Recovery is a process. Anyone who says otherwise has no idea what they are talking about. It does not happen over night, magically, one little moment, and you are done. Recovery is a life-long battle. Some days you win, others, you don't. But, even if you lose a day, you remember that it's just a single battle lost, and not the entire war.
I was diagnosed with major depression in fall of 2003. I was almost 13. I kept that diagnosis until fall of 2009. They thought it would be a permanent one. It wasn't. I began purging in fall of 2001. I was almost 11. I became a cutter at 13. I started smoking cigarettes at 15. I first drank (and tried to drink to oblivion) at 15. At 15, I was having weekly panic attacks. At 15, I was going in and out of treatment. I attempted suicide 5 times in 6 months.
After my last hospitalization that year, I remember walking out not even knowing where to begin. Where do I go when all I know is destruction of my body? When every instinct inside me was telling me to lay down and die? There was just a small voice I had, one that I could barely hear at first, telling me: live. Don't die. Come on, get up. We have to keep fighting this. It won't be like this forever. I wanted to argue. Do you see my diagnosis? Recurrent. Permanent. No escape. No relief.
All I could hear was live. And die. And live. Like those little cartoon angels and devils you see on the shoulders. One was telling me to live, the other had a different idea. As my parents drove me home, I remembered how I had to turn around. I had to keep going down a different road. I couldn't keep living to die. I had to get up and go a different road. But I wondered, would Jesus really be with me, like He claimed? Did I dream that up?
I wanted to ask Him, how do you turn around when all you know is the wrong way to go?
I knew it would be a process. It would be one baby step at a time. It would be a step forward, and a few steps back, but I would have to start walking the other direction.
I was forced back into school by my parents. There was 3 weeks left of the school year. Most mornings, my Mom would have to threaten to call the cops to even get me out of bed. When I got to school, I was met with another battle. There was so much hatred towards me by the others. They would tell me how I had failed and couldn't even do one thing right. They would tell me that I was dead to them, that I didn't matter, that I was a stain on the mattress of life. I was worthless. They wanted me dead. I would get random text messages from others telling me to kill myself. But there was no way of tracing who it was. That small voice would come back: Live. Prove them wrong.
On my last day of my freshman year of high school, I was getting more threatening messages. You had better transfer. We don't want you here. I texted back:How dare you. I will never lay down and die for anyone again. It was the first time I had texted anyone back.
It was Jeff who made sure I came back. He told me how much he wanted me there and how much I meant to him. Music is one of my favorite things, and on the last day, he made me a CD. That night, my older sister was graduating from high school. I almost missed it because I had a panic attack in the car and my parents said well we're not babying you so if you decide to go, then go, but you are being so selfish right now. I wanted to scream, do you think I choose when to have these? That voice told me to get up. Go. Don't stay in the car. Go to her graduation. I did. And watching her get her diploma, I told my Mom that whatever it took, no matter how many times I would want to leave that hell hole, no matter how many times I would want to drop out, to lay down and die, I was going to get my diploma. No one told me that almost everyone thought I could do it.
That summer, I started intense therapy. I learned coping skills. I saw my therapist 3 nights a week. I had classes on Wednesday nights from 5-7 on learning how to live. My older sister moved to college, and I decided that I wanted to get an education. I wanted to give back, because I wouldn't be here today if it wasn't for my therapist. Or for my care teams.
On my 16th birthday, I went to TreeHouse. I went for 3 years. I learned more about God. I learned about how loved and treasured I was. They poured life into me. They taught me how to do things other than die. I learned how to go canoeing, to play paint ball. I went on 3 mission trips, and I learned how to serve others. I learned just how much of a difference you can have on someone's life. I went rollerblading and to museum's and retreats. I learned that a vital part of recovery is doing things you love, but also learning to take a break from life when you need it. To get away for a weekend. To relax. It's okay.
In April of 2009, 2 months from graduating, I had my final hospitalization. I was sleep deprived. I was stressed from moving to California. It was Easter Sunday. Ask anyone with a mental disorder, and they will tell you, holiday's are one of the toughest times to get through. I overdosed. 3 days later, I was discharged because insurance refused to pay. This happens all the time. In the hospital, I learned that slip ups do happen. I had gone almost 3 years since my last one. This was progress. I learned from it. The doctor's wanted to keep me the there for a month. But if they had, I wouldn't have graduated. I am a firm believer that everything happens for a reason. I needed that hospitalization, to take a 3 day break, to learn to always make sure I am doing what I can to take care of myself. It helped me to reset my goal. I left determined to keep fighting.
I graduated on June 9th, 2009. I moved to California 3 weeks later. In California, when I first got there, I was lonely and tired and didn't have any friends. I was in a long distance relationship with my now ex-fiance. He had asked me to marry him my last night in Minnesota. I started college a month later. But I pushed God aside.
When I let God back in about a year later, I had learned that no matter what you are doing, it means nothing if you don't have Him. I learned that He had to be number one in my life. My ex and I had just broken up. I was hurting. But I told God, don't let me lay down and die.
I am by no means perfect. I slip up. This week I had my first small anxiety attack in 3 years. I saw it coming, and walked out of Jeff's dorm and said I need to sit. He could see it coming, too. He said, okay, what do you need? I said, I want a cigarette, but that doesn't really help. Just let me sit here. I breathed in and out. Okay, Jesus, I know I can do all things through You because You give me strength. I know I am going to be okay on this math test. I know I miss my Grandma, but I know she's there with me. I know I am going to be okay. It went away. Sometimes, you just have to wait for it to pass. But I still do have small relapses. It's one step forward, a few back. It doesn't mean you have failed. It means you are fighting for your recovery.
I get up. Every day. I get dressed. I shower. I go to classes if I have them. I do my homework. I write out my feelings. I have a web cam on my computer, and I use it if I ever need a therapy session. I do fun things. If I had the time, I would be playing rugby. But I'm involved in other things now. I work at McDonald's and I go to school full time. I worked at Target for 3 years. I had a job. I live. Every day. I thank God every morning for giving me hope. For helping me when the diagnoses all were stacked against me. When all I wanted to do was lay down and end my life. He gave me the strength to live.
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