I used to long for a diagnosis.  Something snappy from the DSM-IV would have done nicely.  I wanted an impressive-sounding label to stick on the mess that bubbled constantly inside my head and my guts.  If I had an official Mental Disorder, it would mean that people would have to take me seriously.  Maybe it would mean that I could get some help.

Sometimes I felt that I wasn’t being taken seriously enough.  Other times I accepted what others said.  “She’s throwing a tantrum.  Just ignore her.”  “Oh, she’s crying again?  Never mind, she’ll be fine.”  It was easy for them to minimize what they saw, because they were too busy, or too self-absorbed, or too contemptuous to stop and evaluate how much I was actually suffering.

I started cutting myself.  No one noticed.  I went to my doctor to discuss my mental health.  He had misplaced his Suicide Risk Checklist.  He looked through his files for 2 minutes trying to find it, and then decided it would be good enough to ask me whatever questions he remembered.  He forgot to ask if I had looked into killing myself.  I had, in fact, visited a website that provided techniques for suicide.  But he never asked, and I wasn’t able to summon my voice to volunteer the information.

I did ask him to prescribe me an anti-depressant.  I needed something, anything, to get me through my days.  Every hour, sometimes every minute, was excruciating.

The doctor told me he thought it was “just psychological”.  He wanted to refer me to see a psychologist for counseling, who happened to be his sister.  He said it might be Post Traumatic Stress Disorder because my difficult childhood.  Finally, with reservations, he did write me a prescription for Zoloft.

I took it straight to a bookstore, found a book on the medical effects that are possible when people come off anti-depressants, and became too scared to fill the prescription.  I went back to toughing it out on my own.  I’m aware that I’m lucky to have that choice.

In the end, I diagnosed myself.  Moderate Depression, and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.  And after years of dealing with my moods I’ve learned how to keep myself on an even keel, most of the time.  It means I live a life that is relatively very limited, but within those safe boundaries I have found a way to be me that works.