I am (not) my sick brain.

My struggle to find a sickness and my fear of treating it.

I am eleven years old, teetering on the edge of puberty. I am suddenly developing some severe “quirks” and “moods” — but that’s just because I’m in middle school, and middle schoolers are all slightly insane.

I am thirteen years old, fighting for my life in the isolation room at the hospital. I am tired, angry, and friendless — but that’s just because I have cancer, so of course I’m not at my best.

I am sixteen years old, and my boyfriend killed himself a few months ago. I am an insomniac, wandering around the house in the middle of the night, trying to find the determination to end my own life — but that’s just because I haven’t processed my grief.

I am nineteen years old, and I am writing an email to the dean of my college, telling him that I will be dropping out. I can’t find the motivation to go to class or do any work, and the ability to function seems to be escaping me — but that’s just because I didn’t learn discipline as a teenager.

I am twenty-two years old, and I am working as an online stripper. I can’t handle an office job, no matter how menial, and I’m struggling to motivate myself to do this job, too — but that’s just because I’m not being challenged.

I am in my mid-twenties. I have finally taken steps to address my mental illness. I take medication, go to therapy, and fight like hell to maintain a lifestyle somewhat similar to “normal,” — but that’s just because I ran out of excuses.

It was very hard for me to realize that my damaging feelings were a product of my own brain. Don’t get me wrong, I was able to understand that I was mentally ill. It was very apparent that my dramatic overreactions to minor frustrations, lack of motivation or organization, and suicidal thoughts were not normal or healthy. It’s just that I, along with everyone around me (including caregivers such as doctors and therapists), assumed that the stressful and somewhat depressing nature of my adolescent life was the only cause. Without meaning to, those people trained me to point to outside incidents as the blame for my dysfunction — and I never really learned to manage my emotions. I didn’t have a strategy in place to get better. I just assumed I never would.

At the end of 2015, I was in a particularly bad place. I knew that I was doing a shitty job at work, I couldn’t motivate myself to take care of my body or my apartment, and I was running out of time to participate in the hobby which had served as my coping mechanism for my entire life to that point. I was scared of myself and for myself… so I made a New Year’s Resolution to give therapy another try (a seventh try, to be exact).

It was dumb luck that the therapist I picked (randomly selected from a list of providers who would take my insurance) would be the perfect choice for me. Ted had no interest in my past — focusing instead on the motivation behind my picking up the phone to call him and make an appointment. We talked about my struggles at work, at home, and in my own head… and we never really looked back. Eight months after our first appointment, with Ted’s blessing, I walked into a psychiatrist’s office with a specific purpose. Now, six months after that, here I am.

I struggle to accept that only on medication can I be the person I think I should be all the time. It’s incredibly difficult to not bully myself to tears every day when I inevitably fuck up something “simple.” I try (and fail) to not be bitter about all of the opportunities I wasted because I was not yet in a place where I could handle them. The clarity that mental health treatment is giving me is a blessing, but it is also a curse. I see what I’ve done to a life full of potential, and sometimes the wreckage is completely overwhelming.

And now I’m scared.

I’m scared because I have aspirations: to write a book, to finish my college education, to have a career… but I have no idea what my limits are. I am unsure where the mental illness ends and the “real” me begins, and finding out means learning something about myself that I might not like. I think that I have a beautiful brain in there somewhere, but I also think that being wrong will kill me. I’m afraid to give it my all, because my all might not be enough, even at my best. That’s scary. And it’s an excuse.

I need to stop letting those rule my life.

I hope writing this is a step in the right direction.