I feel trapped. I feel like I’m sabotaging my relationships. I feel like no matter what I do, I can’t win.

I get angry. I get so, so irritated that I just want to scream and cry and tell people off. People who I love, who are kind, who are doing their best to help me. Instead, I hold it in and I release it in silent sobs at 2 am when I can’t sleep. I laugh off cutting remarks in the moment that eat at me and fuel my hate fire for the next time I see those people. And then the anxious anticipation comes. When I walk in my house and hold my breath, knowing that if my roommates are home I will have to do anything I can to get out of talking to them. Every question they ask feels invasive—even though I know they are just trying to make conversation and be kind and loving. “how are you doing?” “how was your day?” “what are you watching.” It takes all I can muster not to snap and say “none of your business.”

And I hate it. I hate it all.

I wasn’t always like this. I used to be so even tempered, it was insane. I mean, I had the occasional breakdown and fit of rage here and there, as is normal with the typical with depression that I’ve had since childhood, but I was convinced that by 16, I had grown out of it. That was until it came back hard at 18. Then it went minor again. But at 21…I couldn’t deny it anymore. I never admitted that I had depression. I think that maybe it’s because of the church, and the constant sentiment of “you get to choose how you feel” and “you are not the victim of your circumstance.” I was convinced to believe that I was just a negative minded young woman, afflicted by hardships in childhood, and that was the reason I was so pessimistic. So after years of effort, I overcame the negative thinking, the self harm, the public emotional outbursts. So many people had told me that I had changed and become a different person. And I LOVED that. I was the poster child of how positive thinking makes all the difference. I was a living example of how choosing your emotions could change your life. That’s who I wanted to be. And I grew to love myself.

Lots of things happened over the next few years. I experienced some severe lows and some euphoric highs. I graduated high school, I got my first jobs, I went to college, I served an LDS mission, I came home, got my associates degree, had a good life, for the most part. I was still in the choice mentality. I was having some issues, dad being in the hospital, car issues, money issues, and then a break up which was the final event in a chain that sent me reeling. I tried to not let it get to me. I tried to choose to be okay. I threw myself into things like the temple, ward involvement, family stuff, road trips, all of the things they say to get your life back. I reconnected with old friends, I tried so. hard. I felt like I spanned the entire spectrum of human emotion every day but always ended up at the bottom. I told my best friend about all of it, and she made suggestions. I got priesthood blessings that made things wonderful for a few days, but within the week things would sink back to being terrible. I talked to my bishop and his wife, individually and they both expressed their concern that I had depression. I refused to acknowledge that suggestion. I was just a person having a hard time looking for a solution. I knew there was one, I just hadn’t found it yet. Or so I thought.

In a final decision of needing to get away, I made the quick decision to move to the neighboring state. I had $200 in my bank account and no job secured. Well, I made it. I was so happy the first week. I thought all my troubles were gone. I had gotten a job and in the meantime before that job started, I found temp work. It was working out. But though I could get a new routine, move to a new place, have a new scenery, interact with different people and all of that, my demons followed me. I was still trapped inside myself and nowhere I went could get me far enough away from myself. I had a lot of friends in my new location, so for a month I drew on them for support. I made some spontaneous road trips with new friends. But eventually I spiraled. I was under my roommates bed at midnight sobbing uncontrollably on the phone to my parents about how I didn’t feel like I had any future  and I wished I was dead. It got to the point where I could only get out of bed to go to work and home. I didn’t talk to anybody unless it was my roommates or my coworkers who I had to be around. All of my commitments I immediately regretted because it meant going to things and trying to be my old self—the one I had lost in all the emotion. One day I was just sitting at work answering phones, wondering how I was going to make it, when the only quote I could hold on to was Holland’s “do not vote against the preciousness of life by ending it.” I repeated that over and over in my head as silent tears rolled down my cheeks. My friend finally said needed to seek professional help.

It took a while. And since I couldn’t handle any responsibility, she was the one who ended up calling making appointments for me while I lay there curled up on the couch. It’s been five months since then and waking up every day is still a struggle. I don’t know what to do…but I feel like getting it out written down somewhere so it’s not just festering inside me is good.

It’s been …

Humiliating.

Frustrating.

Problematic.

Hopeful.

and Emotional.

And I’m not going to lie and say it’s been okay. And I’m also not going to lie that it’s okay now. But I know that someday everything will be absolutely perfect; and that’s going to have to be okay for now.