Self-Image and Self-Esteem

I realize I didn’t continue my story from last time. But I guess I am just not quite ready to. I am trying to be okay with whatever comes out on here. Not judging what I write, how it comes off, how I organize entries, what people think, etc. Just be true to myself; if I end up encouraging someone in the process, that would be great!

So a little bit about my current state: I have low self-esteem. Big surprise. Ever since I grew out of adolescence, I was ashamed of this. I would continue to deny this fact, referring to it in my mind as “something only teens or super immature people struggle with.” Now, by the grace of God, I have accepted that, most likely through no fault of my own, I struggle with low self-image and self-esteem but that that fact does not define me.

Last week my therapist gave me this hand out on Self-Image and Self-Esteem written by Earnie Larsen. Self-image is based on the messages we received during our earliest years- whether direct or indirect-and these messages become how we see ourselves. Self-esteem is a direct reflection or your self-image, dictating 1) our expectations, 2) our options and 3) our limitations. I sincerely related to this: “If people have low self-esteem the value they have of themselves is very low. They see themselves as losers. They don’t expect to do well so what options do they have? Only negative options. The expectations are that it will never work; I’ll never be happy; no one will ever love me, and so on. ‘The limitations we place on our lives make our expectations come true.’ ”

The weird thing is, because of my identity as a “depressed” and “anxious” person for over half my life, these self-limiting thoughts have become such a deep part of myself. It’s like I am addicted to them; while in reality, I do have positive thoughts about my value, it just seems “wrong” to allow myself to think them.

My therapist’s assignment for me was to choose an area of my life in which I was very successful and answer some reflection questions about it. It was so hard to think of an area I was “very successful” in. I was bombarded by thoughts of areas I was once confident in, such as teaching, speaking Spanish, writing or my faith; and the sad reality that, in recent years, I have experienced utter failure (from my perspective) in these areas.

Fortunately I was able to dismiss these thoughts pretty easily; then I thought of my new job as a PCA (personal care attendant). While I am easily ashamed that I currently work only about 10 hours a week (I had to quit my “professional” full time job as a teacher last June), I still realized I am proud and confident in the work that I do as a caregiver. Doing the following reflection was very powerful for me and I hope it also brings you joy and comfort in whatever you are going through at the moment.

Here is my reflection:

  1. Choose an area of your life in which you are very successful: Working as a PCA (personal care attendant) for a 10-year-old girl and her family a. Self-image: how do you define yourself in this area? Very competent. Because of my sensitive nature, I bond well with people in a one-on-one relationship and learn how they tick, what would help them and overall, I have intense love for them (usually, of course, there are always certain people we “click” better with and who are easier to love). I am also someone who is dependable. I do what needs to be done efficiently; I show up to work every day; her parents see how well I work with and care for her so they trust me. I am myself with her and I try to always put her needs before my own. I am honest and friendly. I am a down-to-earth person with her family and I seemed to have “clicked” with them. I especially feel like I have become friends with her mom who is around my age. I have been able to support and encourage her as a mom and a Christian woman (and a teacher); and I feel honored that she has trusted me by opening up and sharing with me more and more! 

    b. As you define yoursef-how do you behave in that area? With integrity. Honestly, I have been tempted by all the alcohol at their house. Because of who I am and the relationship of trust I have built with this family, I rarely feel tempted anymore. In fact, I am confident that I could never betray them in this way. Other times, when I have put my needs before my client’s or gotten frustrated with her, I feel badly and always try to apologize to her and/or God. I have grace for myself, and am able to move on the next time. I also behave confidently. Because of the relationship I have created these last 5 months, I now have a say in her treatment, activities, etc. I have been voicing my thoughts more often and taking risks. The more I take a risk, positive things happen, which builds my confidence even more so I continue doing hard things.c. The consequences of this behavior: How I behave at my job has given me hope and confidence in other areas of life; so ultimately it has been a healing journey. My behavior has reminded me where my true gifts lie-in influencing individuals, just being present with them, using my sensitive nature to make a difference. The more I am my “true self” in other areas, the lower my chance are of giving in to temptations or going against this true nature. Also, this job has given me a renewed vision of my purpose, whether occupationally or in general: my God-given purpose; so I have more positive thoughts about my future!

    d. What is the result? The results define and deepen your self-image. The result is that there is no denying that I have made a difference and that my presence in others’ lives does not go unnoticed. While I haven’t affected large amounts of people, the people I have influenced are very dear to me and when I think about hurting or betraying them, it is devastating; similar to when I think of if one of them gets hurt or ill or worse. This kind of love is undeniable, and is the reason I am alive today. Thanks be to God, this love is my main purpose for living, something I could barely acknowledge when I was so ill last year. The reason I do what I do and why I am dependable and act out of integrity is because of the love I have received from Christ and the dear ones he has graced me with in this life.

    The messages of self-worth are:
    *I am full of love and have a lot of love to give.
    *I am worthy of love.
    *I am loyal, trustworthy and a person of integrity.
    *I can reach people on an intimate level, because of my deep sensitivity.
    *I have a deep awareness of self, I am honest and vulnerable and am more capable than many of helping others develop these traits.
    *This family has been graced and blessed with my presence as their PCA. (As I have been graced and blessed by them.) I can see myself being committed to them for many years to come.
    *Through my relationship with this precious child, I have also had a glimpse of what I can and will offer as a mother one day; I am reminded of the deep calling and privilege I feel of adopting this title in the near future!

