Everyone has a story. I always talk about learning other people’s stories and making connections. Everyone’s unique background creates him or her, and learning these stories helps both forge unbreakable bonds and enlighten aspects of one’s own life. And it is finally time for me to share my story- specifically the story of my depression.
There is a multitude of experiences I have endured, to which many may relate. Some of this is very difficult to write, but I want readers to know that they are not alone. They are not weird, unnatural, or unworthy. Just because your story does not seem to match up with others, does not mean it is wrong or hopeless. With this in mind, let us begin.
Junior year of high school and the summer going into my senior year was bliss. I was in love with a kindhearted boy, who loved me just as much in return. He was a year older than me. My friends went from people in my own grade to people in his. They all welcomed me with open arms, despite being a year younger, and my life was simply at an all time high. I could not have been happier. It all changed so fast.
As the end of August came around, my boyfriend left first for his beach house, then for college. We had decided long ago that we would not stay together once he was gone. All of my friends left with him shortly after. In just a few short days, these people I had nurtured strong friendships with disappeared. They all embarked on the magic that is known as freshmen year of college. They were all making so many new friends, going to parties, going to fun new classes, and I was alone. I was alone, heartbroken, and not ready. My life went from perfection to nothing. I had no one to call my best friend and no one close enough to talk to. Of course, my boyfriend of seven months did not hesitate to jump into bed with another girl now that we were officially over.
Everyday, I cried. I cried myself to sleep. I woke up with puffy eyes. I cried more. I kept a Google Doc titled “A Place for Sad Thoughts to Hang Outside of my Head.” Here is an excerpt of the beginning:
It’s just that I thought the worst part was over. I thought saying goodbye would be the hardest thing. But it’s not, and the days shortly after were not. It’s now that he’s gone and starting to move on while I so desperately want to hang on that’s killing me. Right after it happened, I was fine. I had friends and support. He was still sad, and as awful as that sounds, that made me feel better. We were both sharing in the pain. But now he is gone and everything around him is new and exciting. All the people, the parties, even the schoolwork. While I am utterly alone.
Then, school started. Senior year is the best year! That is what everyone told me. Walking the halls, I felt so empty. I went to the spot where my old friends used to stand every morning. They were not there. They were having the times of their lives in college. I remember on my first day of what was supposed to be a fun computer class, I set my desktop background to a black lightning storm. A few days later, my cat died. That just seemed like a sick joke.
A large part of my sadness was not my friends leaving. It was the shock factor. My life did a 180 flip that I did not know was coming. I sprinted for so long and plunged right into a brick wall. Then, I met my hero.
I had no one to call a friend until this boy came around. This was someone I had known for a long time. All throughout my freshman year of high school, he was my biggest crush. When he offered support, I clung on with a steel grip. It started innocent. We were only friends, but it quickly blossomed into a romance. However, I miscalculated something here. One cannot use another’s love to eradicate his or her own self love deficit. After my friends left for college and forgot about me so easily, I felt worthless. This new boy made me feel wanted again. I needed that, and I survived on that.
Early on, he opened up to me about some very personal things in his past. He asked me to be there for him, and I was. I was falling in love.
Meanwhile, the anxiety of my friends leaving established something new and dangerous in my life. The anxiety caused me to eat less. At first, it was not conscious. However one day after making an offhanded comment about skipping a meal, my new boyfriend began to feel my arm. This confused me greatly until he explained that when one does not eat as much, his or her body compensates the lack of fat with additional hair growth. He wanted to see if the hair on my arms had grown thicker.
As the year progressed into November, my relationship with the boy began to change. The original openness he had previously displayed faded. I could feel a gap growing between us. He began to shut me out for reasons unknown, even now. Frightened, I unconsciously began to play a very dangerous game. He may not have always been the first to plan dates, but if I brought up eating less… he listened. And so rather than taking his concern positively, I used it to fuel my fire. I started to eat less. And less. And less. I desperately showed signs that I needed help in an attempt to bring him closer again. I needed that attention and trust he gave me in the beginning. I could not lose my only support. I could not lose everything again.
Just to keep this perfectly clear, I was completely blind to what I was doing. I did not realize how important my boyfriend had become. I did not realize how increasingly dangerous my actions were becoming. I was in a destructive spiral that I did not acknowledge until many months later.
To continue, no matter how hard I tried, I could not rebuild the connection I made with this boy at the beginning of the school year. This was not my fault, but nonetheless, I did not take things lightly. Each day, I began to believe that I was more and more worthless. To what should have been no surprise, my boyfriend eventually broke up with me in December. This hurt. I was alone again. The boy that I thought would save me shattered my heart further. I felt so alone. I went back to that Google Doc and wrote:
Again I can’t stop crying. Nothing has changed. I don’t know how to feel better. I keep getting cut off like a useless limb. Maybe it’s best I just rot away.
I called my friend and said, “It can’t get any worse.” The same day I said this, my mom came home and announced that my grandmother had a heart attack and hit her head. She was in the hospital. We immediately flew out to see her.
