Hello, my pretties! How are you all? Doing well, I hope! I’m doing well enough, and trying to get a little more active when it comes to posting on my blogs. We’ll see how long that will last.
Before I go any further, please be aware that this post is going to talk specifically about my mental health, and, as I type the posts when I publish, I can’t tell exactly which themes I will touch, but there may be some sensitive ones there. Reader discretion is advised.
With the warning out of the way, let us move on, shall we?
I can’t really look back and pinpoint when I started noticing my mental health wasn’t what it was supposed to be. Having been raised by a mother who could be described as neglectful at times and abusive at others, let’s say my normal was never… what is usually accepted as normal.
The earliest I can remember about my childhood not being normal is that around the age of six I was sure I was my father’s daughter, but not my mother’s. In my young mind, I believed that I was his love child with someone else and that’s why my mother didn’t like me. That’s something my mother finds very amusing, by the way, make of that what you will. It was also the age when I remember being treated differently from all of my grandmother’s other grandchildren, because she didn’t like my mother. So I basically didn’t have many people to turn to.
As years went by, I became more and more into myself. I spent a lot of time with a “friend” who was very overbearing, and who acted as though me having other friends was an act of betrayal. Add to that living in a household where my mother was a religious fanatic prone to raiding my bedroom for ‘satanic’ literature, and I felt more and more stifled.
At some point during high school, I started talking to myself – a lot. I was so stressed and isolated I felt like nobody but me would listen to me. My school counselor noticed it when she saw me walking home once and asked my mother to take me to therapy. She did, though it didn’t help that much. On one end, there was the therapy telling me I was perfectly normal and mentally healthy (really, lady?). And then when I came home from my sessions, my brother was there saying things like ‘look, the crazy girl is home’.
I was around 16 back then, and branching out into more friendships. I was still stressed and unsure of myself, though, as I wasn’t used to having friends. The ones I had were nice, but I had spent so many years isolated by a bad friend I didn’t really know what to do. This was the state of affairs for the rest of my school career, and it was when I started taking some pills in a clumsy attempt at ‘sleeping and not waking up’. It never worked, and if someone at home noticed, they didn’t say anything. Neither did I.
Fast forward to university – which I didn’t want to go to right away, but went to because my parents pushed for it – and things were getting worse. During exam weeks, I was literally not sleeping for full weeks straight. I’d pass out in exhaustion for a couple hours, then wake up and be unable to sleep at night. I was this close to breaking, and death was constantly in my mind. I just wanted the agony to stop.
After trying to bottle it up, I finally broke down and begged my mother for help. She mercifully listened and took me to a psychiatrist – even though she was mortified I needed one.
The psychiatrist talked to me (with my mother sitting right there) and decided my problem was anxiety and I needed medication for that. I was on board with it, of course, anything that could ease my agony would be welcome. So he prescribed the medication and I started taking it.
It. Was. Horrible. Whatever effect the medication was supposed to have, it backfired. I was exhausted and sleepy all day and still awake at night. I gave it time, maybe it needed more time for my body to get used to it. Nope, months in and I was still dying during the days, when I had to work, and stark awake at nights, when I could rest.
I asked the doctor to review my medication. He increased my dosage… during the day. I still tried again, maybe it would work? Nope, it didn’t. I was still a zombie all day and awake all night.
And this is when I decided to drop this doctor and the medication.
Do I advise anyone to do it? Nope.
Do I regret it? No, I don’t. It was the right decision for me at the time.
Well, I guess I’ve said enough already! If you have anything you want to share, the comments are open!
See you on the next post!