There is no pretending that I have always struggled with my mental health. I mean, who wouldn’t when the only mom you ever knew and had died when you were nine years old. Then, five years later the only dad you knew is dead, too.
Ever since my mother’s death, I had a profound grip on what depression is. While it was fairly intense at times, even resulting in me telling my middle school friends I was going to kill, I dealt with it in silence. I never openly told anyone I needed help.
Maybe because I was so young, I didn’t know I did. However, after exploring more about my symptoms, I found out I had depression, maybe even bipolar disorder. So, I found the answer, but now what?
It took me almost 20 years later to even admit to anyone there was something wrong mentally. After my daughter was born, I experienced something new: anxiety. If you have never had it, let me tell you it is horrible. I didn’t know what was going on. I figured it was a depressive episode coming on, but this was much worse.
It has gotten worse as the years have gone on. It’s been almost 4 years that I have been dealing with intense anxiety. Today was the day I finally decided I was really going to get help. So, I became an anti-depressant. I am hopeful it will work and scared I am going to turn into a zombie.
Either way, I feel proud of myself. My doctor was great. She picked up on me not being comfortable talking about it. She reminded me we briefly spoke about it before, but I was not ready to take anything. Now, I am.
I’m tired of feeling like this. It makes you feel so helpless and like no one cares; no one understands; no one knows. But know you do.