Mental Health Awareness: My Journey With Anxiety And Depression

May is Mental Health Awareness Month, and as we close out this month I can’t help but think about my own anxiety and depression. (TW: suicide, abortion)

I’ve been reflecting on the past eight years a lot lately. What was, what could have been, should have been, still could be. You know, all the questions you think about when you move on to the Next Big Thing in life. And it’s funny how looking back now, so much has changed and yet so much has stayed exactly the same – my anxiety and depression fitting into both categories.

Things that have changed since 2011: I’ve been married (and divorced #yikes). My daughter exists. I work a full-time job (as opposed to working 2-3 part time jobs to support myself). I live on my own and have my own vehicle. As of this month, I’m officially a college graduate. Basically all the adult things.

Things that have not changed: I still live in my hometown (after many back-and-forth moves). My anxiety and depression still gets to me sometimes (though in all fairness, I have a much better handle on them both). I enjoy solitude and avoid social interaction because #awkwardturtle is my life. And I still get the vibe that everyone hates me most days (social anxiety is the worst).

Despite all that has changed and all that has not, I am grateful to be where I am today.

I cannot imagine my life going any other direction than this one. So many choices and opportunities in life, so many mistakes and missteps, so much pain and distress. And yet I ended up exactly where I needed to be, with the people I needed the most.

For nearly eight years there was one question in particular that kept me up at night wondering if I was headed down the right path. Did I make the right choice, going to Virginia for college? My first month away from my hometown brought me some of the biggest life lessons I needed to learn, and for that I am thankful. But it also brought me some of the biggest heartache, which led me down a dark path that I almost didn’t survive.

I hit rock bottom late one night in October 2011, when I began to veer my car off the side of a mountain.

It’s been seven years and seven months since that night. A lot of my darker moments have been blacked out from memory, so I don’t know what caused me to turn the wheel back, but I did. Eight hours later I suffered through the worst panic attack of my life still to this day. When I got back to Virginia a couple days later I made the decision to move back home for my mental health.

Rewind about a month prior to that night.

My high school boyfriend S and I split up, and I was absolutely devastated. I never imagined it would end the way it did or so suddenly, and it truly broke me. One morning I was scrolling through social media before class and seeing his name triggered a panic attack. Medics were called and I was given an oxygen mask and told that I needed to see the school therapist.

I didn’t believe I needed help. My stubborn ass was under the impression that I was managing my depression just fine, like I had been for years. And I didn’t need help preventing panic attacks; I’d get them under control just like I did my depression. I would get over S and our breakup, and I would be okay. Just like every other time.

That arrogance almost cost me my life.

Our relationship ended largely due to me not getting the help I so desperately needed. When one of my close friends tragically died in 2010, I allowed my anxiety and depression wash over me. I was drowning when S pulled me to the surface. It was just enough to keep me alive, but even the smallest waves were able to pull me back under.

S kept me breathing, bringing me up for air each time I sank back down. It was a lot of giving on his end with me unable to reciprocate as I fought to keep my head above water. Eventually he grew tired and found someone who didn’t need saving.

For years I asked myself if Virginia was the right choice.

Going there meant leaving S behind, leaving my family, starting over completely. I thought it was a good thing. I thought a fresh start was what I needed in order to heal. And once I got there, I felt so relieved, like I finally had found my place in the world. Leaving Hollins was the absolute hardest decision I had to make at the time. I spent three years waiting for Virginia, only to get there and have my mental health bottom out. It took all of my energy to get the courage to admit I needed help, and to move back home.

I found a bit of balance for a short while between 2012 and 2014.

Panic attacks were still happening once in a while, and I drank heavily to deal with some of the harder days. But overall I was able to live life like a regular 20-22 year-old working three jobs and paying bills. I managed to get myself medicated – though it didn’t last long because the antidepressants really screwed with my head. But by 2015, things were seemingly better. At least, for the first few months.

In February 2015, I made the mistake of marrying the wrong person. Though A was a kind man with a good heart, we didn’t want the same future. The more I began to realize our incompatibilities, the less interested I was in our marriage. By summer, we had separated. And on July 5, 2015, I discovered a second mistake: I was pregnant.

My first pregnancy was short, the excitement nonexistent; I chose to terminate at approximately eight weeks.

I’d like to pause for a moment to give a second trigger warning, in case you missed the one at the top of this post. The details that follow are extremely difficult for me to write, and likely difficult for anyone to read. This traumatic recount of my experience with abortion is critical to my mental health journey, and it is important to me that I include this part of my history in order to give a more complete picture of how I came to be where I am today. If you are easily triggered or have a weak stomach, this is not for you. Skip down about 15 or 16 paragraphs if you don’t want to read the details.

I had no idea I was pregnant until the 4th of July.

It was my second date with someone new, and I was excited to spend the evening with C and his friends. Unfortunately, after only one and a half Straw-Ber-Itas, I began feeling really sick. We called it an early night, and when I woke up in the morning I realized my period was over a week late.

I wanted to blame it on stress, but I had never had stress cause me to be late before. Though I was terrified of my suspicions, I asked C to take me to Planned Parenthood to take a pregnancy test because I had a gut feeling I was pregnant. I knew I would need to schedule an abortion as soon as possible, and it would be easiest to get the information directly from Planned Parenthood. C drove me, I tested positive, and I got sick. I’m not sure if my nausea was caused by the pregnancy or the news.

