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I guess I am not entirely sure how to start this. I am not the type of person who shows everything to everyone. I prefer to suffer in silence. I paint on a smile and pretend to be ok.
I'm not ok.
I hate to complain. I hate to show my weaknesses. I hate to be vulnerable. But, I know that there is someone out there who has the same problems as me, someone who needs help, but is too proud or too hurt to ask. I find myself in both categories.
I'm not writing this to complain, rather, I am writing this to explain. I have become who I am because of my pain. It has driven me on and shaped my existence. I want to raise awareness for invisible illnesses. So many people suffer without support. This is for them. This is for me.
When I was 12, I hurt my back. I was diagnosed with spondylolisthesis. The pain was constant and horrific. I couldn't walk for a few weeks and when I began walking again, it was slow and tortuous. I had to wear a back brace every day. Middle school is hard enough without having to wear a brace. I had to quit tennis, theatre, and show choir while I was healing. Because of my lack of activity, I began to gain weight. I wore baggy t-shirts to cover my brace, but that just made me look fatter.
On top of the weight, I was in excruciating pain that no 12 year old should know. I would cry in the bathroom because of the pain and effort it took to walk between classes. It hurt to sit, walk, stand, and even lay down. I was in constant pain for months.
Eventually, I began to heal. I went to physical therapy practically every day. My muscles grew stronger, even though it hurt to stretch and exercise. I joined a summer swim team to strengthen my back, and it actually worked. Slowly, the pain went away. Slowly, I was becoming myself again.
But my struggles were only just beginning.
At the age of 14, I threw out my shoulder playing water polo. That day in the pool would be my last day on the team. It was the last game I ever played. I don't remember if we won or lost because all I could focus on was the pain. We went to several doctors to fix it and ended up in the office of an orthopedic surgeon who told me that I would never swim again and that surgery was pointless and probably wouldn't ever fix my shoulder.
I went back to physical therapy. I saw a chiropractor. The exercises left me in tears because of the sheer amount of pain they caused, but they helped. I never completely healed, but I am stronger.
During the rest of high school, I also sprained both of my ankles, one of my wrists, broke a pinky, and messed up my neck.
So far, I've only mentioned physical pain, but these years were riddled with emotional pain as well. I was bullied for everything. I was made fun of for being a Mormon. I was made fun of for my weight. I was made fun of for being a nerd. I was made fun of for being a swimmer. I was made fun of for being a tomboy. I was bullied at school and at church. I don't think that many people know or talk about church bullying, but I can attest that it happens.
It got to the point where I cried every morning before Seminary. I cried before Young Women's activities. I cried before going to church. I didn't tell my mom. I didn't tell anyone. I cried alone in my room.
I remember vividly the first time I wanted to kill myself. I won't go into the details, but it was very real. The only reason I didn't go through with it was because I felt that God wouldn't want me to. That was the one thing that kept me going to church and to school. I faced my bullies every day because God told me not to kill myself.
It's hard to be strong when people try to convince you that depression isn't real. It's hard to trust them when they say that your feelings have no merit and you are being selfish for thinking the things you are thinking. The interesting thing was that these comments weren't even about me. They made these comments about posters in doctor's offices or tv shows. These things were what led me to keeping my depression a secret for about 8 years.
I didn't even come to terms with my depression until I went away to college. I thought that I had overcome it. I told a few friends that I had been depressed in high school, but that I was stronger for it and better off. I felt like I was going to be fine. I thought that my middle and high school years had been an important trial for me to face, but that I had overcome it and now I would be so strong and so blessed.
Yeah, that was wrong too.
Here's the thing: depression never leaves. It might recede into the back of your mind for a time, but it never truly leaves you.
Depression is like a horror movie in your mind. Depression turns everyone against you, even yourself. Depression tells you that you are worthless. Depression tells you not to eat, not to sleep, not to get dressed for the day. Depression is a monster that tells you to do things that you would never do otherwise.
For me, it's a fog that overshadows my mind. It is always lurking, but not always at the helm. When I'm in a lot of pain, when I'm alone, when I'm stressed, upset, tired, scared, or overwhelmed, depression comes out to play. My depression controls me. It's not an everyday thing, but it can be an any day thing. It tells me to flush my wedding ring down the toilet. It tells me to destroy my own artwork. It tells me to run away without my cell phone. It tells me to breathe in the water in the bath tub. Sometimes, I can fight it. Sometimes, I can't.
I've had a lot of successes, but I've had a lot of failures as well.
