Demons

As life likes to throw me curve balls, I'm always struck by the concept of coping mechanisms. I want to start off by saying this post is not a cry for help, me begging for pity, or something I'm ashamed of. This is merely what's on my mind and what I feel like writing. I'm not in crisis, I don't need help, but thank you. I debated writing it at all, but when I started this darn thing, the whole point was that I was going to be honest with myself. Yes, I'm more than just a nerd, I'm a girl. I have my own laundry list of issues like every other human being on the planet. I have limits. And lately, I find them tested.

First, a fun and exciting backstory. I did not have an especially happy childhood. (I know, I know, cry me a river.) I was the designated target for every bully in my elementary school and I learned to hate myself before I even knew who I was. Good times. Most kids my age were enjoying their friends, and having fun, and dealing with the day to day stuff that happens to everyone. I, meanwhile, was more depressed at age ten than most people I know have ever been. I eventually grew out of it, somewhat, and learned to let myself be and not be ashamed of who I was. That being said, it's still a struggle sometimes not to fall into old habits. In thinking about how I've learned to cope with stress and anxiety, I think about the many failed methods I had growing up.

For example, I used to wear this gray coat every day over my clothes in elementary school. It doesn't seem like much, but it was my security blanket. As long as I had it on, I was inside my shell where nothing could touch me. I had a physical barrier between myself and the people surrounding me. It wasn't too terribly meaningful, but it gave me somewhere to hide. As I got older, I started spending time without it on, and realized that, even though I felt more vulnerable, I felt I was worth more without it, if that makes any sense. So I eventually quit wearing it altogether. A breakthrough, of sorts.

After that, my mechanism became the idea of crazy. And I still struggle with falling back on that one. The way this started was weird. I got out of the worst grade of my life (5th) and into a great classroom with a fantastic teacher who made me feel valued. And I kind of let loose. I was hyper, and loud, and outspoken and channeled all the emotions I'd had into being, well, obnoxious. But it was still better than being a zombie in a gray coat. So I more or less invented this persona of the crazy girl. My classmates would still laugh at me, but in a kinder way. Progress. This continued up through middle school. The more out there I let myself be, the less chance that people would judge me on the things I couldn't change. My appearance wasn't a factor, it was my personality. For some reason, I thought it better that people judge me for being the crazy girl instead of the fat girl, or the ugly girl. Maybe not the healthiest of ways to take it, but it worked well enough.

By high school, I had mellowed out a little bit. Not completely off the walls crazy, but not crawl into myself shy and awkward either. But when things did get stressful and difficult, I had to come up with new ways of coping. I, like so many others, began to injure myself as a means of coping with stress and pain. I'm not justifying my behavior, I'm certainly not endorsing it in others, and I'm absolutely not proud of what I did. But at the time, it helped me get by, albeit extremely unhealthily. I managed to maintain a normal(for me) life and had friends - lots of them. I felt validated by my peers, but not by myself, apparently.

After high school, I had a bit of a downward spiral. My first semester of college, I commuted to a local university while most of my close friends moved away. I felt left out, abandoned even. And I was miserable. So I thought a change of venue would help. I spent the second semester living in the dorms at a state university two hours away. This did wonders for my social life, but not much for my academic record, so I was not invited to come back the following year. In short, I'd blown my chances in school because I was too caught up in my social life. (Life: 1, Alamo: 0) I moved back home and became increasingly more depressed, working a series of terrible jobs and slowly descending into livable insanity. And eventually, I cracked. At an all time low, I checked myself into a psychiatric hospital to try and find a better way to cope with my problems. The first time left me shell-shocked, after baring my soul in group therapy and realizing a few things about myself and my home life that were making me so unhappy. But when I got out, I couldn't adjust, and ended up going back in for the second time just a few weeks later. I did ok for a while after that. I went to therapy, used my coping mechanisms, and took my meds. But I hated feeling like a zombie. I wasn't depressed. But I wasn't happy. I wasn't anything. I felt numb to everything, good and bad, in my life. Ten months after my first hospitalization, I checked myself in for a third (and let's hope) final time. After that, I was determined to change how I reacted to my problems and not fall back on the hospital every time things got hard. And, though this is not recommended for anyone else, nor do I have any degree backing up this decision, I made the decision to discontinue taking my meds. I backed off them slowly and started to remember that there were things I missed about being able to feel.

I'd be lying if I said things have been perfect since then. I'm still a mess, most days. My anxiety keeps me from leaving the house, some days. I constantly panic in social situations and I generally feel like a mess. But, I don't hurt myself, I don't abuse drugs or alcohol, and I keep myself away from triggers in my life. Occasionally, something will come my way that I'm not expecting, and yes, I'll admit, my first instinct tends to be to either hurt myself or withdraw from everyone. But I don't do either. I'm actually pretty proud of that. I've managed to keep away from my most addictive behaviors, the ones that made me feel better than any drug, for years now. I don't have things figured out. I don't know how I get out of bed most days. But despite how ominous that sounds, I'm actually kind of happy. Stressed, anxious, neurotic and ocd, but overall, I'm pretty ok.

I may have my downsides, but for all my crap, I've gotten pretty good at facing down my demons.

That's all the brain vomit I have for you today, Interwebs.

Yours,

Alamo


Because it needs to be adressed, if you're suffering from depression, anxiety, thoughts of suicide or self-injury, please contact someone for help.  Help is Out there , just ask for it. It will get better.

24-hour Crisis hotline
1-800-784-2433