Despite my circumstances, C continued to be a good friend. When I needed someone to lean on, he was there to listen. He brought me sour straws when my cravings kicked in, and made me feel safe despite feeling so alone.

I jumped through the hoops to get the abortion pill here in Indiana.

I went to Planned Parenthood and sat in a room with a dozen other women where we watched a short film on abortion that was mandated by the state. We signed forms and silently avoided eye contact, each feeling embarrassed. We all knew what we were there to do, and putting us in our own shame chamber almost made me feel awful enough to back out. I imagine this first step in terminating a pregnancy in Indiana is designed that way purposefully to shame women into continuing their pregnancy. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least.

After leaving the shame chamber, we each had to wait for the doctor to assess us.

My first ultrasound was hard to watch. Though I tried to turn my head, to ignore the heartbeat, the emotional masochist in me wanted proof that I was destroying this life inside of me. I needed to see it, to know I was the murderer the picketers outside the gates said I was, to confirm that this was my fucked up reality and not some temporary nightmare.

I stared at that screen looking at the little bean growing inside of me, and I cried.

When the tech finished the ultrasound, she led me to another room where I met with the doctor to answer questions to make sure an abortion was my choice, that I was not being coerced by someone else to end this pregnancy. They questioned my mental health, and I explained to them that I suffered from anxiety and depression, which had flared up due to my pending divorce.

They nodded, took notes, asked more questions. And I answered yes:
“I want to end this pregnancy.”
“My personal well-being is at risk by continuing this pregnancy.”
“I have had suicidal thoughts.”
“The father is aware of this decision.”
“I have a support system at home.”
“I understand the risks.”

“Yes, I want to continue with this process.”

After playing 20 Questions, they told me the State of Indiana requires an 18 hour window after meeting with the doctor before being able to schedule the abortion itself. On top of that, they only administer them on specific days of the week. So I would have to come back next week to continue the process. I went home.

Thankfully, I was lucky enough to live within ten minutes of the clinic, and had no significant complications that would inhibit me from coming back the next week. And luckily, I was only seven weeks along and able to come back the next week before hitting nine weeks – the point in which I could no longer do the medicated abortion at home, but would instead have to do a D&C. Many women seeking abortions for various reasons are not as “lucky” as I was; Indiana’s laws are very restrictive, and lack of clinics able to perform abortions or administer medication make it more difficult to terminate. However, that is an issue for another day.

Medicated abortions are done in a two step process: one pill is administered by a doctor directly, and the second pill is taken the next morning at home.

My friend C was kind enough to stay with me the night after I took the first pill. They had prescribed me painkillers and anti-nausea meds, so I knew I was going to be in for a rough day and wanted someone there. As soon as I woke up and took the second pill at 8am as directed, I immediately regretted having C there.

Side effects of the medication included vomiting and diarrhea, along with intense abdominal pain. Believe me when I say that it was worse than actual childbirth. I asked C to leave. I spent the morning sitting on the toilet with a trash can in front of me, resting on a pillow on the side of the tub. Truly, it felt like I was dying as everything in my system poured out of me. My entire body shook with shivers that went deep into my bones. Everything ached. My eyes were closed and I could feel the world spinning beneath me.

Imagine having the flu while being extremely high.

Multiply that by 10, add in three months’ worth of menstrual blood, and you can almost understand how awful that morning was. Oh, and don’t forget the giant claw ripping into your abdomen, twisting and pulling your insides out.

By late morning, the blood came, followed shortly by the pregnancy itself. I watched as it all fell into the bowl, and relief coursed through my veins quickly before disappearing with a flush. It was over. I took some painkillers and anti-nausea meds I was given. Then I climbed into bed to sleep for a few more hours. When I woke up, I got dressed and headed to a meeting on campus like it was any other day.

Terminating that first pregnancy was the worst experience in my life, and that trauma never disappears.

My depression took the ended pregnancy as an opportunity to tear me apart further. Alcohol comforted me once again, trying to wash away my problems rather than facing them head on. I found myself blacking out at parties, taking off my clothes, flirting with guys whose girlfriends were approximately five feet away, and drunk dialing my sister or best friend at 3am before passing out.

I hit a new rock bottom when I passed out on the sidewalk and had to be carried home.

If there is one thing I am grateful for about Greek life at IUPUI, it is this. Despite being a complete shit show that semester, each and every fraternity member I met was gracious and kind. They made sure I was safe and took care of me when I needed it most. I’d go so far as to say that they felt like family to me.

Only a couple of them knew what I had been through, but they never judged me for it. Not one tried to take advantage of me, nor did any of them coerce me into drinking more. If anything, these guys were the reason I survived that semester and realized I needed to get my shit together. So if any of them are reading this now, thank you.

By midterms that fall, I realized I needed help again and went back to therapy for a short while. I withdrew from school, moved back home, and focused on getting my head on straight. I gave a big middle finger to my anxiety and depression and finally started to fight for myself.

It’s been three and a half years since then, and my mental health has only improved.

Though I still have bouts of depression once in a while, I have learned my warning signs and can recognize when I am going into a depressive episode. This allows me to take precautions for my own safety as well as others, and I tend to bounce back from them much more quickly than before. I also am aware of my panic triggers, and have found coping mechanisms to work through them. While I was previously having panic attacks on a near-daily basis, I have not have any true attacks in about two years.

Life isn’t perfect, but it’s pretty damn close. And honestly, despite all the hardship and trauma and pain, I wouldn’t change a single thing. I am happy, and I only have my anxiety and depression to thank for that.