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What Led Up to My Most Recent Relapse: Part 1

It has been many months since I last wrote. And a challenging many months at that. During my time of silence, I have enjoyed and been touched by reading so many others’ stories and I wonder, why am I not sharing mine? Fear of what I should say and how to say it has kept me away. The following is a swelling story that has been sitting here waiting to be published. Today I am biting the bullet and pressing publish. What do I really have to lose?

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You may have read some of my previous entries on this blog, where I chronicled my teenage and young adult years with major depressive disorder and crushing anxiety. I ended in 2011 (my last post), where I was cured of suicidal depression after a challenging journey withdrawing from the antidepressant Cymbalta.

Fast-forward to today. Well, wait! Because there are just a few things that need to be discussed before you find out just what is going on with me as we speak. From 2011 to 2015, I had successfully remained antidepressant-free, despite still dealing with a gripping anxiety disorder that sometimes led into mild depressive episodes. Over the years I also dealt with other bodily dysfunctions: a stubborn digestive disorder, hormonal imbalances, headaches/migraines and sleep issues, all of which combined to provoke my mental struggles. But with the support of my faith and relationships, I functioned pretty well, learning how to care for my body while also working successfully as an elementary school teacher.

Change has always been super difficult for me mentally (and physically) and 2015 was a year of change for me! That year, too, could’ve been what kickstarted the craziness and beauty of these most recent months.

First, in early spring of 2015, I found out the job I loved was being cut (in the fall); then I broke my foot in May, which was an unwelcome and inconvenient stressor. On a positive note, I got engaged in June and my fiance Nathan and I began planning a wedding for that fall (as well as a big road trip in August). In September, I began a new job teaching middle school (which also involved a significant increase in hours worked per week and responsibilities), got married, and moved into Nathan’s place, which happened to be significantly farther from work and my friends. I also began attending his church, which I didn’t realize was affecting me so much mentally. Their theology was quite a bit different than what I was used to and I began having an increase in anxiety and ruminations about this, while also longing for the churches I was used to attending (and my friends).

Our engagement, including an unforgettable road trip out West, the move and our wedding all went smoothly. I was in awe at how well I was “holding it together” through all those changes, but I know it wasn’t a coincidence! I couldn’t have done it without the support of God, my fiance, and our loved ones. I know it might sound cliche but our wedding was so beautiful, almost like a dream. It was an unforgettably amazing day surrounded by our closest friends and family. Because of all the love and support we’d received, mentally I was so happy and was riding that wave of bliss for quite a few weeks after our wedding.

Then, real life began and kind of kicked us in the butt. That fall, Nathan was also in grad school and we both worked crazy hours. The stress wreaked havoc on my mind and soon I was obsessed with feelings of inadequacy at both my new job and in my new roles as “wife” and “homemaker”. Basically, I placed insanely unreasonable demands on myself (and my husband). I couldn’t stop obsessing over what people must think of me/us and how our marriage compared to everyone else’s. So yeah, our early marriage was definitely not super blissful. But is anyone’s?

My husband had a lot of patience for me and our marriage, though rocky and “horrible” in my perfectionistic mind, got stronger. We developed healthy spiritual habits like praying, reading the Bible together and seeing friends, which gave us some buoyancy during the rough patches.

I am so blessed to have married someone as committed to health as I was. Ever since our dating days, my guy had faithfully and compassionately helped me wade through all of my mental and physical problems. It was in the spring of 2016 that I began seeing two different functional medicine doctors; one was a general practitioner who wrote an entire “whole-body” plan for me to follow and connected me with all sorts of other professionals including a dietician, an herbal specialist and a spiritual director. The second person was a functional medicine OB/GYN who helped me out a lot with my hormonal (and other womanly-type) problems. Both of these doctors I believed were gifts from God and basically “fell into my lap” (a coworker who had similar problems as I did gave me their info). It is very rare to find functional medicine doctors (who have the same philosophy on health as Nathan and I) who are also covered by regular insurance!

After I began seeing all these professionals, it was evident that my mental health was again deteriorating. The herbal specialist did start me on a bunch of stuff, but they also wanted me to see a psychiatrist. So in the spring of 2016, I called up my old psychiatrist and (relunctantly) decided to start on a new antidepressant, Abilify. It was such a hard decision after being potentially med-free for over five years and my insane struggle getting off of Cymbalta! Luckily, I had known my psychiatrist for many years and he knew about my resistance to medication. He said Abilify was different than any of the other ones I’d been on and had few side effects. I started on a low dose, and my husband and I prayed and trusted the Lord that this new medication would help and not hurt me.

We celebrated Nathan’s graduation that May and also the end of my first very stressful year teaching Spanish to middle schoolers. Though it was a hard decision, we decided it was best if I went back to the same job in the fall. Now that I had one year under my belt, it seemed doable. Plus we agreed I could take the summer completely off of work to totally prepare my mind and body for another year of stress. I did enjoy the summer of 2016…but…

There is a Casting Crown song that really resonates with me:

It’s a slow fade when you give yourself away
It’s a slow fade when black and white are turned to gray
And thoughts invade, choices are made, a price will be paid
When you give yourself away
People never crumble in a day
It’s a slow fade, it’s a slow fade.

I had been making what I considered innocent choices over the course of many months since our wedding. In my depressed and overworked state of mind, I could easily reason away why I did what I did. Until pretty soon habits were formed that were out of my control and, slowly, I was fading away.

