Yours §incerely: A Brief Autobiography
Trigger Warning: Suicidal Ideations
I’ll start by saying that I hate talking about myself, so I promise to keep this as brief as possible while I ramble along in a diatribe of past- and present-isms. I’m aware, however, of the importance of getting to know the person whose work you read, particularly if that work is about mental health. You want to know if you can trust my word, if I’ve had enough experience to merit the giving of advice. I get it! I am a very big supporter of doing your research first.
But there is a slight issue with getting advice off the internet—I could be lying. I’m not—but I could be lying about not lying. The issue becomes one of mutual trust, then. I trust you not to take my advice unless the conditions of that advice are met (including using your intuition to know that the advice is right for you), and you can trust me enough to accept that at least this particular blog article is 100% genuine. Agreed? Fabulous. Now let’s get this over with.
UNCONVENTIONAL CREDENTIALS
I don’t have any educational experience in providing guidance. In fact, I don’t even have my B.A. yet, as the debilitating nature of my anxiety has prevented me from finishing the last two classes I need to graduate for over 8 years. I have my Associates of the Arts, but this doesn’t give me the aplomb to advise others on what to do, unless it’s not to wait until years after you get out of school to do your least favorite classes (procrastination has ever been my most ardent frenemy when it comes to education vs. anxiety). The reason I feel vindicated and confident in my ability to advise on mental illness is, in fact, my lifelong struggle with it.
Experience is the best educator, especially when that experience is coupled with a thirst for knowledge and a determination for results.
GIVE ME LIBERTY STABILITY OR GIVE ME DEATH!
From what I can recall, my childhood was fraught with anxiety. We didn’t know that’s what it was until much later, as it was so often masked by physical ailments like stomach aches, heartburn, nausea, and other digestive issues. It got to a point where the doctors suggested an endoscopy to check for stomach ulcers at the age of 10. When they found nothing abnormal, they gave me Prilosec and walked away. It didn’t change anything, nor would it have. My problems had always been psychological. I learned to deal with the pain and discomfort as best I could (I recall popping Tums in my mouth like candy while playing with a dollhouse), not knowing that mitigating my stress was what would have alleviated my roiling gut.
I wasn’t diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder until ten years later in college. I was forced to drop out of school for a semester due to missing too many classes as I went through the most horrifying period of my life—when my Bipolar Disorder fully presented and the accompanying mental breakdown that ensued. My then-boyfriend-now-husband Jeremy could not console me from the racking, uncontrollable sobs. I had no concept of what was wrong with me; all I knew for certain was that I couldn’t stop and that there was absolutely no reason that I could fathom to account for it.
Following the university psychologist’s referral to another doctor, the next ten years of my life were spent juggling a slew of medications and therapy treatments. I have been on so many medications and combinations that I am considered “treatment resistant.” I was heavily overmedicated for much of that time due to the doctors not wanting to “tamper” with something that was almost working. Due to situation and circumstance (mainly moving from university to home and back so often, but also because they weren’t listening to me and my needs), I have had 7 psychiatrists and 5 therapists. The most memorable instances of neglect:
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I was feeling terrible on the medication I was on and knew it in my gut that none of the things I was taking were helping me. When I brought this up to Psychiatrist #4, I asked if we could go off all the medication and start from scratch. I knew this was the right thing to do, and the only way to know which medications were and weren’t working. She said, “I wouldn’t touch that with a ten-foot pole,” and never brought it up again. I didn’t get my wish until 4 years later after I’d gone through 2 more doctors who wouldn’t agree to my request.
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I was feeling suicidal when I stepped into Therapist #4’s office. I made it very obvious that I didn’t want to continue living anymore. As my voice faded, the room was eerily quiet but for the sound of the air conditioner running.
She got up, grabbed a tissue box from her desk, placed it on the coffee table between us, and slid it towards me with exaggerated slowness, like something you’d see in the movies. She sat back down and said, “Are you sure you want to die, Amy?” It was like everything I had just said had completely escaped her attention—or worse, it had been dismissed.
I was physically uncomfortable in the space and was waiting out the clock to get the hell out, completely silent and grabbing at my handbag rhythmically in a vain attempt to ease my OCD. The fact that she let me leave in that state was testament enough to the poor care provided, and I never went back to her again.
These memories will always be with me as the evidence I needed to flog myself with—the knowledge that no one believes me, that no one takes me seriously, even those who are supposed to support and help me.
I learned that people are ultimately selfish, and instead of trying to fight against that inherent human trait (which seemed like a futile attempt anyway), I needed to find my voice, to trust myself, and to SPEAK UP. I was doing this in an evasive way by quitting my doctors and therapists and going to new ones. It took me a long time to get to a doctor and therapist who HEAR me when I speak instead of just assuming what it best for me.
I know myself better than anyone ever will, and trust is a big issue for me. I’ve learned over the years to trust in myself, and if the doctors or the therapists disagree—fight it or readjust. Don’t just give in to their whims. They aren’t always right. But if you both work together, you can achieve great things—stability being the main goal, not to mention peace, self-love, self-compassion, and lessened side effects.
A WEALTH OF KNOWLEDGE
I didn’t need to trust my doctors explicitly. It is so much easier to defend your suggestions and changes when you’ve already got the research to back it up. I used research and scholarly articles and books to understand my mental illnesses. My psychiatrist always knows that if she offers a new medication, I’m not even going to say ‘yes’ to her writing out a script until I’ve thoroughly researched it. I often use the National Library of Medicine, but if you’re feeling lazy you can read a WebMD article. Knowledge is power, and the more power you feel that you have over your situation, the more confidence will build. I found strength in having the information necessary to have a conversation with my doctor instead of blindly agreeing with everything offered.
There have been times where I’ve needed to be partially hospitalized. Twice over the span of 4 years. Once was during my husband’s long battle with alcoholism. The other time was when my medications stopped working suddenly and a few major life changes occurred at the same time. The first time didn’t stick, clearly, but I don’t think it was designed as a cure-all.
Partial hospitalization is more like a convalescence period between intense distress and getting settled into a new normal.
In the second program, I learned so much about myself and how to mitigate the difficulties that I deal with on a daily basis. I dug into the content and did every exercise, even giving myself homework at times, in order to get the very most out of it that I could. I was a different person than the one I had been 4 years prior, and I was determined to get better and stay better though whatever means I could control.
I took the tools I learned back home with me, and I’m still using them to navigate the sometimes-scary paths of my life. The most important thing that I learned is that speaking up in group therapy is such a rewarding experience. It can be scary as hell when your social anxiety makes you want to vomit every time you think about contributing to the conversation, but I learned that if I could help someone through my experience, that was more important than feeling uncomfortable for a few moments. It also taught me that what I had to say mattered, which I have always struggled with. By the end of the program, they were calling me the group “Mom” because of all my sage advice.
THE RESUME IS NEVER COMPLETE
I may not have the most impressive background when it comes to my qualifications for dolling out advise, but I am certain that I have failed enough in my life to learn some important lessons from my mistakes—and found that the consequences were so dire that it has made me determined never to repeat them. And after several professionals in the mental health industry have suggested that I put my talent for writing to good use, I’m hopeful that my “Mom advice” and creative problem-solving skills will be well-received here. As I continue to learn new tools and methods in my ever-evasive search for stability, I hope to share that knowledge with you, as well. I have no ulterior motives—just to pour my heart out in my writing and hope that those words will help someone else who is struggling.