When I was 19, I went to Fort Collins, Colorado to preach the gospel as a missionary. I loved being a missionary. I loved the people, I loved the gospel, I loved God. I knew that my testimony of Jesus Christ is what had saved my life. I thought that I was past my depression, but like I said before I went off about depression, I was wrong. I struggled daily to be happy. I put on the face, I tried to lose myself in the work, but I couldn't. I was miserable. I was given many blessings and pep talks, but none of them worked. By the ninth month of my mission, I was so exhausted I would fall asleep during prayers and car rides. I began to grind my teeth and injured my jaw. I wrecked my bike several times and broke my wrist and elbow.
The mission doctor diagnosed me with severe depression and fibromyalgia. She prescribed me medicine for my depression that made me hallucinate. I saw people that weren't in the room. The floors, walls, and ceilings were constantly moving and shifting. I saw faces in the walls. All was not well.
Despite these trials and setbacks, I was determined to serve my 18 months as a missionary. I was determined to give 100% to my every day tasks. But God had another plan.
The monster of my depression had complete hold of me one terrible night after my companion and I had gone on a hike. The hike was too hot and too long for me. I have asthma and I get overheated easily. The hike ended with heat stroke. It took hours for the writhing pain to stop. And after it finally did, I was encompassed by my monster, depression. It told me that my missionary efforts were pointless. My life was pointless. I tried to drown myself in the bathtub.
My mission president sent me home the next day, just two months short of the 18 months I had hoped to serve.
At the time, I felt that my depression was right. I thought that my mission president was telling me that I was worthless and was not making a difference. It took me about a year to realize that he made the right decision.
After I came home, everyone told me that it was for a reason. They said that something great might happen to me. Maybe I would meet my future husband. Maybe I would get revelation. Nothing happened. I didn't meet my husband in those two months. I didn't get a job. I didn't even really do anything special. I didn't even go to therapy. I wanted to, but my mom never took me. She never even acknowledged my depression. Not even now.
I would like to say that something changed and I was magically healed, but I wasn't. I don't know if I ever will be. However, things did get better. I met my husband. We fell in love quickly and passionately. My depression went away again, for a time. I was truly happy with him, happier than I had been in years. He made me laugh, he made me smile, and he made me comfortable. We were married young, but we have no regrets. He is my reason to live.
I was doing really great for about a year after we got married. But then I had a miscarriage. I would've been a mother. I could've been holding a four or five month old baby right now. I found out that I was pregnant about 10 seconds before I found out that I was having a miscarriage. I was torn to pieces. The physical pain was nothing compared to the grief and agony I felt. Worst of all was the guilt. I didn't want a baby. Somehow, knowing that I had not wanted the baby made losing it feel like my fault.
Everything fell apart. My husband didn't speak to me for days. He didn't know what to say. I only told my parents and my in laws. My mother-in-law said something along the lines of, "Well, at least the baby wasn't planned." Yeah... the baby wasn't planned. But I would've kept it. It would've had a mother and a father, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins that loved it.
My emptiness was so overwhelming, I contemplated suicide daily for months. I contemplated divorce. It got to the point where I had even made a list of things that I would keep and he would keep in the divorce. I thought that he didn't love me anymore. I didn't realize that he was masking his pain in video games. I thought that he was avoiding me. I thought that he didn't love me any more.
That pain is still real. It still haunts me. We didn't get divorced. We talked it through. He supported me. I supported him. We went away to teach English in China. We discovered love and life that we didn't know about. Things really did get better.
This path is rocky. There are ups and downs all along the way. I don't know if I am any stronger than I would've been without the depression. I don't know if I would have been any different without my physical problems. Most of my illnesses are invisible. No one sees them. I don't show them. I'm trying to be better. I'm trying to heal. I am trying to tell myself that my life has purpose.
I want to live. I want to raise a family. I want to be a teacher. I want to publish a novel. I want to travel the world. I want to sing with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. I want to be a voice for underprivileged children. I can't do any of those things if I am dead. Life is worth it.
I am worth it.
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Thanks for sharing this.
ReplyYou have amazing strength. I love hearing stories of strength as I think it helps others to also find their strength.
You can find reasons everyday to keep going. ...even the smallest of things.
Your life is your book and like a good book it should have a great ending.
Keep sharing your story. .....write that book.
ReplyThank you for sharing your journey of hope and faith. I struggle too. I could relate to so much that you shared. I became a Mormon and served a mission. I too struggled with mental illness.
Reply