To be continued…

Love,
Brittany

My Victory Over Cymbalta

As I wrote about in my last post, Jesus really turned my life around in 2008. By fall 2010, life was still good. I had a strong Christian community; I was growing in my faith; I had a stable home life with an incredible roommate; I had a new amazing teaching job. Despite the stress of my new teaching job along with beginning a graduate school program, I felt happy. I remember thinking, “It’s been so long since I’ve had a suicidal thought. Praise God!” I was even able to steadily decline on my antidepressant, til I was on the lowest prescribable dose.

In all of these positive changes, I was so grateful. But I still wasn’t satisfied. Anyone who knows me knows I rarely settle. I am always on the quest to better myself. I began getting more interested in how to take care of my body better. Around that time, I read an inspiring book The Antidepressant Solution. The main thing that stood out to me was that antidepressants are addicting and that doctors keep patients on them because they mistake withdrawal symptoms for depressive relapse. I also learned that the medication I was on, Cymbalta, was a drug with some of the worst withdrawal side effects. So, against the advice of my counselor and my roommate Theresa, I decided to wean myself off of Cymbalta. The reason they were concerned was because winter was beginning and my depressions usually worsened during the winter. Plus, I was doing well, so why change things?

But the facts in the book scared me, and I became determined and a little impatient. I decided to use the charts provided in the book as well as my journal to document my withdrawal symptoms.

How bad could it be? Little did I know what kind of hell I was about to undergo.

First, I decided to go from the 20 milligrams I was on to around 10 mg. Unfortunately, a 10 mg prescribable dose of Cymbalta did not exist, so I would break apart the capsules, dump out the little white balls inside, “eyeball” what I thought was about half of the contents and ingest the balls. As you can imagine, I was not very accurate in my “eyeballing,” so my poor brain was getting different amounts of its “fix” every day. I would have moderately intense symptoms, such as zapping sensations in my eyes, vertigo-like feelings, severe headaches, nausea, intense anxiety and dramatic crying spells.

Some of these symptoms were just a stronger version of withdrawal effects I was already accustomed to, having been medicated for ten years. So I pressed on, and after only a week of the 10 milligrams, impatience won over and I decided my body could handle even more discomfort. So, on November 6, 2010, I stopped taking Cymbalta. The withdrawal effects probably had an impact on my reasoning skills. I guess it didn’t occur to me that I had at one time been on 120 milligrams of Cymbalta and had adjusted to each new dose over the course of several months! And now I was going through multiple dose changes in the course of a few weeks without the help of a doctor. Not only that, but it was evident that my body was very sensitive to chemicals of all kinds.

I also didn’t realize that the first day of nothing could possibly be excruciating for a brain that had been “high” on antidepressants for almost ten years. That day was a Saturday and I was visiting my parents in Wisconsin. The first thing I noticed starting in the late morning was a worsening in some depression-type symptoms I’d already been dealing with: inability to concentrate, irritability, and radical mood swings. However, the physical sensations were severe and new: “Everything was hazy, glossed over, and there was this pressure on my head, chest, everywhere…I felt suffocated. Extremely dizzy and ‘off’. Everything was whirring, stirring. I felt thrown about, plagued by an unimaginable force…On top of all, was the migraine….which became unbearable. My ‘out-of-it-ness’ in combination with pounding head became so suffocating I literally felt as if I was dying.”

“Reluctantly I split the Cymbalta and took a little less than half the little white beads…I felt like a failure because I just want(ed) to fight my pain and discomfort but I realized I was probably not a fun person to be around. If I were alone I would’ve probably just gone to bed, but for Mom and Dad’s sake, I took the med.” Within a few hours, my symptoms lessened dramatically. I couldn’t believe how right the doctor who wrote the book was: I was addicted to Cymbalta!

After this experience, I became even more convinced I had to get this “poison” out of my system. My fears of how it was hurting me and SO many others I knew who were on antidepressants intensified. I was also angry. Angry because so many doctors were  handing out these horrible medications like candy and, mistaking reactions like mine as a depressive relapse instead of withdrawal symptoms, keeping patients on them or even increasing the dosages! (I can be a pretty all-or-nothing person. Just the year before I had finally accepted that, even for Christians, antidepressant medications were okay, good, even necessary for me to be taking.)

I was extra dependent on God during this time. Helping me through this trial of medication withdrawal was the number one thing I asked of Him in my journals. I felt I had Him and Him only to help me. NO ONE I knew was going through what I was. In order to maintain my sanity and be able to go to work every day, I weaned off a little slower. This was no easy task. I used a website I found to figure out how many balls were in each capsule. I discovered that 55 balls was about 8 milligrams. So I counted out 55 balls (very time consuming!) and ingested that amount for about a week.

I continued to worry that “I might go into a full blown depression,” but was hopeful that once I got completely off of Cymbalta, I would “be able to tell what’s med and what’s me.” This thought really motivated me to continue on the journey, and the journey gave me a purpose for living. Whereas for many years prior, I had continuously entertained thoughts of death by my own hand, I now wanted to live, and I saw freedom from Cymbalta as the possible key to my happiness.

