When I was little, I vividly remember the commercials on the television that proposed a variety of medications that claimed to ease anxiety and dull the effects of depression on everyday life. At that time, I wondered how anybody could possibly be so glum to the point of suicide. It seemed to be a foreign, faraway concept that couldn’t possibly encroach its way into my life.
How wrong I was– by the time I was in the seventh grade, I became acutely aware of a sadness and pervasive anxiety that weighed on my chest and tinted my perception of reality with grays and blacks. I was filled with a deep sense of guilt and shame at the mere suggestion of depression or anxiety; I told myself it was merely a gimmick that I would surely grow out of over time, as I had no justifiable reason to feel such desolation. After all, I contended, I was blessed enough to enjoy the benefits of the typical middle class lifestyle and I had a supportive family that loved me deeply. For this reason, I waited it out with the hope in my heart that the feelings of sadness and the anxiety that constantly pestered me would fade away.
Unfortunately, that time never came. A few months passed by me and when I realized that the despair had settled in for the long haul, I confessed my troubles to my parents. My mother set up an appointment with a local psychiatrist; after discussing several options with the psychiatrist, I was prescribed a plethora of medications and advised to go to therapy. Eager to escape from my dilemma, I did just as I was told and for a time, I felt as though things were looking up. It certainly did not last long, though– my freshman year of high school began and my well-being declined at a lightning fast pace. I was at the brink of suicide, wavering unsteadily between the choice of life or death, and I had devised several methods of ending my life. As a result, I was placed on a seventy-two hour hold in the adolescent unit of the psychiatric ward at a nearby hospital. Unlike the majority of the teens there, I enjoyed my stay. The staff members were kind yet firm and by the time I left, I was equipped with a substantial set of coping skills. It truly was a reprieve from the cruelty in the world outside the hospital doors. After hours of combing through my background and questioning from mental health professionals, I was given a diagnosis of major depressive disorder and anxiety, with the possibility of bipolar disorder. Five days after being admitted to the hospital, I returned home to my loving parents and siblings, with hope in my chest that the future was bright and all would be okay from then on.
Healing and Hope 