Now begins my time in Arizona. For three days, my grandfather and the rest of my family went to the hospital everyday to see her. She was unconscious, and it soon became clear that she would not make it. We each took our turns saying goodbye. This whole time is a bit foggy for me because I do not dwell on these memories. However, I remember that when I was in the room alone with her to say goodbye, I had said, "I really need someone looking out for me up there." Then, we all watched as they pulled the plug. This is not like it is in movies. The machine does not beep a few times, then stop. The body continues to try and sustain itself. It gasps for air for hours, sometimes days, until the end finally comes. And I had no choice but to watch and wait for that moment. Watching someone die is something words cannot describe. Nor am I fond of talking about this moment. But again, I was not ready. How can someone be ready for that?
At this point, I had never fully recovered from the sadness of my friends leaving. Then, I was hit with another wave of loss, and this time, I had learned a new trick. I had learned how to stop eating. It originally started as an unconscious decision, but that was no longer the case. After watching my grandmother die, I was pushed over the edge. Sometimes when people are depressed, they cut themselves, or they burn themselves, or they drink or do drugs. Well, I starved. I wanted to lose all of my strength because that was where I was at mentally. I could not handle anymore, and I felt like I needed my body to reflect this emotional exhaustion. A big advantage of this method was that people could not see anything on my skin that gave a clear sign of my self abuse. I was not ready to accept help and did not want anyone to make me stop. I also did not want anyone to worry because I have always feared being a burden to others. In my head, I was worthless and unworthy of anything better.
For the remainder of my nights in Arizona, I prayed for death. I looked at the pool everyday and imagined how easy it would be to climb in and take a few deep inhales of water. But I could not possibly put my family through that after losing my grandmother. I was depressed, but I did not want to hurt anyone but me. So I instead hoped that a scorpion would sting me in my sleep.
After spending Christmas in Arizona with my grieving family, I needed to get out of there. I felt like I was baring double the weight of everyone else. However, I could not talk to anyone in my family. In my head, and this is very common with depression, I thought, “What right do I have to need help? They are all grieving too. My dad just lost his mother. I have no right to ask for their help. I’m worthless.” I also had no motivation to talk. I simply felt empty inside to the point where showering or other everyday tasks felt like running a marathon. So in Arizona, I ate nothing, and I wanted only to die. That brick wall I hit before was nothing compared to hitting rock bottom. Luckily, the plea I sent to my grandmother came in time.
My dad had to leave early to go back to work, so I saw my opportunity. I begged my mom to let me leave early. I somehow realized that staying in Arizona was the worst thing I could do. I needed to be with my friends, who could provide me with real support. My mom gave me the green light, and I was off.
When I arrived home, I was ready to pick myself up. I was finally ready to feel better, so I took some small steps. I began with reading. Now if one were to research eating disorders, he or she would find the phrase “body image” everywhere. The internet kept telling me that I hated my body. That was not right. I was fine with the way I looked. I stopped eating because I wanted to bring my emotions into the physical realm, to feel weak. It was my coping mechanism, not my method of losing weight.
I put this out there because this is an aspect of eating disorders that many overlook. It is not always about body image. So if looking in the mirror and saying “I’m pretty” does nothing for you, do not worry. I understand. I have not found an article that says “it’s not about how I looked, it’s about how I felt” so I’ve taken it upon myself to provide this one.
Slowly, I worked on becoming healthy again. I gradually retraced my steps, putting all of the pieces back together, and realized how I had ended up so broken in the first place. Awareness is very important. One cannot get better until he or she realizes there is something wrong. It was very difficult though. I began to have panic attacks when confronted with something that reminded me of my period of depression. Since I was not going to see my dead grandmother walking around, the biggest trigger was my ex boyfriend. Another one was scales. I used to weigh myself daily and watch the pounds melt away. I became terrified of scales. By some miracle the batteries in our scale ran out. I still thank my grandmother for that. Lastly, songs. Certain songs to this day will break me down everytime without fail.
However, another thing that I learned is that time heals. As months went by, I became accustomed to eating again. The panic attacks became less and less frequent. I also began to rekindle the friendships that I had prior to meeting my first boyfriend. For awhile, I did feel bitter towards many people. I found myself blaming others for my depression. In reality, it was merely a series of unfortunate events that I had no control over. I could not keep my friends from going to college. I could not keep my cat from growing old. I could not force my boyfriend to love me if he did not. I could not stop my grandmother from hitting her head. I could not help that it happened so suddenly in cruel juxtaposition to my former happiness.
But I could stop myself from damaging my life further. I could force myself to eat again. I could reach out to others. I could be there for myself. I could fight. And that is what I did. And that is what I do.
Senior year was not what everyone told me it would be. Yet, this portion of my life does not define me. I still believe in love, in peace, in happiness. I lost myself for a while, but I came back. I have experienced both hardships and wonderful moments aside from this that contribute to who I am. I am not a statistic or an illness. I am a story. Everyone has a story.
-AT
