Back on track...I am pretty sure I know when it started or at least when it started fucking up my life. It was my last semester in college - 1997. I was terrified of graduating and leaving the comfy environment I had carved for myself. Seriously, my life was a pretty cool dream. I had wonderful friends, was in several leadership roles in various clubs, doing well in my classes, and was taking courses I loved.
I had just changed my major by dropping the teaching aspect of my degree. Yes, that was a huge thing but I knew what I wanted to do instead and had a plan in place of how to make that happen. I'd found my passion and knew what I wanted to do with my life.
Before long, sleeping all day and skipping classes (more than typical) became the norm. I was slacking on my responsibilities with the internship I'd designed that would also relay directly into what I wanted to do with my future. When I say slacking, I mean avoiding and simply not showing up. It wasn't that I didn't care because I did. It was that I just couldn't do it. I didn't understand why at the time and I didn't realize that I needed to ask for help. It just was. Perhaps friends, professors, co-workers, and even me blamed it on senior-itis or partying too much. Maybe I hid it well enough to not cause worry. I honestly don't know.
Things got better and then got worse. Damn the roller coaster. I had a few interviews but nothing in my dream career was panning out. I wasn't ready to go to grad school and didn't want to go home.
I ended up moving in with my father, step mother and little sister for the summer after graduation. It was meant to be a temporary thing as I searched for jobs and tried to get my post-college life on track. I started calling in to my job and wasn't making payments on my car or keeping up on the insurance. I knew what I was doing was wrong and would most certainly get me into trouble but it was as though I was helpless to make myself be responsible.
After a few months, I moved in with my mother and step father. Mom helped me get back on track with the bills...at least those she knew about...and I found two jobs and I really enjoyed them. I ended up living with my parents for almost a year before being on my feet enough to get my own apartment in September of 1998.
Finally, I felt like a grown up and in control of my own life. All continued to go well until October 1999.
To pick up a bit of extra money, I cleaned my parents' house on a weekly basis. I hate cleaning but the extra money was nice. One day, I just wasn't feeling "right." My mom got home early and was less than enthused about the job I had done cleaning the house and let me know. I was upset and hurt and maybe even a bit angry so, in a huff, I left to drive the ten miles back home.
I started driving my car off the road more than once on that drive.
Somehow, I managed to make it home safely. When I entered my apartment, my beautiful cat Pacey came to greet me as was his way. I kicked at him and screamed before crumbling to the floor, bursting into tears, and, having a panic attack. I wanted to die. Life wasn't worth it anymore. Nothing was right. I didn't want to go on. This was not the first time I considered taking my own life. This was also not the first time that I took actual steps to end my life. (Although I have had thoughts of wanting to die since then, I have never again taken any action towards doing so.)
A nervous breakdown? That's what I called it and if it wasn't, I sure as hell hope that I never have one.
It took every ounce of my being to pull myself together enough to call my mom. She's amazing. She was probably just as scared as I was but she remained calm and talked to me. After I convinced her, and myself, that I wasn't going to kill myself, we made a plan. I would call the doctor and make an appointment for the next day. And I did.
I met with Dr. E the following day. He is a general practitioner. After listening to me relay the events of the past 24 hours and convincing him I wasn't a suicide risk, he agreed that I did indeed have a break of some sort. He suspected clinical depression was the cause and prescribed me my first anti-depressant - Prozac - and the dance began.
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