Longing for the Sea

my depression story

(I worked quite hard on this assignment for class, and I'm including it because it explains my battle with medication this year.)

"For a moment I think about the new medicines I'm taking, which are, as usual, not doing their job." -Med Head by James Patterson and Hal Friedman

Just like Cory, I struggled to find medication that worked for me. However, Cory's journey lasted for thirteen years, and my journey only lasted a few months. Nevertheless, finding medication that works is one of the hardest things that come along with seeking help for mental illness.

I was diagnosed with Major Depression and Generalized Anxiety Disorder this year.

When my anxiety started to get out of control, it took so much strength to reach out and find help. I was terrified of the idea of going to a psychologist, and I didn't even know where to begin to find one.

I remember the summer between 7th and 8th grade because it was a key moment where my depression was at its worst. I have a vivid memory of texting my best friend with tears streaming down my face because I was feeling so many emotions all at the same time. I felt like I was going to explode, and I had no idea how to live to see another day when there was a voice in the back of my head saying that life wasn't worth living. But then he mentioned therapy.

The idea terrified me because I knew I would have to talk to my mom about my mental health struggle if I wanted her to schedule an appointment for me. I hated talking to her about my feelings because she was notorious for crying and making the situation about her rather than listening to me. But I listened to my friend's advice, and I convinced her to schedule an appointment.

I thought that middle school was going to be the hardest obstacle I'd face in my entire life. I would go to a therapist, and all of my problems would be solved on the spot.

Yeah, totally. That's how that works.

I went to that therapist for about a year until I realized I hadn't improved at all since I started meeting with her. It's safe to say that my condition worsened rather than showing any signs of improvement.

I was so frustrated. My mother had coughed up hundreds of dollars for me to get help, but I ended up getting worse instead. I felt like therapy was pointless, and it was only a waste of time and money.

Another component that caused me to withdraw from therapy was how hard it was for my mom to leave work, pick me up from school, and take me to appointments. She constantly complained about how hard it was to get caught up at work, and I felt similar frustration when missing classes and tests to go to a therapist that was doing more harm than help. After a few months, I was only seeing my therapist once a month. It was more cost effective and a lot easier on my mom, but I found that this forced me to talk as fast as I could to explain the events from the past month in our forty-five minutes sessions. In other words, we were just playing "catch up" like relatives at Thanksgiving dinner.

When I was leaving my last session, my therapist told me that I needed to make appointments more often so that we weren't playing "catch up" (yes, those were her exact words); her tone made me extremely uncomfortable, and I felt like she was angry with me. It wasn't my fault that schools and jobs aren't understanding when families are going through a crisis such as mine.

So I never went back.

Freshman year started a few months later, and I fell deeper and deeper into depression. My thoughts became plagued with suicidal ones. I didn't know what to do.

It was October of 2016, and my day started off normal...until math class. I realized I had forgotten to answer a few questions on my homework, and this small, insignificant mistake sent me into a terrible mental state.