During this time of withdrawal, I was also working a stressful job, going to grad school, and attending to all my normal church and family responsibilities. Through it all, my anxiety was unrelenting. “Just having a conversation with… (one person) makes me short of breath and my heart race. So when there gets to be more people, noise or commotion I have to consciously force myself to breathe deeply…Sometimes with all this anxiety I think I’m going crazy or may pass out due to my shallow breathing. Other times I feel completely vulnerable because I go for seconds without realizing who I am or what I’m doing.” I was also getting extremely tired of tediously counting all those teeny balls every day. Many days I was really tempted to go back on the 20 milligram pills. But I couldn’t imagine doing that with all the progress I’d made. So, with the support of the Lord and my community, I persevered.

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I continued to moderate the number of Cymbalta “balls” I consumed to have just the right severity of symptoms. I didn’t want them so severe I couldn’t work, but I also didn’t want to be on the antidepressant much longer. This preciseness definitely turned into an obsession. But it was exciting to see the progress I was making. By December, I had a plan. I would take out one little ball every day. By my calculations, I would be off of Cymbalta by the beginning of February!

By Christmas 2010, I had gotten through my first semester of grad school and the first few months at my new job. The holidays were typically challenging for me depression-wise, so the fact that I was struggling was not a surprise. I continued to ask myself, “Is this me or the med withdrawal?” but I never came to a conclusion. However, I was encouraged to rediscover that I hadn’t had a lingering suicidal thought for many months. This insight spurred me on through the trial. I knew if I wasn’t suicidal, I was safe; I could handle anything.

I ended up ahead of schedule and took the last Cymbalta “ball” at the end of January. On January 27, 2011, I wrote in my journal: “Dear God, Today is Day 4 of no Cymbalta. I’ve been doing strange in a way lately. Everything (at times) seems kind of other-worldly. But, overall, I’ve been positive and happy and feel like You’ve blessed me beyond what I deserve. Maybe the strange feeling is that I don’t know what to do with the positive feelings.”

Over the course of the next few weeks and months, slowly but surely, I would notice something interesting: I was no longer depressed. Yes, I had my normal bouts of moderate anxiety, unease, irritability and melancholy. But, to me, this was not depression. Because no matter how down I got, I never lost hope. And I never once thought about dying. In fact, I had more of a will to live than ever before.

During this post-Cymbalta period, I continued to take care of myself by eating better, exercising, practicing all the skills I’d learned in therapy, and surrounding myself with positive people. It would be several months, if not a year, before I could truly say: I am healed from depression! I just could not believe that I was now feeling the best I had ever felt, better than any of those ten years I was on medication.

I later ended up with more of a balanced outlook on antidepressants: They are powerful drugs that can be helpful and, yes, they are necessary in some cases and for some mental illnesses more than others. But, in my opinion, they should always be given at the minimum dose possible and used in combination with natural approaches. People should be warned about the dangerous side effects of medications and their addictive qualities. I am especially extremely wary of putting children and teens on medications, as, in most cases, there are little to no studies done on what the longterm effects of meds are on this age group.

In my case, I never wanted to be on an antidepressant again after my horrendous experience getting off of Cymbalta. I kept wondering if I should have ever been on meds in the first place. What if, all those years, the meds were actually worsening my depression? I processed through a LOT of anger over the fact that, especially as a vulnerable teenager, I was practically forcefed medications and not even offered other natural treatments that would have no doubt helped me way better than the meds. Mostly, I just celebrated how far I had come with the Lord at my side.

I still consider my journey of Cymbalta withdrawal to be one of the largest feats I undertook of my entire life. And I have the Lord to thank for leading me to this victory!

“For the Lord your God is the one who goes with you to fight for you against your enemies to give you victory.” Deut. 20:4

“Blessed is the (wo)man who remains steadfast under trial, for when (s)he has stood the test (s)he will receive the crown of life, which God has promised to those who love him.” James 1:12

The Father is Always Working

It is definitely awe-inspiring to reflect on one’s life and remember. Remember what you went through and Who got you through it. Being a Christian my whole life, I have heard too many stories to count of people being “delivered” from their sin or mental illness. One day they were in the darkness; the next day they were in the glorious light. Some people call it a “conversion” or “the day Jesus saved me.” I was always envious of these testimonies.

After a while I realized that my story is no less significant. Instead of having a mental illness one day and being a Christian “freed from darkness and despair” the next, I was a committed Christ-follower with unrelenting depression and anxiety. I was never “delivered” from my illness, yet I was dependent on the Lord through all the hills and valleys. As cliche as it might sound, I began to see the hills as little paths of light given by God to get me through the darker valleys.

Two thousand eight was the start of one such “hill” along my journey. I remember this year with such fondness and gratitude it is hard to even type this sentence. One day, in April 2008, I was sitting alone in my St. Paul apartment, totally incapacitated by grief and sorrow. As was the norm for me, the last few months had been a roller coaster ride. I had been hospitalized in December; got a new psychologist who I really liked in January; began DBT (Dialectic Behavior Therapy) which was proved to be highly effective for me; broke up with my boyfriend of one year just a few days earlier; and was finishing up my first highly stressful year of teaching (inner city Kindergarteners).

The main struggle was I was completely alone. I had been close with my brothers, but all three of them had moved out of the state or country in previous months or years. I was living alone and was out of touch with all my friends from college. I hadn’t really made any new friends because I had basically spent the last year with just my boyfriend. So that day, my parents called me up and realized I wasn’t doing well. “We’re coming,” they said. So they drove over and spent the weekend with me. They talked me into going with them to a church nearby, Woodland Hills, in Maplewood.

