You Need to Help Yourself.

Warning: This journal contains mentions of mental disorder, depression, misunderstandings of mental disorder, mentions of large amounts of medications, etc. If you are bothered by these things, please do not read.

I apologize in advance for the grammar mistakes, I have a headache and don't have time to edit them all.

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As some of you old readers know, I've been battling depression for years now. I did not receive any treatment for it until June of 2013 and wasn't medicated until almost September of 2013. My biggest fear at that time was me possibly being bipolar. The disorder runs on my mother's side of the family as my mother, my grandmother, and my 10 year old half-sister are diagnosed with it. My therapist at the time (I only had three sessions with him) diagnosed me with high anxiety and depression; that was it.

Back in April of 2014, I started having issues with my medicine and controlled my moods. One minute, I would be happy, the next sad, the next angry, and it was just an endless cycle of me switching from mood to mood. My family thought I was like this because this was the last time I had spoke to my mother and I ended up taking out my emotions on everyone around me; it had gotten so bad at one point that I shoved my stepmother and almost ran away twice.

At this time, I discussed with my father about going back into consoling, but I didn't want to go see the man that I had went to before. He seemed to not have any idea what he was doing and we almost got nothing done in those three sessions that I saw him. A few days after our discussion, my father filled out paperwork at a local center, called Piedmont, that deals with social work, therapy, rehabilitation, etc. My mother and grandmother had went to this center before to go to a psychiatrist, but all of their records had been transferred to another branch about forty-five minutes away. They told my father and I that we would have to wait to get cycled into the system which would take up to ninety days. I didn't get cycled in until November.

My first session with my therapist (I'll call her A) was my evaluation. She asked me questions about my past, why I wanted to be put into consoling, would I like to see a psychiatrist, etc. etc. etc. Most of the evaluation with A was my stepmother's inputs, but A told her that she wasn't the one going there multiple times and that she needed to hear the information from me. I was nervous as hell, but she told me that she'd see me back for my first official therapy appointment the next week.

My sessions with A were very relaxing. She kept talking to me about ways I could cope with the panic attacks that I was having and that she understood what I was going through with the anxiety. She also caught on to the way that I acted when I was upset or thinking about something and she helped comfort me with those ways. She was a better therapist than the one I had before because she understood my stresses.

During my sessions with A, I was cycled into the system to see the psychiatrist (I'm going to call him T). My first session with him was retelling everything from the evaluation all over again (even though everything is in a computer system). T told me that there was a high chance that I was bipolar, but for the time being he was going to diagnose me with what he called a "mood disorder". He wasn't going to call it bipolar yet because Piedmont doesn't typically diagnose people under the age of eighteen with the disorder. At the time he gave me 50mg of an anti-depressant/mood stabilizer (one in the morning, one at night) and 300mg of an anxiety medicine (one in the morning, one at lunch, one at night). He told me to go up 25mg of the anti-depressant each week and try to get me up to taking 200mg twice a day.

At this time, with my family being tight on money, my stepmother started complaining. She said that she wanted to pull me out of Piedmont and that I didn't need to be taking all this medication that I was on at the time. They had told her though that I needed the medicine and that it was better for them to medicate me now since there was almost 99.9% chance that I would be medicated for the rest of my life. They knew it was better to put me on medicine now so I would be flying off the walls and going batshit crazy like my mother who refuses to take her medicine and follow the rules that her psych. gave her.

I followed T's specifications and went up 25mg each week. After telling T that I couldn't sleep at night, he decided to bump my anxiety dosage up to 400mg (one in the morning, one at lunch, two at night) A told me that she would be switching to doing evaluations full time and I would be getting a new therapist (who I shall call L). I knew nothing about L, but A assured me that she was nice and it would be cheaper on my family because she could bill my father's insurance. I agreed, hating the idea of having to part ways with my therapist.

Then that awful day happened; just over a month ago when I had just started taking 100mg in the morning and 100mg at night of my anti-depressant, I passed out at school. It was my final therapy session with A and it was the day that I was meeting L. My parents had to come pick me up from school until my appointment that evening and the two therapists knew that they were in for a hell of a ride when my father, my stepmother, and I sat down so that they could discuss how far I was with my treatment and where they wanted to go next. They adjusted my medicine to 175mg of the anti-depressant and remained the same dosage of the anxiety medication. That's when my stepmother kept bringing up the fateful words that she had been preaching to me since she wanted to pull me out of Piedmont, "Kayla needs to help herself."

The truth was, I had been helping myself. I had stopped sitting in the dumps of my room, I had started a new chapter with my writing, I had decided to be more active and talk to more people, I was finally helping my club take off, I had been doing all the fucking things that I was putting off when I wasn't on medication and when nobody wanted anything to do with me because I was a sad piece of shit. I was in tears by how she was making it seem like I wasn't doing anything except for rely on medication and A and L began to notice my head drop down and me blinking my eyes repeatedly.

I had a panic attack the moment my parents were out of the room and A closed the door. I had never cried so hard in my life and I was so embarrassed because I hadn't even formally introduced myself to L. A and L finally got me to calm down, A gave me a hug and told me that I could visit her if I ever needed anything, and L took me to her office so the two of us could talk. I explained part of my situation to her and how that was how my stepmother typically acted and she apologized. At first, I liked L, but I didn't really know what to think of her yet.

The next few appointments with L caused my liking for her to decline. When you have anxiety as bad as mine, you like to stick to a little bubble of comfort. Yes, you occasionally wander out of that bubble, but she forcefully ripped me out of it, causing me to feel uncomfortable after I told her many times that I was. I dread my next appointment with her (tomorrow, March 5th) and it was a sigh of relief when I had to reschedule it next week due to the snow.

