The Beginning: A Biography of Sorts
The irony of this post is that it's titled the beginning but I have no clue where to start. 21 years is a long time to be on this earth and it's a lot to try and sum up in one blog post, so I guess I'll just jump in.
As a little kid I cried a lot. I was a really sensitive kid, and I'm no psychologist (yet) so I don't know exactly how much that has to with all of this but it seems relevant, so why not? As my mother puts it, "someone could look at me wrong and it would hurt my feelings." For almost as long as I can remember I was bullied for everything from how hairy my arms were (being part Greek and Native American I'll admit, I was hairier than the average little girl), to how thin I was (also thinner than average). 6th grade brought what I call The Age of Agnes. Agnes was a girl in my class who I "befriended" and who, for the next three years, became my consistent tormentor. It got so severe my parents considered homeschooling me. Around 8th grade I discovered the concept of self-injury but the idea of actually intentionally drawing my own blood terrified me; the farthest I went was superficial repetitious scratches on my arms. The majority of my elementary and middle school social existence is a blur but I remember being very excited to finally get away from the same people I was stuck with for almost 12 years and make a new person of myself. Finally, I made it through to high school, which would come to be some of the best and worst times of my life.
Now in high school I was a vain little scene kid, but I was friendly and made a good amount of friends, many of who are still friends to this day. But around 9th grade is when I started noticing something was seriously wrong. I experienced an unrelenting sense of lethargy, inexplicable sadness, and lack of motivation. Despite pleading with my parents, they insisted that it would pass, that nothing was seriously wrong with me. So I began seriously cutting. A lot. This behavior and state of mind continued through high school and on my 16th birthday I started smoking pot. Now I have no issue with weed, and while I don't agree that it's a "gateway drug" it did make me want to be more adventurous. A few months later I discovered a stash of my grandmother's painkillers. Through my junior and senior year I shamelessly abused Vicodin on a nightly basis. I loved the feeling of being so mellowed out alone in my room painting and even now this gets hard to write thinking of that very particular euphoria I still chase. Around my junior year a friend convinced me to quit cutting, and I did - for a while. But quitting something like that isn't easy. It, in itself, becomes an addiction. So being without it, Vicodin just gave me that much more comfort. My senior year I was big on partying. Nothing too extreme, but you know, I was smoking pot and drinking with my friends and popping pills whenever I could. Eventually pills started making me puke and pot heightened my anxiety and so it wasn't hard to kick them - Vicodin before my high school graduation, and cannabis later in college. My senior year was also when I met my then boyfriend, Carter. Carter made it clear to me that he cared for me and that he couldn't be with me if I ever cut again or did drugs. Six months after Carter and I started dating I graduated with my 12th grade class with flying colors, still depressed, but excited to be going to my dream college and still having the support of all of my amazing friends back home.
College was not the dream I thought it'd be. I went to a prestigious art college about an hour from home and an hour and a half from where Carter lived. My first year was coming to a close and I had hardly made any friends, save a small group of lovely people who really became what would keep me there for as long as I stayed, the distance between Carter and I was putting a strain on our relationship, the critical and competitive nature of my school was whittling away at my passion and inspiration to create, and to ice the shit-cake that had become my life, my depression was coming to a head. Suicidal thoughts had become an hourly occurrence, so much so that I almost never went to class anymore. I gained 70 pounds, never left my room, and was terrified of anyone who wasn't in my friend group. Each night I'd invent new ways to take myself out, down to contemplating drinking a bottle of nail polish remover. Around the end of my first semester I had sought help from the on-campus mental health care clinic. Enter John, the campus psychologist whom I would come to know as my guardian angel. To this day I owe him my life. Really each student was only allowed 7 free sessions a year, but due to the severity of my case, and John's kind heart, he saw me weekly over the course of my stay and granted me the privilege of "emergency" visits. One fateful day I dragged myself into John's office with a suicide note. He immediately called my parents and told them to get to campus as fast as they could. He was putting me on a medical leave of absence and demanded that I seek serious mental health care that same day. I texted my best friend there to tell her that I was leaving and she left her class to meet me at John's office and let me sob into her shirt as I waited for my parents. Upon their arrival John got them up to speed and they held me as we all cried together; they told me they we're so sorry for not doing something sooner, that they should have listened. I never held it against them. No parent wants to believe their precious baby girl is fighting such a consuming battle. I quickly packed a small suitcase and my parents took me straight to the hospital only a few miles from our house where I was checked into the psychiatric wing overnight. There I met the psychiatrist I would continue to see for the next two years.
