When I finally was able to get the help that I needed at the age of 20, I had already suffered from panic attacks, intense anxiety, despair, self-mutilation, drug abuse, suicidal ideation, and severely disturbed eating habits. At that point I thought it was probably too late to make a change, but I did feel something was compelling me to seek the help I needed. I was diagnosed at that time with major depressive disorder, recurrent episodes, social anxiety disorder, and general anxiety disorder. I went through three or four anti-depressants throughout the time I was being treated as well as three different anti-anxiety medications. None brought complete relief from the symptoms I experienced. At this time I also had a brief stint in therapy. It was then, for the first time, that I was able to be completely honest about the things that had eaten me alive since I was a small child. I uncovered the deep anguish and disgust I felt from being molested by my only brother as well as two neighborhood boys (on separate occasions). I also tackled the feelings of anger I had for my mother and how I had felt somehow she had pushed my father out of my life. I found for the first time that I truly did feel alienated from society because I grew up with a single mother who liked to live young and do things that I found embarrassing. So many things came to the surface, and I wasn't even aware that they were all hiding beneath. I also discussed in depth how the act of self-mutilation became one of my primary coping skills when I felt nervous, or scared, or devastated.

The act of cutting, burning or hitting myself became a numbing experience. The physical pain was the only thing that seemed to hurt worse than the emotional pain. I had started to bang my wrists up against the edge of the desk in my bedroom when I was still in high school. I would have bloody bruises all up and down my forearms and wrists and they would be swollen although I don't think I ever managed to break any bones. My mother noticed on occasion and when I told her that I didn't know what had happened she asked me if I had done that to myself. When I told her no, I knew she didn't believe me, but she never took it much further than to say, "That would be a stupid thing to do." I knew she didn't know how to handle it. And I myself didn't really know how to handle it at the time.

I think a large part of the reason that I injured myself was to deal with the isolation and deep anxiety I felt from not being able to deal with people. I was literally terrified of people and of interacting with people. I would have panic attacks in the morning getting ready for school. In fact, I faked many illnesses to get my mom to let me stay home from school. Although I know she knew better considering she was a nurse, she usually would let me stay home. This was apparent on my attendance record throughout high school. While most kids faked to do something fun like going shopping with friends or something, I faked to avoid the terrifying and humiliating feelings that school always evoked. When my mother suggested we go out to eat for the evening at a sit down restaurant I would begin to cry and I couldn't breathe. Even a shopping adventure would prove to be a nightmare. In college I turned to alcohol and drugs to help me escape the anxiety that came with socializing. Once I became dependent on drugs and alcohol to meet people I became very casual with sex and friendships.

Then my parents showed up at the dorm where I was staying and told me they wanted to take me to lunch and visit. I agreed to go reluctantly. I was seriously ill- I had no color in my face, my eyes were sunken, I had stopped eating again, and I looked awful. After lunch my step-dad drove to the dorm parking lot and parked. Picture a teenager sitting in a pickup between her parents and her parents not saying anything at this point but just looking at her and looking at each other. I was becoming suspicious, and rightfully so. My mom began to explain how horrified she was to see me like that and how she had not been able to sleep at all for two weeks because she had no idea where I was. My step dad said they had been to the registrar's office before lunch and knew I hadn't been to class since the first few weeks of the semester. They told me they didn't care if it had to be by force, they were taking me home with them because I was killing myself and they knew it. They were right, and I hated them then for it, but they really did save me.

I lived at home, took the semester off to gather my thoughts and live in a stable environment again. I was still intensely depressed, self-mutilating, and felt anxious. During that time I got to know more about how my mother felt about me than I ever did know. I was starting to see that she loved me more than I ever thought possible and I could now understand why she did so much of what she did. Soon after my return home, my step dad began to drink excessively and he and my mom were fighting constantly. It made me feel like I was reliving the past and I felt like my life was out of control again. I was self- mutilating more than ever - on parts of my body I didn't think anyone would see. I had gashed myself very deep on my hip, and it was getting infected. One day my mom and I were trying on clothes and she noticed it although I was trying to change quickly so that she didn't notice. She was in shock and angered that I had done such a thing to my body. It was then she said that she would have me put into the hospital if I didn't agree to see a psychiatrist. I was ready, I agreed.