With my last appointment with T, things progressed a little worse. I sleep typically three hours a night and the anti-depressant is to blame. It keeps some people up, but the anxiety medicine is supposed to put me to sleep. Ironically, I can't sleep, but I'm tired. He upped my dosage of the anxiety medicine to 600mg (two in the morning, two at lunch, two at night). He wants to change my anti-depressant because I'm still having my mood swings at the dosage that I am now. The current thing he has in mind for me is Lithium, but neither I nor my father wants to go down that path. He gave us until the next visit (which is this coming Monday) to make a decision and let him know. I was/still am, taking nine pills a day.

That's when the broken record comes into play. "You need to help yourself." "You can't rely on your medication." "You can control you moods." "Maybe you should go to sleep earlier; then you won't be so tired." It's been on repeat since the day I was given three new prescription bottles and my moods began to spiral out of control.

Last Thursday is when I started becoming dizzy. Typically, I can walk through my house when it's pitch black and I have an iPod as a dim flashlight. I know the house like the back of my hand because there's no stairs to worry about and I've been living here for my entire life. Friday night, I was going to the bathroom at three in the morning. My vision went fuzzy the moment I stood up, I hit one side of the hallway, I hit the other side of the hallway, I ran dead straight into the couch, and then fell and hit the concrete floor as soon as I was in front of the entrance to the bathroom. I was afraid to tell my father, but after he persisted on me driving on Sunday, I admitted to him about the dizzy spells.

Monday was rough for me. As I am awaiting to find out whether or not I'm graduating early, I had to write another letter to turn in for the campus principal. I wasn't informed that both my father and I had to write a letter; I typed my father's and he signed, but I wrote mine by hand during first period and turned it in before lunch. I talked to the guidance counselor about my chances of being able to graduate early (I will write an entry about this; someone remind me) and she told me that if I didn't get in the first time, I could try the beginning of next year and if I still didn't get in, what was the worst that could happen. I've been working to go to college my entire life and now that I know what I want to go do, I don't have the funds for it. I want to get into a good writing/English school and I want to spend from January 2016 until the beginning of the fall semester to save up for school. I agreed with her and I went to go to lunch, I stepped five feet out her door though and had a panic attack; she pulled me back in to talk to her.

During third period (right after lunch) I went to keyboarding. I was dizzy and requested to go the nurse. I attempted to call my stepmother, but no one was there. Since my family lives out of county, the area code on our cell phones is also out of county. The school only has one server available for the county I live in and it was down for the day; I had no way of calling my father. I went back to class and the teacher allowed me to sleep. I didn't have to do anything during fourth period.

When I got to my stepgrandfather's house, I told my stepmother about my panic attack at school. Her response was, "We need to send you to a mental hospital. Piedmont isn't helping you out because you keep having mood swings and I'm getting sick and tired of it." I told her that it wasn't funny and she and I argued about it until I went and sat in the car because I had a hair appointment that I had to be at in less than ten minutes. My stepmother was the one who had to drive me, unfortunately. I had my second panic attack that day; I haven't had two in a day in over six months. As soon as I had calmed down from it, my stepmother came out and continued her reign of terror. "If you're bipolar, then we will send you to the mental hospital. Your father is going to agree with me and you're not going to have a say in it this time." My father had asked for my consent both time I've been to therapy because everyone knows that if you're not willing to get help, then you won't be helping yourself. She played the broken record until we got to hair salon and I cleaned myself up from my tears and anger.

Today was horrible. I was fine until the end of second period when I became extremely dizzy. I had to get my stepmother to come get me and I ate some leftover fries before climbing into bed for two hours. I slept, hoping that it would pass, but I was wrong. I woke up ten time worse and my father had requested that I go to the doctor to get blood-work done to see if the medicine was affecting me. I went to the doctor and after sitting there for almost three hours, I was taken into the back and told that they could not find out if the meds were affecting me through getting blood drawn. They tested my blood to see how much of the antidepressant was in my blood though. The doctor gave me a medicine to deal with the dizziness, but warned me it would make me sleepy. I told him that I wouldn't want to take it because of the fact that I have to wake up at four in the morning to get ready for school. He advised me to take it anyways.

When we picked up my father from work, my stepmother explained to him about the medicine and how I was going to have trouble waking up in the morning. My father told me that I would have to take the medicine whether I wanted to or not... and that's when he spoke those words. "You can't always fucking rely on your medication, Kayla. You have to help yourself." I shouted back at him, feeling my sudden rage and that's when my stepmother brought up the mental hospital again saying that she feared for their lives and that I wasn't able to function for the moment. My father said nothing and the thirty minute ride home was silent.

As I write this, I'm upset and have tears in my eyes.
1. My stepmother wants to send me to an institution because she thinks I'm as crazy as my mother.
2. My stepmother thinks that I can get over my depression if I stop thinking horribly about everything because it's what she did. I can't get over the depression because I'm suffering from the depressive side of bipolar.
3. My family believes that I enjoy the medicine that I take. I find it repulsive and messed up that I have to take so much.
4. They don't think I've been helping myself.
5. My father is fed up with me and all my issues.
6. I want to be normal, like the people who aren't suffering like I am. I want to be someone else because everyone thinks so horribly about what I'm suffering from and that I can't control myself.

I think I'm going to sleep. It's 10:56 and I don't feel good; I'm sad, have a headache, and dizzy.

-Kayla VI
March 5th, 2015 at 05:02am