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“You have mild depression, and anxiety” were the most liberating words I have ever heard.
The earliest case of me being the most wound up tight-assed kid in the room that I can remember was Grade 8. I was literally getting straight A’s (minus gym, anyone who knows me, knows I’m uncoordinated) and my Grade 8 teacher REQUESTED a parent teacher interview with my mom. These things were often optional, and my parents never opted in because again, I was a straight A student. I was pretty pissed to say the least. Not everyone had to have their parents come in, and I was such a well behaved kid, that it annoyed me that I had to jump through hoops for this. It turns out, my teacher wanted to tell my mom, “Tiffany needs to learn how to say “No”.” I was pissed. Who the hell was this lady to tell my mom I needed to learn to say “No” going into high school? As far as I was concerned, I wanted to push myself to do more. I wanted to be in as many clubs as I possible. I wanted to get those straight A’s. I felt like she was stunting my growth projection because she felt I didn’t have the ability to do it.
In the 9th grade, I was a select few who auditioned to be in senior band with the big kids, and got in. It was 2x the practise, and I didn’t even get credit for it. I was also taking choir, and regular band as courses. Did I mention the clarinet lessons and the math classes I took on top? Regardless of the amount of sleep I never got, I pushed on because I loved it. I was addicted to the success, but also afraid of something dark that was chasing me from behind. Then I started getting mini panic attacks, that I didn’t know were panic attacks. I only noticed something was wrong because my heart felt like it wasn’t beating correctly. It kept beating on the off-beats, and with a few seconds of lag. I left school early a lot that year, and my chest would ache as if something was trying to break out of my rib cage. That continued on for years. I’d later on develop full blown panic attacks where I’d loose the ability to remember how to breathe, my heart would beat so hard and so fast it would ache for the next few days, and my eyes would water because I had no oxygen left in me.
Then, there was the depression, and then there was bulimia. Look, if you ask me about it, I’ll tell you about it. I’m not in the business of “Selling” you my life story about dealing with an eating disorder, and “surviving”. I’ll keep this nice and quick for you, so you can get on with your day. It sucked. I didn’t eat, and when I did, I’d just throw it up because it calmed me down whenever I’d be crying. I used it as the perfect coping mechanism in hopes that it would eventually kill me. I wanted the slowest version of death I could think of because it would be more satisfying to draw it out. That’s what depression does to you. It leads you to the darkest places you could possibly ever be.
I always wondered if I handled things differently than other people. Something wasn’t 100% normal with me, so I shoved it in the back of a closet, and in underneath the covers of my bed sheets where I felt safest to cry. I Wondered why I over thought every single little thing, and why I always seemed SO heart broken over break ups, and why I always felt a little bit more hollow than other people. I still remember my first serious break up, and being so depressed over it that certain people told me they didn’t want to be “friends” with me anymore because I was always sad. I had a weird constant feeling that I was on an island separated by a body of water from everyone else.
It wasn’t until after my first year of university that someone I knew (who always laughed at me when I told them I constantly felt sad), that he was sorry. He had been taking a pyschology course and realized that maybe how I was feeling was more than just “what I was feeling”. He urged me to see a doctor, and so I made the leap to schedule an appointment with Health & Wellness. I went through the nicest evaluation with a psychology grad student, who had an assistance dog for hearing. The dog sat near my feet and took a nap, making me feel instantly calm. I was later referred to, and saw a doctor all summer long. “You have minor depression, and anxiety”, she said. That diagnosis, was the most liberating words I had ever heard. Everything I had been feeling, everything I thought about myself was finally given a reason and validated. All of the dots lined up. I wasn’t crazy for wondering if I was depressed, or if I had anxiety. I had a beautiful clear label to assign to it. My actions were not 100% my own. Depression and Anxiety were there own entities.
I hate when people ask you “well are you cured now?” because I don’t believe that there is such a thing as curing these types of psychological illnesses. You learn to “deal” and to “cope” with them. I give myself power over my illnesses by acknowledging them, and by giving them the respect they ask for. They’re parts of my identity that make up who I am. When I start feeling anxiety, or feeling depressed I’ve learned that I have to let myself feel the feelings I am going through. If I need to scream, then I need to scream. If I need to cry, then I need to cry. My only rule, is that I do these behind closed doors. It’s okay for me to go through these motions by myself, because that’s just what works for me. I have strength in knowing that after a week, I can make it out of the tunnel again. I’m currently going through a seriously rough patch. I have a constant thought bubble over my head that reads “you’re not good enough.” I’m giving myself this week to be sad about it, and then next week I’m going to look myself in the mirror and say “You’re right. Right now. I’m not good enough. So Buck Up. Let’s get this done, and become more than good enough.”
I have a few coping mechanisms during my week of solitude. I re-read my favourite book to find new meaning in it (The Perks of Being a Wallflower), and binge watch How I Met Your Mother. If I can get myself out of bed or off the couch, I bake. We all cope in different ways. To outsiders, this may seem like I’m just “zoning out” or “running away from my problems”, but when you live 24/7 in your every day life. You sometimes just need a break— some time to cry, to feel, and to be alone. We need to step outside of our own lives and bodies for a little bit, and when we’re ready to re-enter the land of living, we will.
Being able to put a name to the ghosts that have been sitting on my shoulder forever, allowed me to view them more as visiting friends. I can walk hand in hand with them now, without being afraid of them. They’re just a part of me. I can accept that. It’s actually very liberating.
