Acceptance

For more years than I can remember, I asked, "What's wrong with me?" There was never an answer. I always felt different from everyone else around me in some way. When I was a kid I wondered what I did to be punished this way...because that's what life felt like to me -- a punishment. I felt unloved and unwanted, even though my parents told me they loved me every day. The kids at school liked me even though I was too shy to talk to them. But I was strange because of my differences. I lacked confidence and self-esteem and I spent most of my time by myself. I had mood swings and depressed periods and felt like there was nowhere that I belonged...even my own home. And I always knew that I would leave that city. It wasn't my place.

As I got older, I still wondered what was wrong with me, but I knew that it was just the way I was made, the way I was born. I did nothing wrong as a child...I just saw the world a different way than others. I knew things and felt things and saw things that others didn't. Or didn't admit to. People really aren't as open-minded as they like to believe. Because when you talk about something different, something unusual or uncommon or supernatural....they pull away. Give you that look like you're crazy. I've been called crazy a lot. Among other things.

The problem is that I started to believe the things people said about me. I didn't realize it was happening and it took all these years to develop. Of course, some of the emotional abuse was caused by myself. I'm harder on myself than anyone else. And I know that no one will ever hate me as much as I hate myself. But I could always see the good in me too. The beauty, the talent, the intelligence. Even when people put me down, I knew that I wasn't as bad as that. I knew there was better in me. It's just hard to see past all the flaws. I see ALL of my flaws every time I look in the mirror. And not just the external ones.

It's hard for me to forgive myself my mistakes. It's hard for me to move on and let things go. I dwell on issues, over-worry, overreact. I've tried to change myself so many times over the years. To fit in, to be heard, to be normal. But I'm not, I can't. I am who I am. All I can do is improve. Be a better me, someone that I can be proud of. And I am proud of myself -- for having the strength to speak out, for pulling myself up when I fall, for still living after all the pain, for working hard, for helping others. I've done good things. And I can do more.

I'm slowly learning to accept myself. The good, the bad, the ugly. I have for the most part. But right now I have to learn to accept this mental illness, this "thing" that consumes me day after day. I fight it, I deny it, I reject it, I'm resigned to it. It's a part of me, no matter what I do. I can't make it go away. I can't make the thoughts and emotions stop. I can't make the depression and anxiety not exist. That's what I tried to do for so long. As a teenager I "made myself better" and pretended that everything was ok. It was all I could do then. I had no help, no resources. And no one accepted this as reasonable behavior. So I had to become "normal" to protect them from the real me. So they would never see what was behind the smile.

There were reasons that I didn't get help as an adult, even when I was first diagnosed years ago. I didn't think medication would work for me and I was leery of psychiatric help. Which I still am to some extent. But the pain was too great and I could no longer "make myself better", so something had to be done. I was honest with my new doctor and she started me on antidepressants, and eventually anxiety meds and sleeping pills. It was supposed to be temporary, just to get through the worst of it. Then I was supposed to learn how to cope on my own...through techniques and therapy. Well, it's been 2 1/2 years now and I'm nowhere close to being ready to go off of the medication. It does work and the newest ones are making me feel more clearheaded and motivated and upbeat. But it's still a daily struggle. I still have the anxiety, the dark thoughts, the worries. The nights are hard again. And with the improved mood comes the guilt and regrets -- for the things that I have not done and are supposed to be doing. All of the things I let go while I was depressed and unmotivated and weak. I'm still underweight and cannot leave the house everyday because I don't have the physical strength. There's so much that I want to do and I'm not able to do it. And that's frustrating. I feel useless and worthless and lazy. But I know in reality I'm just sick.

And so, that's what I have to accept. I have some answers to "What's wrong with me?", and the new question, "Why is this happening?". I know that I have major depression due to a chemical imbalance. I know that I have anxiety that comes out of nowhere sometimes...seeming without cause. I know that I'll always have suicidal thoughts, even though I plan to never act on them. I know that I self-harm by emotionally abusing myself and starving myself...and sometimes hitting myself. Denying pleasure and good health because I feel that I don't deserve it -- usually because someone I love is suffering. I know that I'll always be haunted by the past, that the memories won't go away. I know that the pain that I feel...the bumps, the bruises, the breaks, are a part of me. Some scars never heal. Some wounds never close. And I know there will be more pain in the future -- more death, more grief, more loss. But also joy. Happiness? It's hard for me to let myself be happy because when you're up that high, it's a long fall to the ground. And I will fall again. I have to accept that too. I'll never be cured, my life will never be perfect. There are ups and downs. We all go through them. Some people pretend that they don't have bad times, that anyone who talks about anything negative is just bringing everyone around them down. Well, the reality is, that humans feel emotions when something bad happens. You can ignore it and deny it, but it's still there. Some of us just feel comfortable speaking it and admitting it. And then we get past it. That's strength.

People with mental illnesses are viewed as weak. Unstable, crazy, weird, flawed. But I think we're the strongest of them all. Because we know what it means to hit the bottom, to be so close to the edge of life and death...and make that choice to keep going. Pick ourselves up and get on our feet. We overcome the obstacles...and then excel. We defeat our demons...no matter how many times they attack. And when the monster is inside of you, that's the hardest fight of all. But we do it. Day after day. It was never as hard for me as it is now. A lot has changed...I have changed. Events have changed me, shaped me. I can't say I'm grateful, because I don't like the person I am now. That's why I don't believe that everything happens for a reason...some things just happen. They just happen and you can let them destroy you or you can move on. Keep moving forward.

So I've taken the first steps. I got help, I keep fighting through the ups and downs, do research to understand this condition better, talk to people with similar issues, accept that this is who I am now. Accept that there IS something wrong with me. That I'm sick. That I need medication to feel better, to function. But I know that I can deal with it. And maybe I can beat it. I'm stubborn enough to try.