One In Five

Just the story of a girl who cried a river and drowned the whole world, literally.

[savbredavis-blog]

This is just it

The thing about anxiety is that people who don’t have it, don’t understand. They never really will. Those moments when you’re so overwhelmed and feel your heart about to explode, palms sweating, mind racing, pure panic… In those moments, they will never understand. To them, we need to “stop it” and “get over it.” Because to them, anxiety is something that can be fixed in 0.2 seconds. It’s almost made up. They don’t believe us and to me, that’s on my top 10 list of worst feelings in the world.

Since I’m writing about understanding, there comes a time when “hope you feel better” and “it’ll be okay” isn’t enough anymore. I need more of a “I know you’re dealing with a lot of shit in your head right now, in this moment that feels like fucking forever, but no matter what…. I will be here for you” response. In my opinion, support is important.

Anyone who hasn’t seen me have a panic attack, you’re one of the lucky ones. Because that shit…. Damn it’s bad. And people who question me about anxiety and exactly what it is and what it feels like I tell them straight up that it’s like a heart attack. A “take me to the fucking hospital because I feel like I’m about to die” sort of thing. You feel it coming but you can’t stop it. And then you lose it. And then you’re left feeling empty. For nothing at all.

And I get it. From the outside, it’s easy to think that someone has everything in life figured out. Like they don’t have a care in the world. As if it were to be expected for me to wear my demons like a Scarlett letter pinned to my chest. If you don’t see it, it’s not really there, right? It’s like pain doesn’t exist unless someone is limping, or bleeding, or in a cast. But sometimes the most painful demons are the ones that no one can see. No one enjoys talking about the tough shit. Hell, neither do I.

Anxiety feels like every cell is moving within my body at 120 miles per hour, like my veins are going to explode. My heartbeat sounds like a songs that’s beat is too fast. I’m chewing on the inside of my mouth, and I don’t notice it until I’m bleeding. And holding onto myself, like I’m my only lifeline because if I can’t save myself, who else can? I avoid eye contact, not because I’m not listening to you but because the only thoughts I can hear are my own. It feels like fire- unexplainably hot and rash. Feels like drowning and it feels like it’s taking fucking forever. I feel like running and leaving trails of dust behind me… And never returning. I can’t find the square root of the problem because there isn’t one. There is only fear and feelings and I’m feeling them all at the same time. For me, some days are better than others, some are worse, and some are so fucking unbearable that I have to pull over 3 times on the way to work. It all depends on what cards I’m dealt that day. I never know what to expect. They are just days, and I’ve got more from where they came from.

[savbredavis-blog]

"Depression is living in a body that fights to survive with a mind that tries to die."

[savbredavis-blog]

Intro to a f***** up individual

Before you read this, know this is NOT a tale of personal hardship and misfortune, aimed at gaining the pity of others. If I can change the outlook of life for one individual, this would all be worth it. It took me five years of going back and forth to gain the courage to share my story. So, here goes. It took me a long time to accept the fact that I had a mental illness, although it all started when I was in the fifth grade. Up until that point, I have no memories at all. If you've ever seen the movie Inside Out, you're probably aware of what a core memory is- a key moment that defines a persons life. Those for me aren't very happy. They're driving my mom home at the age of 8 because she was drunk, my dad throwing my suitcase on the concrete and all of my clothes painting the sidewalk, sheets surrounding the kitchen because my step-dad manufactured meth, watching my mom drink her life away one beer at a time, raising my brother at the age of 7, and eventually admitting myself to a mental hospital because feared myself at 12 years old. I was one fucked up individual. Here's what fucked up means to me- I begged my dad to place me into foster care because I knew I'd be happier, self-harmed, attempted to overdose, tried to run away on a fucking bike, walking into the Principles office in middle school and seeing social workers waiting to take me somewhere that I mattered. I remember the first day of first grade, but I try not to. Same with birthdays, holidays, and school events. Those were the times my mom promised to show but never did because she was too strung out on a piece of shit that raped her and beat her and threatened to take her life, the bedroom over from mine. There are more unhappy and unfortunately defining memories, but I'm sure you get the point. The worst feeling in the world is being fucked up but not because of yourself, but because of the fucked up individuals who were supposed to shield you from that shit... but chose not too. When I finished eighth grade, I wanted to go somewhere where no one would remember me, so I could start over. I had been to three elementary schools, and three middle schools and all I ultimately wanted was to be grounded for once in my life. I didn't want to be remembered for the social workers and everything else, so I chose a school that 90% of all my middle school classmates wouldn't go to. Despite trying, shit still followed. I thought starting over would change my life. But the moment life theoretically started over for me, shit hit the fan again. I literally felt my heart stop beating when the woman that had saved me throughout my life couldn't even save herself. She was handed a death diagnosis. So, my second semester of high school, all I did was cry and write letters and on Christmas Day 2007, as I held her hand and witnessed her last breath, half of me went with her. So after her funeral, I slipped away and slipped all those letters I had been writing into her pockets and closed her casket for the last time. For years after, I was alive but I was not living. In my mind, I wanted to be dead too. So, for the next few years the cycles of self-harm, and overdosing, and sometimes voluntary and sometimes involuntary trips to the psych ward continued. Yet again, I was a fucked up individual. No medications helped me. No therapy made me feel any different. I couldn't even help myself, so how could someone else? But I went anyways and I was given a diagnosis for myself- mixed anxiety and depressive disorder, accompanied by multiple personality disorder. Now before you exit this link and are afraid to ever talk to me again, let me tell you exactly what my diagnosis meant. Mixed- depressive disorder is a diagnostic category defining individuals who suffer from anxiety and depressive symptoms of limited and equal intensity accompanied by at least some autonomic features. I was literally MADD. I was MADD because of my defining diagnosis but fucking mad because I didn't want to be any of those things. But what about the multiple personality disorder? When I first heard those words, I was a freak of nature. Someone who morphed into someone else any given second. But here's what it really meant- usually a reaction to trauma as a way to help a person avoid bad memories. Yep, that's me. Acting happy to avoid being fucking angry and sad all the time. Sounds about right. For me, I'm just me with different emotions and that's usually normal. People experience joy, and heartbreak, and profound happiness, and anger and all emotions but I was sad and angry all the time, so I had to cover those unforgiving emotions somehow. So I became someone I wasn't. All the time. Today, I still suffer from the anxiety and depression because of all those unhappy core memories. I still cover up my real emotions. And I'm still one fucked up individual. But I'm getting better and because of that, all of you suffering from any mental disorder I want you to know that you are not alone. One in every five individuals will suffer from a mental illness during their lifetime. You aren't alone in the way you act or feel, or don't feel at all. Today, I realize that I'll always have a mental illness but I've learnt how to cope with my diagnosis. I'm still depressed about some aspects of my life and still have anxiety attacks daily. Things get better. I should know- I haven't been in the hospital, or overdosed, or self-harmed, or any of that shit in 5 years. Shit gets better, slowly but surely.