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.