About 38 years ago, I had my first encounter with
depression. I was only 4 years old. I could never explain to anyone how
or why I was feeling the way I was, because I didn’t know.
After years of fighting with my own thoughts and
actions, I became overweight, obsessed with negative and hopeless
thoughts, and looking to death as a solution. I became withdrawn,
anorexic, bulimic, self-injuring, unable to concentrate, suspicious of
everyone around me, and never able to truly feel loved. I did, however,
marry. I have been married for 21 years. I have two children and a very
supportive family.
My father, however, never really wanted to accept my
illness. He thought I should just snap out of it and move on. It just
made me feel more depressed knowing I couldn't do that. I have been
hospitalized three times in the last 13 years and still never wanted to
admit I had a problem. I wasn't until I hit rock bottom last August and
attempted suicide that I knew I had to put all the strength I had into
trying to get better.
I was seeing a therapist and a psychiatrist at the
time, but my medications were not working. The therapy was going well;
my therapist treated me with more dignity and respect than I had ever
received. She reached out to me with everything she had.
I realize it has only been a short time since that
dreadful evening when I overdosed, but today I know I was saved for a
reason. I realized the people I would have left behind and that I nearly
destroyed them and myself. While I was in the psychiatric unit I met a
wonderful woman who was also suffering from depression. We instantly
were drawn to each other as friends and soul sisters. Often we call each
other for the support we need to get through our days. Mostly we discuss
how we would so much like to make a difference in this world so that no
one with this illness would have to suffer alone and everyone could get
the help they needed.
