It’s not all bad, my life. I mean it’s really nothing even close to bad. When I think of a bad life, I think no food, no money, no love and most of all no hope. That’s a life that needs some help.
But I have my days.
I don’t reblog or repost those new fb status about being aware of mental illness, and how people shouldn’t be judged based on who they are/how they think. I don’t reblog them because I’m secretly afraid people will think I’m talking about myself. And I don’t want them all to know my deep dark self. It’s hard to think about, harder to say out loud and nearly impossible to talk about. I have 4 maybe 5 people that understand the real me - and for better or worse, it’s not helping anyone.
My truth is I have a sever anxiety disorder, and OCD. Not the OCD that people joke about having. I don’t overly clean and then decide I have ocd, I don’t line things up and say oh it’s just my ocd. In fact, one of my biggest pet peeves is when someone jokes that they have it. It’s not funny, and trust me - unless you have it, you don’t even know. Although, I welcome you to try a day in my (((un-medicated))) shoes, and then you can make all the jokes you want.
I had my first panic attack when I was eight years old. Eight. What does an eight year old have to freak out about? A lot apparently. Its a completely hereditary disease and as such I have watched my mother cope, deal and battle with this every single day of her (((un-medicated)))*** life. I believe that my struggle is my own, whether or not it came from my mother is irrelevant.
**I’m not saying un-medicated is better, or those who choose to medicate are weaker, in fact you’ve probably got your shit together more then me***
I spent the better part of elementary school and high school trying to bury my anxiety. My parents saw my tendencies at an early age, but they also had my brother to deal with (asburgers/ahdh/add) - I don’t blame them. But as the years past, and I refused to deal with my own anxiety, let alone attempt to handle it the OCD began to surface. I began to have a complete aversion to a social life, plans changed too much for me to handle. I STOPPED going out. I couldn’t leave a room without doing checks. I started to rely on my checks to center me, throughout the day I would check my door, the straighter, the rabbit cages, other doors, arrangements, placement of shoes, plates, cups. It started getting excessive and yet I pushed on wards, burying everything negative. And the sad truth is my friends, and boyfriend at the time had very little clue as to my mental state.
It’s hard to see. Mental illness. It’s hard to find, until it’s destructive habits begin to suffocate the host.
It wasn’t until the end of a long relationship, the end of a job, and graduating high school sunk in that I really began to feel the weight of ignored anxiety. I spiraled out of control. Cut off contact from all my friends, and essentially had the biggest melt down of all time. I stopped eating and sleeping. Anxiety started eating my life, and there wasn’t much to do but let it.
It was a long long journey full of trial meds, trial lifestyles and trial coping. And each and every day is one more breathe away from then - facing now. It’s been painful and hard,it is a test of how to face life my way. I’m sticking with no medications which makes life a living hell, but I’ve been down the meds road before too.
I can safely say I still have too many OCD symptoms to appear normal, especially to people who don’t know me. And I can only imagine what I look like at times fretting around trying to deal with last minute changes. I really suck at that.
But that’s me. And that, as they say, is that.