After that night I was put on battery of anti-depressants, anti-anxiety meds, sleep aids, stimulants, the list goes on. I don't mean to discount her practice, but the, literally, 15+ different medications I was put on in those 2 years didn't make me better, they just zombified me. I couldn't focus, write, paint, photograph; I couldn't create. My medications would change once every four weeks which I came to realize was a big part of the issue, but let's backtrack a little, because a lot happened in those two years.
For starters I took a break from school and moved in with Carter. I took a minimum wage retail job, and used that and practically being a housewife and full-time dog mom to occupy my time. I tried returning to my old college to no avail; I made it about 3 months before offically dropping out. Shortly after, things between Carter and I began to sour; just shy of our two year anniversary we broke up and I moved back home with my mom, dad, and grandma and quit my job. With Carter out of the picture that meant I was free to do as I pleased once again - namely drugs and cutting. Scars began appearing over my arms and thighs, but soon, with the help of my friends, and a gentle reminder from my parents that if they caught me cutting again they would take my back to psych, I didn't feel the need to do it anymore. Around that time I tried cocaine for the first time. At this point I was about 19. With no boyfriend, no job, no school, and essentially no responsibilities, I was having the time of my life when my medications weren't dragging me down. Being home again further strengthened my relationship with my family, I was partying with my friends constantly, coke included, and even began exploring my sexual opportunities, responsibly I may add. It was during this period that I met Shawn, and my life became a whirlwind of excitement.
Shawn was actually my best friend's then girlfriend's best friend, so it seemed an ideal situation. A week after meeting, Shawn and I began dating. I was drinking more, fucking more, doing more coke, popping pills again, and I'll admit, I began to lose myself in this lifestyle. Thanks to an intervention from my friends and encouragement from Shawn I quickly cut it back. I accepted a job offer with the retail store I had previously worked at, later taking two different jobs, and enrolled in online classes. My life seemed pretty consistent. I even plucked up the courage to come off of my medications that I felt were crippling me. I was still partying occasionally, drinking, abusing Xanax and Percocet, and doing coke occasionally. My relationship with my parents grew strained due to my change in behavior, and I began spending more and more time at Shawn's house. He and I had been together just over a year when Percs became hard to find and very expensive, so we decided to try heroin for the first time. I don't remember there being any overwhelmingly euphoric rush that everyone talks about having their first time, but I do know it was a very pleasant, similar high to Percs, and it didn't make me sick to my stomach like pills often did. But it was the opposite for Shawn. I remember us driving back from a hiking day trip and having to pull over so he could violently vomit. Minutes later, he took what we had left of it and dumped it out the window, swearing it off for both me and him. It's here I should add I have never, and will never shoot up. Heroin can be snorted and that was our chosen method of administration. We went back to pills for a few months but over those months I repeatedly expressed to Shawn my preference for heroin. Shortly before my 21st birthday, Shawn surprised me one day with a small bag of yellow-brown powder. However, he told me this was my last time, and with him being my only source of contact with it, I was cut off. Later that summer, things grew tumultuous between Shawn and I and we split up.
With all of the sadness and hopelessness creeping back up with me, I turned to my regular physician. To my surprise, he was able to prescribe an anti-depressant that would become a staple in my stability. I was smiling and laughing again. I got an amazing new job, which I'm still at as I write this, and grew close with my parents again. Shawn even made a turnaround in an effort to regain my affections. We began casually dating, and all was right with the world. But the stress of everyday life was getting to me and I approached Shawn about getting my hands on some Percocets. It turns out that while we were separated he was reintroduced to heroin by a friend and knowing that I was partial to it and you could get more and get way higher for a lot less money he offered that as an alternative. He and I were getting high together on a semi-regular basis, but were sharing more laughs and great memories than ever and were still maintaining our responsible adult lives. Shortly after, he and I reentered an exclusive relationship and he and I have been better than ever. As of late, I've been working my ass off, making plans for the future with Shawn, maintaining healthy relationships with my friends and family. But my journey is far from over. I'm still getting high, still trying to keep my depression under control and keep thoughts of cutting at bay. This will be where I keep track of my journey, and we blaze the trail of recovery together.
Originally posted February 6th, 2016
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