I was diagnosed in 2014, by a professional, with social phobia and major depressive disorder (with some hypervigilance). Later, a separate professional said I also have agoraphobia. He's a therapist, so I'm not sure he can diagnose.
Anyway, recently there was a huge fight that involved several members of my family. I heard something they've never mentioned before. They said I use my illnesses as a crutch. Later, one said I didn't even have one at all.
I'm not sure how to feel. I'm sad, of course, but they don't really know what it's like. They don't know what I go through, so they don't understand what they're saying. It also has occured to me that there's always been some level of jealousy there. They must think others are more patient with me or have sympathy for me. No. I don't use it as an excuse for anything, and no one feels bad for me or cuts me a break. People are happy for me when I do hard things - Like everyone else. Just turns out most everything is harder.
I digress. It got me thinking what my life would be like without mental illness. As a caveat, this is the first time I've ever done this (because it's just not helpful), but I have some things in mind.
On the most basic level, I'd have much more energy. Both of my illnesses cause fatigue. As you can imagine, constant physical tension from the phobia combined with the absolutely draining drag of depression PLUS my PKD is just a lot to work against. I knew I was tired, but I didn't realize how truly exhausted I was until the depression let up 9 months ago. Honestly, I didn't know people could feel that good. It was no wonder to me how people could look down on those with depression. They just have NO idea.
I'd have more motivation. It's hard to express how unmotivated a depressed person is. When mine was at it's worst, I didn't even care about criminal justice anymore - and that is my LIFE! I was sitting in the last criminal justice class I'd have to take for an associate's, and I just couldn't care less. I just wanted to sleep. I just wanted to die. Life is so incredibly colorless, dull, hard, predictable, and meaningless. All you'd ever feel was just...nothing. Nothing made you happy, or even anything. You just feel absolutely nothing - all the time.
It started my second year in middle school. The first year, I blossomed. This was my prime. I was overly outgoing, loud, happy, friendly. I got student of the week (or whatever) award from my P.E. teacher. P.E teacher!!! - so you know I I was doing something right. I enjoyed this year. I made so many friends and no bullies.
This, apparently, is normal. I crashed the second year. For some reason, I began to feel a strain when I spoke to others. I care so much about other people, but I began getting overly- concerned. I'd analyze every interaction: did I say this right? Did I give the wrong impression? Are they sad now?. I began feeling like I was in charge of everyone else. Like I had to make them happy. I started to feel like a failure if I wasn't being funny enough. I started to get paranoid. Everything I did began to feel awkward. It was getting harder and harder to be carefree. Because of these changes, I started wondering who I was. I started to be very hard on myself (what my therapist calls: self -flagillating). I had to balance who I thought I was with these new, unwelcome feelings. It only got worse from there.
I barely got through highschool. I remember throwing up my breakfast as we arrived on the first day of sophomore year. I frequently ditched class. I just didn't care about much. I felt so uncomfortable all the time.
Because of this, my grades were bad. Because my grades were bad, I couldn't be a volunteer at the space center - something I'd always wanted to do. Something I loved. My only sanctuary at the time. This was the first thing my illnesses denied me. I was unable to use my AP Music class as college credit because my OTHER grades were bad. I wanted to have an internship in the geology section of a nearby museum. I couldn't do that, either. Because I changed so much, I must've seemed fake. I tried very hard to pretend to be who I thought I was, and that was stressful. I lost a lot of friends, and had a hard time relating to anyone.
I was on clonazepam and zoloft when I went to Snow. I still struggled a lot, but somehow made great friends. I even made friends with the kitchen staff at the school. I had awesome grades. I was seeing the therapist in charge the school's mental health program. Then things got bad again.
I lost my first job after only a month. I learned what a real panic attack was. I had two. Turns out, waitressing is considered the #1 worst job for someone like me. I was devastated and embarrassed as I sobbed, gasped, and shook in the kitchen, everyone staring, wondering what was wrong.
It wasn't long afterward that I had to drop out of school. I didn't attend my day classes enough to get good grades. I needed more sleep than others because I was so exhausted. I had no friends. Maybe the pills weren't doing enough?
The unchecked disappointment for these failures made me cut myself for the first time - with hair thinning shears.
