My Diagnosis and my path to getting treatment.

I was going to hold off on posting about this.  I was first going to talk about my sexual abuse and my abusive boyfriend but I think I’m going to touch on it now.

My depression started when I was around 12 or 13, it was mild, pretty common I think for a girl that age.  What wasn’t common was how is progressively got worse.  I had always gotten anxiety attacks, since I can remember.  I had always been more of a sensitive person.  Though I think me having anxiety my whole life is what really got my depression to spiral.  I have spoken before about my child sexual abuse, and at the time, not only did I not realize that I was depressed, but I also didn’t realize that a lot of my depression stemmed from that abuse.

Years went on and I got more depressed.  At age 18 I told my parents about my sexual abuse and they didn’t do anything.  No one did anything, and that’s when this uncontrollable black beast sunk it’s fangs in.

I was 19 when I was admitted to the first psych ward.  My boyfriend at the time (High School sweetheart) noticed that I had been self harming and he drove me to the hospital and told me that I had to admit my self.  So I did.  To this day, I don’t even know if my parents know that I was in there.  Shortly before this I had attended a therapist meeting with that same boyfriend.  Her and I had an off the books talk one day.  I told her about my abuse.  She laughed at me.  She told me that if what I claim happened, really happened, I would have reported it, and because I didn’t, she didn’t believe me.  I’ll talk more about that another time.

At the hospital I started talking to a doctor and sitting in group meetings with other people who were just as depressed as I was.  That doctor originally diagnosed me as bipolar.  I don’t know know how I felt about what he told me.  I was so lost at the time, my mind so clouded, plus they had me on a lot of different medication, I don’t remember a lot of my time there.  That particular doctor went on vacation, I don’t remember what holiday it was, memorial day maybe?

I woke up on the 4th morning with a doctor sitting on the wall heater next to my bed, his binder open.  I was extremely groggy from the sleeping medication they gave me the night before.  My insomnia was bad during this time, I wasn’t getting much sleep, and even the sleeping medication was having a hard time getting me to sleep.  I opened my eyes and the doctor looked at me, and the first words out of his mouth were “Why are you here”.  I was annoyed by this question.  I told him that everything should be in his binder.  He told me he wanted to here it from me.  I told him I was tired and I didn’t want to talk.  He slammed his binder shut and told me he was stopping all of my medication until I talked to him, then left my room.  I went to the nurse’s station and requested to talk to the head of the hospital, a few hour later I was in a room with the head of the hospital and I told her how rude the doctor had been, and that I wanted her to let me out, because the doctor wouldn’t sign off.  I think she feared that someone would sue the hospital, so she let me leave.  I never got a bill from them.

I was 20 when I was admitted to the psych ward the second time.  This time by a different guy I was dating, more specifically, the one who was abusive.  Pretty much same story, he noticed I was self harming, brought me to the hospital and told me to admit my self. And again, I did.  It was a different hospital this time, and although I didn’t think they would help me, at least while I was in there, he wouldn’t be around me.  I was there for a full week.  The doctor who saw me refused to diagnose me.  I told him about the doctor who laughed at me, the one who said I was bipolar and the other who stopped my medication.  He said that he wanted me to get more help before he would accept a diagnosis.  I didn’t understand that, but I didn’t question him.  After my week of talking with group therapy and one on one sessions, scheduled meals and medication, I left to continue state funded treatment for a few months until I stopped.

I was 22 when I downed a full bottle of xanex and was rushed to the emergency room.  My parents were there this time, they wouldn’t allow my boyfriend, still the abusive one, to see me.  They apologized for not being there, they told me to move back in with them, that I could go back on my fathers insurance, that they wanted me to get real help and that they would do whatever they could to save me.  I was able to go home that night, I slept in my bed for the first time since I was 18.  I found a therapist that I loved, we talked a lot, she diagnosed me with Cyclothymia.  Cyclothymia is pretty much the stage before bipolar I or II.  People with Cyclothymia don’t normally tend to attempt suicide but because of what I had gone through, I was pushed to that point.  I was on proper medication and I saw her at first, 3 times a week.

I tune 27 next week.  I am no longer on medication, because I can recognize my depression and handle it without the need to self harm or any other negative coping mechanism.  I still see my therapist from time to time, to talk and I have my parents and my husband and a few really good friends who help me as well.

I’m not perfect, but I’m surviving.