On My Decision to Medicate
My battle with mental illness started at a young age, but my diagnosis didn’t come until I was 19-years-old. When I was younger, starting in sixth grade, I was mercilessly bullied by my peers both inside of school and outside of school. It was like something out of a movie or TV show, I was shoved against lockers and raided for money, I was the butt of all jokes, people made vulgar chants about me, I received awful and degrading text messages online, and I went home from school with bruises all over my body. It was painful to walk into the cafeteria of my Middle School knowing that I would be shunned from all of the tables, except for one, but when that one girl Hannah wasn’t there I was all by myself.
My weight, my crush, my teeth and braces, the way I walked, the people who used to associate themselves with me, and my intelligence were the things I was bullied for most. These things were all out of my control, but that didn’t matter to them. I was equated to a penguin. I was made to feel worthless, gross, and unlovable.
One time one of the boys said to me, “I don’t hit girls, but since you look like a boy it’s ok to hit you,” and proceeded to punch me in the stomach. That was the one and only time I sought help from a teacher because it only made it worse, “snitches get stitches.” Nothing could help rid me of these horrible people and I was only in sixth grade. My optimism and hope for days without torture were muted early on.
While this was all happening I discovered that hurting myself physically would help take my mind off of the mental torment I dealt with on a daily basis. I would cut, burn, and stab myself for those moments of catharsis; I was in control of this pain and that’s all that mattered. As the bullying got worse, so did my self-harm, but unlike some people my age, I didn’t do this for attention. Most of the places I self-harmed were where I could easily hide the evidence: my stomach, biceps, ankles, and thighs. In the time from age 12–19 I was never caught by my family.
In the midst of the bullying and self-harm I was suffering from episodes severe insomnia and the contrasting feeling of not being able to wake up. I would go anywhere from 24–72 hours without sleeping. When I had my episodes of insomnia it was accompanied by euphoria, bursts of energy, and obsession with new projects. When the contrasting episodes of the inability to awaken fully, it was accompanied by severe depression, apathy, and no desire to finish the projects I had started. Both of these episodes consisted of me harming myself in any number of ways.
The summer going into my freshman year of high school was the first time I contemplated suicide. With a bottle of pills in one hand and a glass of water in the other, I was ready to end my life. I hadn’t written a letter because I had been made to feel worthless for so long that I believed I didn’t deserve a note; it would be better if I ceased to exist all together. I emptied all of the contents of the bottle into my mouth and took a big gulp of water. Something rushed over me and I realized that I didn’t want to die, so I forced myself to regurgitate all of the pills. Failing at killing myself sent me into an even deeper depression than I had already been in.
When high school came around, the bullying slowed, but I was scarred. Because of what I had been put through I had daily anxiety attacks, nightmares every time I slept, and flash backs at random times. I made friends, had flash relationships, and created a life for myself, but I couldn’t commit to relationships because of the mental torment I was facing. The episodes of mania and depression worsened and became more frequent causing an even greater decline in my physical health.
I sought refuge in self-harm and binge eating until I changed from a carnivorous lifestyle to a vegan lifestyle, but the self-harm remained. I dropped an astonishing 40 lbs, but I still hated my body. The mirror showed me an obese, cellulite covered, sagging body of a 15-year-old. The self-harm reached its worse in these years because no matter how much weight I lost I still looked the same. The binge eating resumed, this time it was through an alternating vegan/vegetarian diet, and I gained all of the weight back.
High school ended, freeing myself of public school system that caused me so much pain. I expected the depression to go away because I was free, but it didn’t. My self-harm remained, my body dysmorphia remained, the panic attacks remained, and my inability to maintain relationships remained. My depressed episodes were more frequent than my manic episodes and I kept gaining more weight.
During this time I began to have night terrors. My nightmares about being attacked became a reality for me and I would awaken in the middle of my living room or bedroom screaming, drenched in sweat. It scary my family, and most of all, it scared my mom. My mom was the only person who knew how to get me back into my room and into a restful sleep. The nightmares continued every night, regardless of what kind of day I had.
