Personal Column

Each day with a mental illness is a rollercoaster ride.

Will I wake up happy or sad? Motivated or sluggish? Social or not?

I could wake up every morning and stand in the mirror and tell myself to be happy, but what good would it do if I felt like I was bullying myself each day?

In middle school, I made the executive decision to go to therapy. It wasn't my parents choice, but mine. I wanted to talk to someone without the fear of judgement. 

When I met my now therapist, I knew it would work for me.

Her name is Cecelia and she has cat like glasses and really comfortable chairs in her office. Each appointment, I would hug a pillow and spill my guts.

I've gone to her on and off since then. She was the first therapist I "tried out." Not many people get as lucky as I do. After the first session I knew that this was the woman I wanted to talk to.

These sessions focused on my anger issues, but later focused on other things, like anxiety and depression. I was the second daughter out of four, and I felt like the odd man out. My younger sisters wanted to be friends with my older sister and I was passed over. I would pick fights with my sisters and would get into arguments with my dad constantly.

I'm not proud of it. In fact, I think about it all the time and want to grab my 10-year-old shoulders and shake them until she changes her ways.

It's weird to look back and think that a 4'8" little girl with the brightest blonde hair could have so much pent up anger residing in side her. I bet my face looked like a tomato when I was angry it was so red.

Therapy helped me a ton. I still use the techniques that Cecelia taught me to control myself when I get angry. It makes me happy to know that I actually learned things when I as in therapy, and it wasn't just a waste of money.

There was one time when I was younger, when my dad and I got into a really bad argument. The rest of my family had to go onto our sunporch while we fought. I screamed and cried and fought. I don't even remember what it was about. 

It physically breaks my heart looking back because I can't even remember what our fights were about, which means that they probably weren't even that important in the first place.

For years, and even when I go home for breaks, always, at the end of each visit, I ask my parents if I acted OK. If I socialized with everyone enough and if I had a positive attitude. It's that sort of validation that I feel like I need to feel comfortable leaving them.

But, as one problem went away, more piled on. 

Since then, I have been medically diagnosed and medicated for anxiety, depression, ADHD and OCD.

Not OCD as in, ugh my bedroom is messy and I need to clean it or oh no the teacher forgot to wipe writing off of the white board.

OCD as in, I have to repeat words four times or else I can't focus. 

OCD as in, my body doesn't feel symmetrical and I have to keep shifting in my seat and turning at the waist to make myself even.

OCD as in, sometimes I have to look at objects or words with one eye at a time, giving me a nervous twitch. 

OCD as in, if I'm not wearing rings on my fingers or earrings in my ears, I will start to scratch where they should be until I've broken the skin.

Not anxiety and ADHD as in I get nervous for tests and get songs stuck in my head.

Anxiety and ADHD as in sometimes I physically cannot enter a particular room.

Anxiety and ADHD as in I would get full blown panic attacks before I used to run track in high school.

Anxiety and ADHD as in sometimes I'll picture things in my mind, but they start moving and I need to sit down and will them to stop moving.

Anxiety and ADHD as in I am constantly touching my clothes, worried that in every public place I'm in, people are watching, judging and laughing at me.

Not depression as in sometimes feel sad.

Depression as in sometimes my body won't get out of bed in the morning. 

Depression as in I would be in a social setting and then just completely shut down.

Depression as in I could sleep for 10 hours but I still feel tired and don't want to get out of bed.

Depression as in I wouldn't talk to some people for days at a time.

It doesn't all just go away with time. It's not like an allergy, where as you get older you become more resistant to it. If that were the case, I think I would be the happiest person on this planet. 

I think about all these things a lot. What I want to know is why? Why was I the person in my family who was cursed with all these problems? Why couldn't I just have let things go? Why did I end up like this even though I had a perfect childhood?

I hate to think about my parents thinking that it's their fault, that their parenting style made me like this. It's not their fault. Not even the slightest. When people say that their parents are the best, I know they're not, because my parents are the best. 

There is not another duo on this planet who raised their children better than my parents. My dad would go coach three soccer games on Saturdays when we were younger, just so he could see us all play. And my mom, I can't even put into words all that she's done for my sisters and I. 

It was by some roll of the dice that I ended up the way I am. 

If I'm being completely honest, sometimes I'm glad that all these burdens landed on my shoulders and not my sisters. I would never want them to feel the way I do, not for a minute and not for a second. I am happy to feel this way if it means my sisters don't. 

I'm not embarrassed by my mental illness. I used to be. I used to hide it and act like everything was fine, even when it wasn't. Now, I sort of wear it like a badge of pride. I have gone through so much over the years and I am still chugging along, going through life. 

The older I get, the prouder of myself I get. If I can go through my teens and my 20's with depression, anxiety, ADHD and OCD, I feel like I can do anything.