My Demise and Rise

Three years ago I was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder (BPD) when I was first stayed in the psych ward at the local hospital. I added that to my list of mental illnesses that my psychiatric had diagnosed me with - severe depression and anxiety, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

Aside from me suffering the most with PTSD, I also struggle with BPD. Once I learned of my diagnosis, I researched it as much as I could - I asked mental health professionals about it, Googled it and read just about every article, and bought books about it. I realized I had suffered from BPD since I was in pre-school. The symptoms of BPD fit me perfectly. I had a fear of abandonment, extreme mood swings, self-harm, suicidal behavior, disassociation, random fits of rage, dangerous impulsive behavior, isolation, and a history and pattern of unstable relationships.

My parents have been nothing but understanding, compassionate, and have made a treatment plan for me (just in case I hit rock bottom). They ordered books off of Amazon about how to deal with people with BPD and studied up on it. Prior to my hospitalization in the psych ward, I avoided telling my parents how I was feeling and would cope by self-harm. Now, I talk to them when I am feeling suicidal, worthless, ugly, and like I don’t deserve to be alive. During these times, they stay close to me without suffocating me and patiently listen to me whenever I had something to say.

My close friends whom I told, weren’t as surprised as I thought they’d be. They knew about my seeking mental professional help, so when I explained to them that I had BPD and what it was, they passed no judgement, checked up on me at least once a day, and asked me if there was anything they could do to help me feel at least some what better when I was showing signs of hitting rock bottom.

Hitting rock bottom was a traumatizing and difficult situation. I was oblivious to it each time and gave into it. I allowed BPD to consume me, completely. I let it control me and my life. I was struggling and in pain and all I could think was “I don’t deserve my life. I have such a GREAT life but I fail to appreciate it because of BPD. I may as well just die and let someone else replace me.” It is then that I feel guilty, ashamed, like a failure, and embarrassed for the pain and worry I caused my family and friends.

After being correctly diagnosed, learning about it, and seeing an amazing therapist about it once a week, I am proud to say that I have been self-harm free for about two years and am slowly recovering - I no longer have fits of rage, extreme mood swings, and am aware and active in suicide prevention.
Having mental illnesses has given me a purpose in life. I can relate to those who struggle with mental illness and offer them advice whenever they are feeling too much. I have gone to high schools and spoken to them about my struggles and difficult times. I also speak out about my experience with suicide, hoping that any student who does not feel 100%, recognizes that and seek help. My goal in life is to for people to feel less alone and address any issues people with mental illness have.

I have come a LONG WAY from the time I first time I sought out help for my mental health. I know that I will continue to have days where I don’t want to get out of bed, feel as though the world is too much to handle, and how I just want to disappear and leave all my responsibilities. I fight those feelings with coping strategies I learned from my therapist and making sure I take my medication.
I am FINALLY at a place where I am stable, logical, rational, aware
of those around me, and able to recognize my suicidal ideations are nothing but a mere feeling and the urge to just grab a sharp object, slit my wrists, then get into a bathtub filled with warm water and just die is not the way to go. There is so much more to my life. I am alive and well for a reason. I am meant to use my voice to stop the stereotypes and stigma surrounding societies view of mental illness. I am meant to LIVE.

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Swimming Saved My Life
I’ve gotten so many private messages asking me what caused this recent positive change in my mental health that I’ve lost count. The answer is simple. Exercise. Whether you struggle with a mental illness or not, exercise is... — Swimming Saved My Life
I’ve gotten so many private messages asking me what caused this recent positive change in my mental health that I’ve lost count. The answer is simple. Exercise. Whether you struggle with a mental illness or not, exercise is something we all need in our lives to stay healthy. Being diagnosed with a goody bag of mental disorders and then seeking treatment, taking medication, and getting support from my family/friends are all things that help me survive. But I don’t want to just survive…I want to live! Bringing back intense exercise into my life has pulled me out of my dark, lonely cave and taken me from simply existing to really living for the first time in my life.

You don’t have to train like a professional athlete, but breaking a sweat on a regular basis will make a huge difference in how you feel both physically and mentally. The fact that so many of us separate our mind and body makes it difficult to see exercise as a way to keep your brain healthy. Change how you view exercising and staying active. Choose to look at it as a way to make your brain healthy and happy instead of viewing it as a way to help you look a certain way/squeeze into those jeans that used to fit when you were in high school.
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From a Dark Hole to My Redemption and Light

Hello, I have always thought that sharing my story with the mental health community is important to bring hope to others that are just like me.

I’m a 37 year old divorced mother of two boys. I have been in therapy of some kind or another since I was 7 years old. Mental illness runs in my family as well as substance abuse addiction. I believe I was born with my many disorders that progressed and worsened as I got older, abused illegal drugs, prescribed medication and had my children. In my early childhood I showed all the many signs of OCD. I also grew up in an extremely chaotic family where my mother suffered terribly with her own mental illness that was never acknowledged or treated and an emotionally absent father. My two older siblings coped with this by using and abusing drugs and my older sister was put into rehab when I was seven. My older brother simply moved away and is still an addict today covering up his own mental health issues. My younger sister was extremely emotionally disturbed and would act out violently towards my parents but especially towards me. She would later become a drug addict for many years and thankfully entered recovery 4 ½ years ago.

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I was recently at a dinner with two friends, when we began discussing mental illness and mental health treatment.

All three of us have openly had periods of struggle with both depression and anxiety, but we all had very different takes on treatment, particularly in regards to antidepressants.

“I wouldn’t go on them,” said the first friend.

“I would go on them, but just until I feel better,” said the second.

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NAMI - You are Not Alone — My Demise and Rise

See, that’s what the app is perfect for.

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