My flashbacks worsened, too, and I never knew when they were going to happen. Anything could set me off; a scent, a word, a song, a phrase, an article of clothing, anything. These flashbacks forced me into a downward spiral and into some of the most severe panic attacks I ever experienced. My body shook, I would sweat profusely, my breathing would become sharp and painful, and I was brought back to a specific moment of torture from my past.
At 19-years-old I sat in my room once more, pills in hand, ready to end my life. No note. I emptied the contents of the bottle into my mouth, brought the glass to my lips, and hesitated. Quickly, I spit the pills into my bedside garbage and broke into hysterics. My dad was in the kitchen watching TV while the rest of my family slept. I sat across the table from him and, for the first time since 6th grade, I sought help. When he asked me what was wrong, I could only respond by saying, “everything.” That was one of only two times I broke down and had a panic attack in front of him.
My dad got me an appointment with a therapist a few days later where I was evaluated and pre-diagnosed. Three weeks after that, I saw a psychiatrist and discussed my options. I was diagnosed with social phobia, Bipolar Disorder, and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). We decided that my best course of action was weekly individual and group therapy accompanied by medication. After a tremendous amount of discussion, we settled on a mood stabilizer called Lamictal, and a night time pill called Clonidine. The Clonidine is used as a blood pressure medication which would lower my BP at night, preventing my night terrors.
It took over a year to find the right dosages of my medication before it really stabilized me. At first it was incredibly disconcerting not seeing any results. I expected to take a pill and be completely cured of my illnesses, but that wasn’t what happened. I worked hard inside and outside of therapy, and took my medications exactly as prescribed. Suddenly I started seeing results. My night terrors happened less frequently, my manic and depressed episodes stopped, my panic attacks were less frequent, and my social phobia dissipated almost completely. In December of 2012 I self-harmed for the last time.
The medication saved my life. Of course it was not only the medication, but my hard work in therapy as well. The medication played a major role in my road to recovery and still keeps me stable to this day. My medication does not cure my PTSD episodes, but because of my therapy I am better equipped to deal with them. My medication did not rid me entirely of my panic attacks, but because of my therapy I am better equipped to deal with them. Without my medication, though, I am certain that I would not be alive today because of the uncontrolled chemical imbalance in my brain causing my Bipolar Disorder.
My family was not entirely understanding of my decision to medicate because I was so secretive about my struggles. They were also very uneducated about mental illnesses. My dad was the only one who really understood from the beginning because he’s worked as a MICA specialist and an LCADC for many years (he’s a therapist). Most of my family tried to convince me that I would be better if I just went out with friends, got a boyfriend, smiled, sat out in the sun, or took up hobbies. I don’t blame them for believing these things because they had no idea what it meant to be mentally ill.
Once I was stable and strong enough, I told my family members one-by-one why medication was my best option; they finally began to understand. I still face judgment by others inside and outside of my family because there is a stigma attached to the diagnosis of mental illness. The misconception of what “cures” mental illnesses plagues society and causes them to believe that medication is the “easy way out” and is less respectable. Fortunately I am very vocal about my struggles and love to share what I have been through. I understand that judgement will always exist and not everyone will understand, but it is up to us to spread awareness to help end the stigma.
I cannot stress enough the fact that my medications are keeping me alive. They do not numb me. They do not overpower me. They help me survive. We have a healthy relationship. I put in the work needed to control what my medication does not. My medication puts in the work needed to control the things I cannot. It is that simple. I still go to therapy and meet with my psychiatrist bimonthly.
Because of my decision to get help and medicate, I was able to do things I never thought I would do. I traveled across Europe while I continued to pursue my education. I traveled to California to end my five months of traveling. I created and sustained healthy friendships. I have confidence in my body. I have confidence in my ability to live a healthy life. None of this would be possible without medication. I have accepted the fact that I will be on medication indefinitely and realize that this is not a bad thing.
I am stronger, happier, healthier, and more confident than I have ever been.
