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.