My History

High School and Accepting A Diagnosis

As stated in my last two entries, I am not very good at the whole accepting that I have mental issues. If anyone else is reading this and has mental issues, I’m sure you went through a period of the same doubt. Thinking that it isn’t all in your head, or how you can just tough it out and be okay? We all do that when we are sick or hurt because we don’t want to admit that there is actually something wrong with us. We can only do this, however, until it gets serious.

At fourteen, I started high school. I managed to make it through about the first month before again my mental illnesses came in like a tsunami.

I was sitting in my first hour Spanish class one day, bored out of my mind from going over conjugations of verbs for over an hour, and I felt sick. I don’t think that this was anxiety though, I think that I was really sick that day. Anyways, I left class and promptly ran to the nearest bathroom and threw up my entire body it seemed (sorry if that is graphic). I walked/ran to my next class and got the note for the nurse and went home. I didn’t go back though for about two weeks.

Everyday for the next two weeks I tried desperately to go to school and failed every time. I would sometimes only manage to make it to the bathroom to brush my teeth before I was crying snd throwing up from a panic attack. Sometimes I managed to keep it together enough to make it to the car before needing to turn back around. A couple times I even managed to make it to my first class before going to the nurse and home half way through. Still, I didn’t believe that this was my mental illnesses. I still wanted to believe that I was actually sick, and that’s why I’m throwing up. That’s why I can’t manage to bring myself to eat. That’s why I can’t make it through even one class period.

After two weeks of this, I was referred to CRISIS, or the psych ward at my nearby hospital. I met with a very friendly nurse who asked me all the standard questions: “Did I try to kill myself?” No. “Did I want to kill myself?” No. ” Am I a danger to myself or others?” No.

They let me leave because although there was something wrong with me, I wasn’t in-patient care sick. This time, instead of my old friend Mr. Prozac, I met my new best friend Zoloft. I was put on a low dose, only 25 mg, and was referred to a therapist that I was to begin seeing twice a week.

It was somewhere between the rode home from CRISIS with a new bottle of pills in my hand that I finally accepted that this was real. I wasn’t just some weak kid who needed to grow a pair and go to school. I wasn’t just sick. There was something legitimately different in my brain making me this way. My pain was real, my fears were real.

And there is something very comforting, and very terrifying about that realization.

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