While I wasn’t too sure about the pastor and the worship, I really wanted to make friends. So after that day, I decided I would try and get involved with the Young Adults group at Woodland Hills. It was called “Immerse.” I will never forget the day in early May 2008 that I got up the nerve to attend on a Saturday evening. I now see this as a life-changing moment in my life, a gracious gift from God. He must have given this extremely self-conscious, introverted girl and extra dose of confidence that night. As I stood timidly near the entrance of the gathering, a young man approached me. He had a comforting smile on his face. I’ll never forget his kind words, “Hi! Are you new here?” After a couple minutes, Josh had introduced me to a bunch of his friends and I immediately felt calm and secure. I don’t remember the worship or speaking that night. I only remember the wonderful people I met who today, nine years later, are still some of my best friends.

I soon joined Josh’s small group at his house and made even more friends. I was utterly astounded at how God had so quickly answered my prayer for a “community.” Josh and his roommates soon kind of took the place my brothers had had in my life. Despite my insanely stressful couple years of teaching and continuous struggle with depression and anxiety, my small group (and later, the church-Woodland Hills-which I grew to love) kept me literally sane.

In fall of 2009, after I lost my job in St. Paul Public Schools, I moved out of my single apartment into a house with a girl from the small group who I’d become really close with. She had just bought the house in Vadnais Heights and had asked me to live with her several months earlier. I was also dating a godly man from the church. Even though the dating relationship didn’t work out, my relationship with my new roommate Theresa got stronger and stronger. She taught me so much, especially about unconditional love. Because with all my continuous mood changes, I was not an easy person to live with. She was not perfect either and we complimented each other well. Soon she became the best friend I ever had.

Thanks be to God, my depression seemed to stabilize over the course of a few years. By fall of 2010, I had a new teaching job that I liked; I was still committed to my church family and was growing in my faith exponentially; and, for the first time in my adult life, I had a stable living situation (still living with Theresa). The previous year I had also graduated from my DBT (Dialectic Behavioral Therapy) program and felt this program was another incredible answer to prayer! I learned A LOT of skills for how to take better care of myself. In addition, with the help of a psychiatrist I liked, I had also gradually cut back on medication and was currently on the lowest prescribable dose of my antidepressant.

I had so much to praise God for! I felt He had really done some true miracles in my life. While I was extremely grateful, I wasn’t satisfied. I began really getting interested in health and taking care of the body God had given me better…

Stranger to Myself

“It may happen when you first wake up, or while flying on an airplane or driving in your car. Suddenly, inexplicably, something changes. Common objects and familiar situations seem strange, foreign. Like you’ve just arrived on the planet, but don’t know from where. It may pass quickly, or it may linger. You close your eyes and turn inward, but the very thoughts running through your head seem different. The act of thinking itself, the stream of invisible words running through the hollow chamber of your mind, seems strange and unreal. It’s as if you have no self, no ego, no remnant of that inner strength which quietly and automatically enabled you to deal with the world around you, and the world inside you. It may settle over time, into a feeling of “nothingness”, as if you were without emotions, dead.”

When I first read these words in my college dorm room during the early weeks of 2005, I felt a fresh relief was over me. I was not crazy. Similar to my awakening with my strange social anxiety disorder, I felt comfort knowing that my condition had a name and there were others suffering like me.

But that did not make it much easier to deal with. While I was convinced this new condition was nothing like depression, the state I was in fueled a new or continuing depression. According to this same article, depersonalization disorder or “DP” can be a coping mechanism and often occurs in life threatening situations. As someone who is also a Highly Sensitive Person, I had gone through so many life changes in the last several months that my body and mind were simply maxed out. I couldn’t deal with life because of the stress the changes caused so I literally “zoned out” and became like “an automaton or as if [I was] living in a dream or a movie.” 

So as I stated in my last post, I moved back home with my parents at age twenty. It was a toss up in my mind whether it was the right decision or not. But my therapist-the head of the counseling department at Bethel-and my parents basically decided for me. I had to withdraw from all my college courses and ended up losing a lot of money which was super discouraging. I also had to quit working at the group home job I loved without giving them any warning, which created extreme guilt in me. All of these changes only intensified my depression, feelings of shame, worthlessness and self-hate. But somehow I kept hanging on and trusting God.

I got in to see a bunch of professionals both in the Twin Cities and in the city where my parents lived in Wisconsin. I went up on the anti-depressant I was on and began a mood stabilizer, which the doctor said would help with pain and ease up the depersonalized, out-of-body feelings. But I had a lot of concerns about being on all this medication and worried constantly about it.

Not being at school stripped me of worth in a lot of ways. I had prided myself in my academics, in my job taking care of disabled adults, in my work as a youth group leader, and in just being independent of my parents. Now I was back under their care and continually berated myself for it, calling myself “weak,” “immature” and a “baby.”

My parents could never be what I wanted them to be, though the rational part of my brain knew they were doing the best they could to help me. My dad would annoy me with his positive attitude and encouragement, as though I could just snap my fingers and be healed. My mom was either too smothering or completely ignoring. I would one minute resent my parents’ very presence. The next minute I would think, “What kind of parents are they?” by leaving me home alone each day. “Don’t they realize I could easily hurt or kill myself with all sorts of tools laying around?”

