Introductions

So, I've finally decided to get myself a blog where I could talk about everything going on in my life. As you can see in my "About Me" section, I am dealing with clinical depression and an anxiety disorder. Sometimes it can get pretty overwhelming, and rather than feel as if I'm bringing everyone down with me I'd rather just be able to put it in writing somewhere. This is that somewhere.

I was diagnosed (incorrectly at first) in 1998 at the age of 18. My first doctor seemed to think I was manic depressive but mostly just a spoiled brat. I'm still dealing with the repercussions of that today. There are times when I think he might have been right although my doctor these days would like to beat me senseless for thinking that. (Well, he wouldn't beat me senseless, but he insists it's not true.) Thankfully, after being hospitalized twice for being "manic" - I really just wasn't depressed for a short period of time - my general practitioner recommended a wonderful psychiatrist who in turn recommended an amazing psychologist that could work in tandem with him. They have been a blessing. I have spent years trying to find the right combination of medications - the best result with the least side-effects. Throughout the years, a combo of drugs would work for a period of time, then I would spiral down. Every day I feel I'm doing good, I'm also waiting for the shove that's going to push me into that spiral again.

I had to leave college (I was at a private university and had an early admission seat into their pharmacy school) when this all started to show itself. I laid in my dorm room for about 3 days straight. No classes, maybe leaving for 1 meal, no practice. Finally my basketball coach - who had gotten word of my lack of attendance - called me and told me to put on a nice outfit and go to see my professors. The plan was that I would talk to them about how I could save my education and then meet with the school psychologist and then the dean. I saw my first professor and he looked me in the eyes and asked me outright if I was happy there. I burst into tears and admitted I wasn't. He told me he knew and that I needed to be home. I went to the psychologist and told him I wanted to go home. I forget exactly what happened after that, but it culminated in me crying and shouting in the dean's office at both my parents and my coach. I went home the next day, my parents found a doctor and 2 days later I found myself in the psychiatric ward of the local hospital.

It's been a struggle for the 11 or so years since this all happened. I've tried multiple times to hold down a steady job and provide for myself. It has ended the same way every time so far. I'll be doing very well for a while - months at a time - and then I'll get depressed which makes me have panic attacks when faced with ANYTHING social and I'll have to leave my job. Every day I wonder where the illness ends and the laziness - if any - begins. My psychologist consistantly reminds me that I have an illness just like anyone with cancer. His words are etched into my brain. "Shana, would you come down this hard on someone with cancer? So why are you doing it to yourself?" I always joke that my psychologist is a friend I have to pay, but there's some truth to it. In the years he has been working with me, I have learned to trust him more than I have most people. I think the only exceptions to that are my sister and my best friend since 5th grade. He has done so much for me that all the thanks I have in this life would not be enough.

So now, here I am today. My life consists of waking up and trying to push past the urge to just stay there and pull the covers over my head. I spend most of the day rationalizing the self-depreciating or anxious thoughts that never seem to stop. Sometimes it feels like I won't make it another hour, let alone a year - or worse - a decade. There are days I'm tempted to try to knock myself out or scratch all my skin because my mind won't stop. So what do I do? Lord, if I had the answer to that I'd be one rich woman.

My family and friends are wonderful. If it weren't for them...I doubt I would be here. They try so hard to understand what I'm going through, but how do you explain something you don't even know the cause of? I've had friends come and go - a lot of people can't accept that some days I simply can't get out the door. I've had so-called friends that would turn my illness against me - use it as a joke. I've been called many names - girl interrupted, pro-pro (someone's attempt at prozac humor,) psycho, lazy asshole...the list goes on. I've had one "friend" that would get mad at me whenever I told her I wasn't feeling up to doing anything. I would try to explain it to her every chance I got, but I guess it never got through. That friendship has pretty much ended tonight when she sent me a text message as a joke saying "I have to talk to you about something that's been going on in my life. It's about you. My phone is dying so call this number..." I wrote the number and called only to find it was a psychiatric hotline. Nice joke.

Why am I writing all this? I'm asking myself that right now. I suppose it's for release mostly, but a part of me has wanted to find a way to reach out to other people that are going through the same thing as me. I have never quite figured out how I could do that while I'm still struggling myself, but I hope that maybe just by making my own story known I can help someone. Maybe it's just a pipe dream.

So here I am. I'll be posting as the need arises. Read if you'd like and if not...I understand.