The Story

Allow me to set the stage. The main character is a 22 year old female college student -- senior to be exact. She enjoys animals, learning, and connecting deeply with others. This young woman is looking forward to a career in social work, specifically with those who are suicidal.

Specifically with those like herself.

Surprise -- if you don't know my story by now, the big bombshell is that the main character is yours truly. And as always, I want to stress that I am not searching for sympathy when I share my story -- I am simply hoping to comfort someone by letting them know they're not alone. I am always open to any questions from anyone, and I always answer honestly. Without further ado, I present to you my mental health journey.

It all started at the age of 9. I remember sitting on my bed, upset, and telling my mom I wish I were dead. She said "never say that again!", and me, being the obedient person I am, followed commands. Unfortunately for me, my obedience in this particular circumstance was life-threatening. I didn't realize it at first, since I was so young, but I was suffering from depression and suicidal thoughts. Middle school came along, and I vividly remember that 7th grade is when I pieced it all together. We had to do a PowerPoint in science class -- I can't remember the exact reason -- but I picked depression. And while researching, I realized I fit the criteria. But I was terrified to say anything, I kept thinking back to that moment at age 9, when the 3rd grade version of me told herself to never speak about it again. Life spiraled when I got to high school. I developed anorexia (once again, I didn't know what was going on at first), and that left me with slowing organs, extreme hair loss, even more body image issues, and a figure that, looking back, doesn't fit my bone structure. To cope with my untreated mental pain, I used pills, which resulted in craving (aka addiction) and stomach bleeding/ulcers. And the icing on the cake was suicide attempt after suicide attempt, typically with the pills I valued so dearly. Yet I kept hiding everything, and for the most part people believed it. My theory is that no one wanted to believe I would ever lie to their face.

I realized, right when I turned 18, I could no longer keep this to myself. I was slowly (or maybe rapidly?) dying. As as much as I thought I wanted to die, I wasn't ready. I opened up to my aunt and uncle. I told my parents. And in August 2012, half my life after my first suicidal thought, I admitted I wanted help. I began seeing my wonderful therapist, who diagnosed me with depression, anxiety, and panic disorder. After a few months of multiple-times-per-week sessions, it was more than clear that my brain was chemically imbalanced, so I was prescribed antidepressants. I kept getting better, but I would have extremely low, suicidal days for no reason. It was something I didn't have an explanation for, but tried to brush it off.

Tuesday, June 24th, 2014. This is the day I mark as "the first day of the rest of my life". I hit an EXTREME low while at work, once again with no explanation. But I knew if I were to go home I would try to kill myself, so with the guidance from my parents, I made a crisis appointment with a therapist on campus. After a deep discussion and lots of crying, it was decided I would be taken by UNLPD to the emergency room at Bryan Hospital, to be evaluated for potentially being checked into the mental health unit. I was deemed necessary for check in. It was scary -- I couldn't wear any of my clothes with strings, no phone, and the flowers my parents brought a few days later were placed in a urinal instead of the glass vase. Two major things came out of this hospitalization, though -- 1) I realized I wanted to go into a profession similar to the psychologists/social workers helping me, and 2) I was diagnosed with Bipolar II Disorder.

BIPOLAR?! I remember how I felt when I heard the news. I sat across from the psychiatrist in his office, and I was almost paralyzed by shock. I was nothing like the stereotype of bipolar I held in my own mind. I listened attentively as he explained my antidepressant was actually making my mood swings worse at the dosage it was on, and that it needed to be lowered and have a mood stabilizer added on with it. At that time, I think the shock of the diagnosis outweighed the relief of knowing why I'd get happy and sad for no reason. It seemed this was a diagnosis I was afraid of being stereotyped for the most for having -- that's why I'm the most passionate about speaking about it.

Fast forward 2 1/2 years. It's been an roller coaster ride. I've hit manic highs were I didn't sleep for 2 days straight, skipped instead of walked, and of course cleared out my bank account. I've also had several dark days where I could hardly pull myself out of bed -- even to the point where I had to leave work early and go home just to cry and take an emergency Xanax. I've had a few suicidal thoughts in the last two years. But overall, I'm in a better place than I've ever been. Now, sometimes my tears are because I'm so happy, not because I'm uncontrollably depressed. My life isn't perfect, and I'll always be struggling. But I have accepted that, and I have began to look on the bright side of things more than the dark side. I genuinely smile more, I talk more, my confidence has gone up. My happiness has grown. And I, Chelsea, have grown, too. 

Cheers to learning to love life. ☘🦋