Hey you guys. For today, I wanted to take time and talk about something that I have been struggling with for a while now; my mental health.
Now, this is something that I take very seriously and it continues to hinder my progress towards a fuller, happier life. I'm sharing this with you all, whom ever that may be, because I feel it's something that should be shared with others who might be dealing with the same problems.
It all started when my parents got divorced while my siblings and I were in middle school. My father had been at times an abusive alcoholic that preyed on his family. I never actually knew what abuse was, I just assumed that he was trying to discipline us. But as I grew older I realized that his methods of choice would surpass that of discipline and delve into the realm of unnecessary abuse. So one day my mother had finally tired of his ways, and decided that she could no longer subject herself and her children to his temper, and although the abuse stopped when we were in our teens, the scars, physical and mental, still remained.
This broke my already damaged soul; the only thing I had known, although tumultuous, was over. My parents may have had a scarring marriage but it was still the only thing in my life that was consistent, and when that was no longer there, I was beside myself. I found myself tirelessly trying to get them back together and all my futile attempts failed.
To relieve the pain of not being able to bring my family back together, I began self torture tactics that I had witnessed some friends practicing. I would eat massive amounts of food and slash my arms. At first, they were slight, superficial cuts that couldn't harm a fly. But then they started to get deeper as the pain got deeper. The scars started appearing all over my arms and calves and I could no longer show my body.
Months had gone by and I was still slashing my wrists. I found myself becoming sadder and sadder and not wanting to live anymore. These suicidal thought never really scared me, but one day the feeling of despair was just so strong and I went in search of sleeping pills, hoping I could sleep forever. Whwn I found them, I scarfed down the entire bottle and went to lay down. After about 15 minutes, the feeling of drowsiness kicked in, and I passed out.
And I slept, and I slept, and I slept. I dreamt of nothing but a vast ocean where the waves that washed onto a void space. It was so peaceful, so amazing. I thought this was where I was going to spend the rest of my life. And then I opened my eyes; I was in my room, with my mother sleeping beside me. My head felt like it had been hammered in. I immediately started crying silent tears until I drifted back to sleep. And when I woke again the next morning, I shakily tried to get up, but my body was so drained. I fell back down on the bed and my kother walked in. She didn't say anything, and neither did I; we just stared at each other for a while until she turned and left. This would happen again about seven more times over the course of 3 years, each time I would wake up, and each time my mother just stared at me.
My mother began noticing my scars and still she'd say nothing. My friends started to notice my dark spiral towarss depression, and in those three years I never really talked to anyone about it, and never got help. I guessed that I may be clinically depressed but I couldn't exactly tell that many people. I would talk to friends about it, just to get some of it off my chest, but it never really helped.
In all my short life, I have never found anything harder than pretending to be happy. When I reached high school, nothing changed, I was still very sad, and very insecure. As I started to make friends, that naghing voice in my head would tell me that I waa worthless, ugly, and unworthy of friends. So even though I found friends soon enough, that lingering thought still stayed. Luckily for a while I was able to ignore it. Yes, I still cut, but not as much as before and I thought that was a pretty good feat.
When freshman year ended, I was still in that sad place, but then sophomore year hit. My sophomore year was one of the worst years of my life because then everyone started seeing ny dark side. I finally had access to drugs and alcohol, and I went wild. I would party almost every weekend, and get trashed. My favorite drug of choice at the time was water laced with acid. It was bitter, but it made me forget my problems.
And then one day my sister gave me this drug called Triple C, and I took it before school. I took about 8 pills, and during 2nd period was when they took full effect. I started hearing and saying weird things and my friends all looked at me weird. My Advisor was concerned and told me to go to the nurse. As I tried to stand up, I fell back in my chair, and he ran over. He asked me what was wrong and instantly I started freaking out. The questions and talking around me was what led me to start having a panic attack and the school came and brought me a wheelchair to escort me to the nurse. I was still having a panic attack when the ambulance showed up and then I just passed out.
When I woke up, I had an IV stuck in my arm and was drowsy as hell. My mother was next to me and just stared, like she always did. I couldn't stand to look her in the eye and I turned. My friends came to visit by the time I was leaving and we all walked out together. We hung out, all of us, and then I went home with my mom. She told me she loved me and I told her I loved her.
The hospital made me see a therapist over the summer going on into my junior year, and I went almost 8 times. And of all those times, I still cut, and took one hallucinogenic a day to keep happy.
Flash forward to when I was finsihing up my English thesis and accidentally deleted the entire thing. Being me, I decided to punish myself out of frustration and slash my wrist. I went into the bathroom and cut once, but it was the deepest it had ever been, and blood started gushing out. I let the blood drop for a minute or two, but then decided to call my sister in. She saw the blood and called the ambulance, knowing I would need stitches. The police arrived the same time my mother did and she watched in horror as they dressed my wound. I was the escorted to the nearest hospital where they tended to my wound.
The nurses bagan hounding me with questions and I, having already been angry, had a major attitude and started calling them racial slurs. After waiting for about an hour and a half to be escorted to a different hospital was when I learned that they planned to admit me into the psychiatric ward. When the bus came for me, I, along with my mother, went to the ward where I was asked the same questions over and over again. Only this time it was Africans so things were kind of tense.
They explained to me that I would be kept overnight and in the day to be observed and I nodded. When my mother left to go home, I stayed awake the entire night for fear that the rest of the kids would kill me. When I woke up I realzed that this wasn't all a dream and I was really I a ptsch ward. I spoke to no one and kept my head down unless I needed something. The mostly African staff seemed to hate me as I wasn't allowed to shower or write down my thoughts. When it came ti e for lunch, they served pork, and when I told them I couldn't eat pork, they told me eat the vegetables. A med student came to speak to me shortly after and asked me how I was doing. I wanted to scream and say horribly, but instead I croaked out a subdued fine. When visiting hours came, my mother came and we sat and talked about nothing really. I told her they were treating me badly and she said that she knew they would and that I would be out by the next day. Again, I had to fall asleep in that wretched place, but not before the other kids would scream, cry, call out for their mothers, and have to be sedated. The next day, they made my mother wait an extra hour and a half while the doctor tried to perform unnecessary tests and I refused. They threatened to keep me longer but I refused to make their paychecks bigger. When I was finally let out, I turned back, sighed, and walked out the front door.
While in there, I noticed that the kids didn't really need to be in psych wards, they just needed someone to listen. The ward itself seemed to be made to numb the brain, to emaciate one of both soul and mind. There were no windows and only one door, the exit. There were two side, the boys side, and the girls. They were about 4 boys and 7 girls. The boys would put on shows for the girls and each other. There was a designated time for recreational activities such as tv, and art. I adored this time and cherished the hour. Being made to fully depend on the staff that treated us poorly was part of the ward's tactics to further break the person. The hospital diagnosed me with a Mood Disorder, clinically depressed. They wrote a prescription for me, but I haven't gone to get it. I have this fear that they want to kill me, so I refused to.
Anyways, I still struggle with this illness but luckily I am beginning to find outlets. I have always loved writing, so I have taken an interest again, as well my drawing. They soothe me when I'm in that dark place, and I am slowlym but surely getting better. I am not perfect, nor will I ever be, but I know that I can be happy. I finally know that now.
I just wanted to share my story with you all and I hope you enjoy.
Mars Signing Off