I was driving home tonight, about 15 minutes ago actually, and it occurred to me that I can’t remember not adding an imaginary caveat to the question; “how are you doing?”. When good friends ask how I am, I usually say “pretty good” or even the daring “okay”, but in my head I am adding things. Like I am ok, but last night I thought about how good it would feel to not exist, or I am fine, but I secretly scratch the back of my legs until they bleed. Sometimes I feel propelled to tell the truth, but I feel that such circumstances are not a time for honesty. I think that most people who suffer from some sort of mental illness get very good at faking normal or ok, or even funny! and nice! and chatty! I guess I should say, that I am pretty good at appearing to be a high functioning, dare I saw somewhat awesome, person.

I wanted to post a quick history here on RealMental, since that is the first-ish thing I want to know about people.

p.s. HUGE shout out to LeahPeah for wrangling this and involving me.

I am 37 now, so the where and when and hows might occasionally be fuzzy, but for now, this is how I got here.

I started with a diagnosed panic disorder at 18, while in university. I had suffered from it since I was 13, not being able to sleep away from home, not being able to go out to do social activities after dark, only watching tv shows that were set somewhere sunny. Seriously. I spent 4 months at an outpatient at the university hospital, 4 hours a day, 5 days a week. Turned out to be very interesting, but not so effective. Ultimately proper medication helped. I ended up going more than halfway across the country to finish school. Not without bumps, but so so so much better. I often felt depressed, but figured those feelings were just me, part of me, who I was. Not good enough, thin enough, smart enough.

I was off of my medication (Nardil, total old skool med), for a few years before I went back on for more general anxiety with panic attacks. Wee! I ended up going back on during a very stressful time in my life, first serious (but good) relationship, I had just met my biological mom (i am adopted), and I was getting married in a year or so, and lets face it, my brain is buggered, so it was time to go back on. My general physician was taking care of my meds, but she ultimately sent me to a psychiatrist to help. I went back on the Nardil and felt better. She also gave me ativan (for emergencies) and a few sleeping pills if I remember.

Over this time, about ten years, 18-27 or so, there were tons of other behaviours and ticks I look back on now, or rather a few years ago, and realize I was building up for something really good. Disordered eating, restrictive eating, binge eating, purging. Self-harm of different varieties, usually picking or poking or scratching myself in places nobody could see. I kept tissue around in case some small wound opened. While further away from home in university, excessive drinking some drugs here and there and a moderate amount of promiscuity. A mantra of self hatred in every way was a marquee in my head, too fat, too dumb, too ugly, no one will ever want me, I will ultimately be alone. Not necessarily every thing at once, but a nice smattering of fucked up shit that still continues in dribs and drabs. I never told any shrink of therapist about these behaviours until I was… 31 maybe? I think it was after I had a wee car accident, no one injured, in fact no one involved but me. I came home and slammed my head against the wall, over and over.

Eventually my psychiatrist really wanted to focus on the eating disorder and referred me to another psychiatrist, who turned out to be wacko, clinical term I believe. Seriously, the woman had no privacy or personal boundaries, kept a kitchen stocked with food in her office AND a scale. It is good that I had grown enough balls to say goodbye, but it took me a year. I guess if I had more courage I would have filed a formal complaint, I know some people who did. So, back to previous and current psychiatrist.
Then I had a baby, then I could not shake the oppressive depression about 8 months later. It wasn’t “postpartum depression”, as it looks like this shit won’t go away. Ever. I resisted a diagnosis of bipolar “2” for a long time. Months. I read and she talked and I talked, and I am currently taking medication for it. Oh, and I am also ADD, which didn’t take much convincing on her part, I came to her with it. “They” say major hormonal shifts like pregnancy, abortion, menopause, etc, can trigger major psychological events. I am also a Type 2 Diabetic and insulin dependent. My Body is a Wonderland Pharmacy. Lets see if I can remember them all: lamictal, wellbutrin, paxil, adderal, klonapin for the crazy, and then: 2 kinds of insulin, metformin, anti hypertension stuff, something to keep my heart rate down, and i keep some sleeping pills around just in case. I am at a point in my treatment (as I suspect you are thinking it too), that is too much medication. I agree. Last week I was trying to convince my P-doc and my husband, that yes, I get depressed, but maybe what we think is mania, is just me NOT being depressed, but normal. I was voted down, and with some more time to think and ANALYZE my every mood and thought, I guess they are right. Ultimately I still want to get off of some of the medications. and feel confident (as possible) in my current diagnosis.

There, I feel like I just purged on the page. Old habits…..