For a few weeks, I kept busy by finishing up some classwork for my half-semester classes. I also went to Christian counseling once a week, but didn’t feel I was making any progress. I would also spend time lots of time reading and journaling. I tried to stay in touch with some friends back at school. Sometimes I was encouraged; other times I felt overwhelmingly misunderstood and would fall back into feelings of loneliness and self-pity. I felt a lot of envy for my siblings and some of my friends who seemed healthy, happy, and even thriving.

I continued to have headaches or migraines almost daily, unexplained nausea, and panic attacks that would come out of nowhere. My body would literally shut down every day around 7 p.m. I’d be laying on the couch, watching a movie and suddenly be unable to breath deeply. It felt like someone was suffocating me. The only thing I could do was lay in bed; but I wouldn’t be able to rest.

On top of (and as a result of) this, my depression worsened. One morning, in the beginning of April, I woke up and thought, “I have no reason to get out of bed. All I will be doing today is sitting around, spending time alone. My friends won’t even call me back and even if they do, I am finding it harder and harder to explain why I get so down. The same with my family. They want to hear me say all is well, so why not give them what they want? Besides, if I were them, I would be dead annoyed with myself for not pulling it together by now.”

That’s when I started planning my suicide, which would be to drive the van in the garage, windows down, car running, garage door down. I would have to do it soon-before Dad got home for lunch. He would be the one to find me. Would I be dead? I thought about how my suicide would affect people. Since my friends often forget I exist anyway, it won’t be so bad for them. Then there’s my family; extended, yeah, it will be a shock but somehow in the run of a year or so, they’ll get over it. Then immediate; yeah, they will suffer, but how much do I really add to their life anyway?

I came to the conclusion that, yes, this was the best solution. Better dead than having to live a double life, where on the one hand I’m a strong Christian with a deep faith, a compassionate and committed leader; on the other hand, a suicidal wreck, someone who spends her days trying to teach others NOT to believe the lies she herself believes.

Then the biggie: what would God think? I had already thought about this a lot over the years, but that day I thought about it the most. I figured since murderers could receive forgiveness, so could people who kill themselves. Surely God wouldn’t banish to hell, someone who’s been a committed Christian her whole life and one day just snaps, would He? I was sure I’d receive judgment, but once in heaven, it wouldn’t matter, right? I couldn’t imagine a place I’d rather be, and I decided I would do anything to get there.

For the first time in my life, I had the sudden realization that I held life and death in my hands. It wouldn’t take much. It wouldn’t even be painful. I’d finally be free of all my sickness and pain.

I laid their for probably two hours, wrestling with God in my head. I never did attempt suicide that day. It is unclear how much the medications I was on were triggering these thoughts. Before this extreme suicidal episode, my mood stabilizer-Neurontin-had been tweaked. In later months and years, I would notice similar episodes after certain med changes.

At the time, however, I was clueless. I just kept surviving every day. Despite still having suicidal thoughts multiple times a day, I would look to God. I wrote in my journal obsessively; it was my source of survival. I didn’t often feel close to God. I cried out to Him often, “Where are you, God?” But glimpses of His truth would sometimes reach me: through His Word, Christian books, and unexpected cards or phone calls of encouragement from friends. I also learned to have gratitude in the little things: my dog, music, nature and being with loved ones.

That spring, my schedule picked up and I made several trips to and from the Cities. I was planning on going on a mission trip with my church that summer to Mexico (as a youth leader/translator). So I had several events related to the trip to attend. Additionally, I attended my brother’s graduation in Minneapolis with my dad.

Finally, I nannied for my three young cousins two different times at their home in Illinois. This was probably the most empowering time of my entire time away from college. It was interesting to see how much better I did with the kids the second time (in May) as compared to the first time (in April). Each time was only for a couple days, but still very challenging for me. By the end of the second nannying experience, I felt a renewed sense of purpose in caring for children and in helping my family. I felt freer because I wasn’t so obsessed with thoughts of myself. I also experienced something I hadn’t in a while: joy and fun. I bonded more with the children, ages 3, 5 and 7, and created some unforgettable memories with them. I got a lot closer to God during that time, too, and praised him for allowing me to have this experience.

By the end of the spring, I was getting anxious to get back to my life in the Twin Cities. I still was not completely-or even remotely-better. I was having the same symptoms that had landed me at home with my parents. The most troubling symptom was how unreal everything felt. This created incredible sadness in me because I couldn’t experience joyful experiences, such as my brother’s marriage, the way I hoped to. But I kept trusting in God and staying near the love of my friends and family. I came to believe that I could still receive love even when people couldn’t understand me.

Even though my illness raged on, I was dealing with it better, so I moved back to the Cities at the beginning of June. My sense of purpose returned as I started up all my activities again. Gradually, the out-of-body feelings started lessening over the course of that summer. The bizarre physical symptoms also eased up. I still had no idea what my body was doing and why it just “chose” to do what it wanted all the time. But I praised God for my healing with the hope that He’d continue to be there with me as I resumed college that fall.

 

Withering Away into Nothingness

On February 27, 2005, I was sitting in a parking lot waiting for my parents to drive me away, away from the hell I was experiencing at college, waiting in agony, in desperation, in a state of surreallness and dizziness. I wrote: “I have never felt more disempowered / More lowly, more pitiful / The more I am around people / The more I lose joy / Because I feel like a failure / I had so much joy before / When I felt I had it all together / When the things I did made me believe I was worthy / No matter how genuine the love of others / I can never accept it because/ It makes me feel more and more ashamed / Lord I want you and you only / I want to shut the world out.” I was at the beginning on a new journey; I had no idea what hell would await me but I could tell it was starting. I was a junior in college at the time.