I took a break and dated and married Stephen. I was naively happy, so I stopped taking the pills. The next year was hell on Earth as I struggled every day not to kill myself. I managed to get another job at Maverik that lasted 2 months. I cried in the back room when no one was there. I tried so many new pills. I found out I have PKD - another thing that alienated me from others.
I tried CNA school in Fall 2013. I was very keen on the book material, but it was hard for me to even speak, let alone get 100 vitals. I pushed myself very hard, and made it to clinicals. Here, I'd truly fail. I ran away in tears - off the premesis - because I lost sight of my partner. I was terrified of being alone there. I somehow made it through my second clinical, but never made up for the first. Emptying a colostomy bag was the easier than speaking.
I was getting tired of being a slacktivist, so I took a volunteer course for a local shelter. I struggled there, too. We were in a small room, and there were always personal questions, but it was a great program. I was proud of myself for taking it. They even had too many volunteers, but they picked ME! I was so happy.
But I was also scared. Our last day was at the shelter. I was so worried I'd sleep through an alarm that I just couldn't sleep at all. Literally. So I got to the location, and barely stayed awake through the 8 hour training. I was home free until the end, when they decided to play trust/group games. I truly suffered through the first 2, but the last one, 10 minutes before the training was supposed to end, I lost my cool.
I broke away from the group, consoling myself and telling myself it wasn't a big deal and NO ONE cares, but I couldn't keep the embarrassed tears back. It was too late. I slinked to the bathroom and blotted away, it was embarrassing. I was mad at myself for crying, and for "giving up". "Now I can't volunteer. You were so close! Why did you let this happen? "
My tears turned into a full-on breakdown as I slipped out of the bathroom and gathered my things to make a quick escape. The director approached me and I tried to explain my "situation" through inconsolable blubbering. "Can I still volunteer?" I managed to eek out. She said "of course." and opened the gate so I could leave. She contacted me a few months later to see if I still wanted to volunteer, but I told her I couldn't because I would'nt have been a good role model at the time (I had fresh cuts on my arm).
Later that year, I was doing very poorly in school. I was seeing a school counselor who offered to write notes for my teachers. I was seeing the school psychiatrist too, and she was worried. We tried a ton of pills. I failed basically all my classes and got C's in criminal justice!!!
I dropped out again at my therapist's advice. Is this the third time? I don't know. I go to therapy once a week for over a year, and I kinda felt ready to try again. I got a temporary job for Valentine's day that went well. I quit a puppy delivery job within a month of having it. I got another, perfect job (working with almost all solely Spanish speakers) that I quit within a month because I was getting huge mouth ulcers and falling way behind in school. School that I was later technically dismissed from due to not being able to "easily work with strangers". This hurts a lot, because I tried very hard to hide my discomfort.
People don't realize how deeply this affects us. My throat closes up to the point that I can hardly speak. When unmedicated, I'd blush and shake. I was mostly worried about others seeing how uncomfortable I was and then they'd be uncomfortable. You hate this part of yourself SO much, you want to do these simple things (like just talking and being yourself), but your body won't let you - even it your mind wants it. You feel so stupid.
My wedding was a nightmare, because I stood in front of people the whole time.
Obviously, I'd have better relationships with everyone, especially my friends and in-laws. I'd have saved a lot of stress and heartache for me and others if I wasn't so afraid/uncomfortable. I never see my girl friends. Never. And I love them so much.
Nobody understands me, and I'm not saying that like a preteen girl, nobody truly understands me, or how my brain works, or why I do anything I do, or say anything I say. I get accused of a lot of things, and I get vilified for a LOT by others (especially my in-laws) and it's because they don't understand me. Thanks to work on their behalf, things have gotten better between us, but it wouldn't have happened in the first place if I wasn't who I am.
So, long story short, I would be able to hold a steady job, I'd probably have been sealed to Stephen by now, I'd have a CNA certification and volunteer at a domestic violence shelter. I may have been a forensic nurse by now. I may have had a bachelors in social work or criminal justice by now. I'd certainly be a licensed EMT. My relationship with my in-laws wouldn't be strained from complete misunderstanding and hurt. My wedding probably wouldn't have sucked as much. I know I'd be much happier, healthier (hello sexual dysfunction!), richer, and much more fulfilled in life.
But why not just have a crutch? I need people to feel bad for me! Gimme the crutch. I'll take it.
*sarcasm
