Anniversary

Three years ago today I seriously contemplated suicide for the second time in my life. I held a bottle of pills in my hands for an hour before I emptied its entire contents into my mouth, but when I brought the glass of water to my mouth I couldn't allow myself to swallow. I spit the pills into my bedside garbage and cried; my second attempt at suicide had failed. There would have been no note for my family or friends to read which would explain why I felt I needed to take my life, because, in my head, I was not worthy of a note. I'd been bullied for a major portion of my life and I was made to feel small and insignificant. In the years that I was belittled, those words became my truth; I was small, insignificant, and the world would be a better place without me.

I remember going in to the kitchen where my dad was watching tv. My stomach was in knots and there was a lump in my throat that would not go away. I looked at my dad and said "I need help." He asked what I meant and I told him that I needed to see a paychiatrist and a therapist. He asked me what was wrong; it took me a little while to think about it and when the answer finally came to me I looked him in the eyes and said "everything." In that moment I released every emotion I'd been bottling up that day and cried hysterically. 

Since my dad works in the behavioral health field he got me an appointment right away. On August 9th I went to my first appointment with a therapist. Three weeks later I saw the psychiatrist who diagnosed me with Bipolar Disorder, PTSD, and Socialphobia. We decided that intensive therapy and medication were my best bet; I went to group and individual therapy once every week, and saw my psychiatrist every month.

At first it was a bit discouraging because I wanted that instant satisfaction; I wanted my medication to take away the pain and the memories and the nightmares, but it wasn't and isn't that easy. Every single day since three years ago I have battled my own mind and some days I wanted to quit and give in to the voices in my head that were telling me that I'd never get better. I am stronger now. 

I've lost so many people to suicide and addictions; I couldn't allow myself to be another one. The strongest thing I ever did was ask for help. Admitting you need help is not admitting weakness. Admitting you need help is admitting that you just need a hand to help guide you along this long dark tunnel you've been lost in. 

It will be three years in December since the last time I purposely harmed myself. Three years later I still go to therapy each week and take the medication that keeps me level. Life is still terrifying and I'm not healed, but today I am alive and that's all that matters. Some of my happiest days were lived in these past three years; days that I never would have known if I'd swallowed those pills. I don't know what it was that kept me from doing it, but I'm so happy I didn't.

Life gets better if you allow it to.

Who Am I?

I've been called a walking medical journal my entire life. There are so many things, medically, wrong with me. I don't really care to dwell much on the specifics, but know that most of my life I've spent sitting in doctors office and emergency room waiting areas. I went through more than enough shitty situations to last me three lifetimes. I've been bullied to the point where I was ready to give up for good. It took me a really long time to bring myself to the point in which I was able to ask for help. 

Landing myself in group and individual therapy, I finally realized that I had the ability to be happy and healthy so long as I made a conscious effort to better my life. Once I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and PTSD, I was medicated and almost instantaneously I felt like a brand new person. There were these moments where I swear I could conquer all of my fears right then and there. Almost a year later, I've had barely any bipolar episodes and very few PTSD episodes. I'm not cured, but I am getting better. I'm finally happy.

Being a person who spent most of her life in doctors offices and being in a consistent and unrelenting state of depression, I developed a very particular style. I wore big t-shirts and sweats. Jeans were not items of clothing that I opted to wear. I should probably add that I am considered to be "plus sized," but I consider myself an inbetweeny. The clothes for "normal" people are too small for me and the "plus sized" clothes are too big. Leggings, sweats, and over sized shirts were my go-to articles of clothing. 

Fashion was the least of my worries though. It didn't matter what I wore because I would still get bullied. Nice clothing wasn't going to rid me of all of my health problems; it wouldn't make me thin or healthy. My increasing apathy toward anything fashionable became more and more intense everyday... up until recently. Being on mood stabilizers takes away my depression and anxiety, which makes it easier for me to be happy and sociable. I'm not happy with my wardrobe these days, especially since I've been working at Old Navy. So I've taken it upon myself to start investing in some nice clothing that will flatter me whilst still being comfortable (well at least somewhat comfortable.) It's not easy going from being someone who couldn't care less about what I wore to being someone who wants to wear trendy clothing that will make me happy.

Obviously having a good fashion sense wont rid me of my diseases... I know that and always have, but what a good fashion sense can do for me is make me more confident. People who say they don't dress nice for other people are lying. Yes, I want to look good for me, but would it be so terrible to dress nice to impress others? I mean I have been single for way too long and my wardrobe now will not draw anyone's eye right to me. Anyone who says that physical attractiveness and style shouldn't play a role in finding "the one" or anyone for that matter is delusional. Clearly I don't want someone to ask me on a date just because of the way I look, but would it hurt to make a statement and help that person see just how confident I am? I don't think so.

So this is me... reinventing myself. Becoming the stylish and confident woman I long to be. How hard can it be? I work in a clothing store in a mall with other clothing stores. The people I work with are trendy and they are pretty nice people whom I'm sure would be more than willing to help me out. I'm starting to really understand who I am and what I'm capable of... so this will be another step in becoming myself.