Since my early teen years, I became familiar with Depression. It was my new identity; a way I gave myself worth and my life meaning. I was accustomed to the sadness; the endless tears; the shakiness; the constant ruminations about self, world, faith, God, death; the many medications and therapy sessions; the physical illnesses that both caused and were caused by the depressions; even the suicidal thoughts that came and went sometimes for weeks or months at a time.

Early in 2005, I thought I was having a reprieve from depression because I hadn’t thought about killing myself in a few weeks. I began having more trust in God and peace about my future. My brain was so fogged over and still probably under the influence of major depressive disorder, but the way I saw it, I was getting better.

But then I began having strange symptoms in which I felt “I was withering away into nothingness.” It was a hazy, disoriented feeling in which I became an observer of the world and myself. It worsened to the point that I literally felt no control over what I did or said. When I talked it was like a stranger’s voice talking. This made participating in class discussions and even having conversations with friends a nightmare. I always seemed fine on the outside, but sometimes when someone got close to me I would become unable to breathe and my heart would start to race. It felt like other people were literally sucking the life out of me. Not only that but I began feeling a lot of tightness in my chest starting around 6 or 7 pm every day. It felt like my body was shutting down; I could do nothing but lay down, but when I tried to rest, my mind raced and I would lay there as if there were a hundred bricks on me.

I researched my condition and later confirmed with a doctor I was suffering from depersonalization disorder, which is often a coping mechanism for people who do not adjust to change well, perhaps a symptom of depression. Looking back several years later, I realize I’d had a crazy couple months. I was still adjusting to my life back in the U.S. after a semester in Guatemala. I was dealing with the fact that both of my older brothers were in serious relationships. My one brother Greg suddenly got engaged in November to a girl younger than me who I barely knew (they began seriously dating when I was abroad). This news sent me into a tailspin. I felt my brother was being lost to me while also jealous and full of self-pity and self-hatred because of my state of singleness.

My oldest brother Nate, with whom I was extremely close, was dating my best friend and I was very enmeshed with their relationship. December came, and besides normal holiday and winter blues and dealing with my new bizarre physical symptoms, I was reeling with pain and sorrow of the tsunami tragedy in Southeast Asia (I had a history of experiencing worsening depression when disasters such as this occurred). Then in January, at the start of an extremely stressful interim (in which I took one class but was expected to do about 8 hours of homework a day), Nate broke up with my friend. I did not deal with this well, especially since my friend was also my roommate. It was one of the most painful times of my life. Whether it was this new disorder, or just a different type of depression, I later realized my body did not know what to do with all the changes and stress around me.

I began my second semester at Bethel College (now Bethel University) with a full load of classes, including an internship in a third-grade classroom. I was also working part time taking care of adults with disabilities in a group home. In all of my activities I hoped everyone saw me as a professional, competent, secure and happy person. Inside it was a hellish war; in fact, it became a daily battle to survive, to not take my life. I was constantly reasoning with God, pleading with him to take me out of my misery, my physical pain, paralyzing anxiety and despair. There were very few days that went by that I did not create a plan in my mind of how to take my own life.

I was so desperate for relief – I had always thought about hurting myself but I had never gone through with it. So one evening, I cut myself with a razor.  I’d heard that cutting had helped with relief of pain and my distorted mind told me, “What’s there to lose?” The next day, I was at my elementary school internship in the faculty bathroom. I felt so dissociated I didn’t even know who I was. I wanted nothing to do with the broken and confused girl I was the night before but I in no way could become the competent and worthy adult I wanted to be in that moment. I was washing my hands in the bathroom and wished I could just wash away every painful thing I had ever done to myself. I felt like I was and always would be my own worst enemy. In thirty seconds, I would have to face twenty-five children and try to teach them how to not be like me. I could not do this. I hated who I was. How would I ever change?

Just a few days later, I told my psychologist at Bethel about the cutting incident and that day he along with my parents basically made the decision for me: I would take a leave of absence from school. In a matter of hours, my whole world once again shifted.

Beauty, perfectionism and Christian dating

“I am not worth anything until I am dating or, by a certain age, married.”

I was always told I was “pretty” and “cute.” My mom was good at doing that. She would make me cute sweaters, bows and even clothing that matched with my dolls’.  As a child I always felt so happy wearing all those beautiful things.

My mom would also do my hair very “pretty.”As I got older, she taught me how to “do” my hair (and later makeup) correctly. I later realized being able to do one’s hair without help was a sort of a coming-of-age event for the girls in my family.

Most things I learned about girls and women I learned from my family. My mom, her sisters and my grandma, always presented themselves well. Always beautiful, hair styled, makeup on, impeccable outfits and matching accessories. The message I received from the women in my life is that a woman was expected to do everything possible to make herself beautiful (externally) to the world.

I began comparing myself to my family members especially as a teen. I wanted to be dating but we were not allowed to date until age sixteen. I knew most women in my family married very young (by age 20) so I had to make sure I got a “good start.”

Puberty struck me late in life; as a perfectionist, I constantly felt less than. I was obsessed with being on the “in crowd.” While my girlfriends talked about boys and periods at the junior high lunch table, I sat there pretending like I could relate. I had a lot of contempt for my slow-developing body; I longed to be taller and less flat-chested. I was also self conscious of wearing glasses. One of my brothers and I would often talk about our relationship woes. We both probably struggled with self-esteem and the need to look perfect for the opposite sex. One day, my brother made a matter-of-fact comment, that once I got contacts, the guys would “be all over me.” Through comments like these and the influence of my friends, I began lying to myself about the way I needed to look and the experiences with guys I needed to have.

Finally, everything started falling into place by my tenth grade year when I reached full puberty. At 16, I was finally “of eligible age” to date. I finally got a little bit more self-esteem; some days I even felt as “cute” and “beautiful” as when I was a child. Soon, I  did receive attention from guys, but they were not “quality” guys; my term for the guys that typically liked me was “messed up.” I would go back and forth between feeling flattered by their comments and disgusted. Then I would always question, what is wrong with me that no decent or popular guy would like me. I would find myself in a war when it came to relationships with guys. If a guy liked me I would initially act interested to comfort my wounded inner self, but later I would come to my senses and realize I didn’t want to spend time with these particular guys. I ended up having quite a bit of guilt for “crushing” guys, though my family and friends told me to forget about it.

During the later part of my junior year, I fell in love hard. I was head over heals for a guy in my youth group at church. I initially had no interest in him until he began giving me quite a bit of flirtatious attention. During a period of about six months, his actions toward me fueled my passion for and fascination with him. It’s so interesting because my feelings of that time come back so quickly. They were so intense yet I now realize they were all about me. I really had no love and care for the guy. I only cared about how I was perceived. My self-esteem finally sky-rocketed because I felt I was finally “worth something.” Any day now, this guy would ask me out and everything in my little life would be perfect. The world would finally love me. This never happened. The guy barely even talked to me much less asked me out and later denied even liking me. Even though my interest in him had died down, I was still crushed and found myself believing I was not good enough for good, popular guys.

These thoughts continued throughout high school and hit their peak my freshman year at Bethel University (formerly Bethel College), a Christian liberal arts school where the common ditty was “ring by spring.” The theory is that, since most Christians are virgins, they just have to get married young; a marriage proposal would come by the spring of the girl’s senior year of college. There was a lot of pressure to find “the One,” that perfect Bethel boy, especially for someone like me whose only dream in life since the age of eight was to be married. Not only married, but preferably by age 21 and to have all my children before age 30 like my mom. (I used to pretend to pop babies out of my stomach with my dolls growing up! I just couldn’t wait for the real thing!)

I continued to believe the lie I believed my whole life: “If I only work hard enough to look beautiful, people—especially guys—will notice me. If can just be perfect, I will be worthy of love.”  I would often daydream about certain guys I met who I considered perfect. Sometimes I had proof that they found me attractive but wondered why they never asked me out. The conclusion I came to was always the same: “I am not good enough.”

I continued to swing from feeling like the most sexy thing ever to feeling like the scum of the earth, not even worthy to be an ant under a guy’s shoe. The summer after my freshman year, I was working full time and living with my parents at my Wisconsin home. One day, I had to bring my younger brother Tim his lunch at his work—a car dealership. I knew that Tim worked with all men and, for that reason (though I didn’t admit it to myself), I made sure I looked extra attractive. Sure enough, when I pulled around to the back of the dealership where Tim worked I noticed his co-workers staring at me. My desires to be noticed were met and I felt really good about myself. A few weeks later my brother revealed to me the conversation that came about after I left that day. His coworkers told him I was hot and asked him if I had a boyfriend. Tim said no and they responded: “Why not?! Is she gay?” Tim, of course, was disgusted with them and stood up for me, but I couldn’t help feeling overwhelming grief and self-pity at that moment. There is something wrong with me, I continued to lie to myself.

My dating experiences in college and afterward became predictable. My obsessions with perfection clouded my judgement and my own sense of identity. The judgments I put on myself were extended to the guys I dated. I was often petrified that we weren’t “good enough” together. I was terrified of how others would perceive us as a couple. I often made decisions based on what everyone else thought. I never really figured out my own identity or, if I thought I knew what I wanted, I would constantly doubt myself. If my family and friends liked a guy, I would feel pressure to like him too. I would constantly berate myself for not feeling love for the guy I was dating, when in everyone else’s mind, he was “perfect.” This came with the territory of people-pleasing and performance addiction.

I had such a profound hatred for myself during those times. I intellectually understood I was beautiful “inside and out” as everyone always told me and that I was dating material. I believed I was worthless, like I, the “bad” girl, was hurting and scarring this “good” guy for life. I was a failure in my mind. I couldn’t live up to all those women in my family who had great men and had married young. I would scream and cry out to God, “Please help me like him the way he likes me, Lord!” My low self-esteem spurred on my depression which in turn negatively affected every relationship I had.

One minute, I would come to the conclusion that he was the wrong guy for me and I had nothing to do with it. The next minute I would think, it’s all me. I am too unlovable and I’m ruining his life. Either way, I would break up with him and look for the next “perfect” guy, a dream relationship that existed in my mind. I was searching for love and truly believed I couldn’t be happy until I found it.

It wasn’t until much later that I realized that it was probably best to heal before I dated, that I was able to separate my worth from my dating status. That I discovered this truth: I didn’t need to search for love because I no doubt already had it. Instead, I was searching for the ability in myself to accept this love. My profound inability to accept love from myself, others and God is what kept propelling my depression onward.