I have been through hell and back since my last post. Where do I even start? Let’s see. After Mexico…I chilled at the beach, bar hopped in the city, lost friends, visited family in Canada, partied for my birthday, celebrated more birthdays, gained new friends, waited for rides at Six Flags, slept in a MegaBus, walked around New York, went apple and pumpkin picking, moved in with Justin, and so much more.
Wait a second… you moved in with Justin!? Yes I did! It happened about a month ago and I still can’t believe we’re living together. Of course I’m happy, but it doesn’t mean that I no longer suffer from depression. It’s time for me to talk about my depression… Yay! So keep reading if you’re interested or just stop and wait for my next post.
I love my mom, but she made a comment that triggered me. I probably shouldn’t have taken it to heart, but it stabbed me. I shared this post on Facebook yesterday:
I saw my mom last night and she said, “Why did you post that thing about depression? Don’t post that. People might find out.” OUCH. Well, you know what? FUCK IT. Part of my issue is that I care about what people think about me. So one way to help me not care is to share my story. Plus, there’s this whole stigma shit about mental health. Everyone should be aware and not be ashamed to ask for help.
You may not know that I’ve been struggling with depression and anxiety unless I’ve told you personally or you heard it from someone who knew. I have this ongoing battle inside my head: “You’re not good enough. You’re a failure!” “Shut the fuck up Kwyn! You have everything. You’re fine!” And it goes on and on. I focus on the negative side of things, and I fight so hard to stay positive. It’s exhausting and I’m tired. Sometimes I break down and I can’t control my tears. Then I get numb and feel nothing. I’m not happy, sad, or angry. I’m just here.
It has almost been two years since I was offically diagnosed with this depression and anxiety bullshit. I’ve had it for a while, but it took a mental/emotional/physical breakdown for me to finally seek professional help.
Let’s take it back to college. High school was easy for me, but I was always stressed. Then I went to college and everything was so much harder. I was stressed from nursing school. I said some shit I didn’t mean to say to Justin or my family. I visited the ER a couple of times because I couldn’t breathe, my stomach hurt, my back hurt, etc. They did all these tests, and I knew there was something wrong with me. I just couldn’t pinpoint it. Sometimes I would wish they found something so that I didn’t have to go back to school for a while. They didn’t really find anything physically wrong with me because I was healthy and there was nothing abnormal. I remember one doctor said to me, “You’re probably just having an anxiety attack.” I was in denial, so I brushed it off and stayed strong. Fast forward, I graduated college, passed the NCLEX, and got my first nursing job. Yay! I was so happy and excited. I’m working in my dream hospital and things are starting to fall into place.
Welp, life kicked me in the ass. I was doing great, but then I crashed. I wasn’t eating or sleeping because I didn’t feel the need to. I felt so bad for these suffering babies because they did not deserve this shit. I was scared that I would kill someone’s precious child. I was so anxious, every fucking day. Even at home, I would see their faces in my head, worrying about them. Are they okay? Why are they like this? Wtf is wrong with their parents? I was also not progressing as I expected. I was unhealthy. I failed. I failed. I FAILED! I can never be a nurse again. I’m never gonna go anywhere with my life. I’m nothing. I want to die.
It took a couple months of going to therapy, taking my medications, and walking the park to finally get back on my feet. I got a retail job to keep me out of the house and eventually a nursing job. Again, things are finally falling into place! But life said, just kidding! I hated that job too.
Before I resigned, I was offered two different nursing positions. And one year later, I am still happy with the job I chose. If all this shit didn’t happen, I wouldn’t be where I am today. I have everything I need. Basic survival needs, people that love me, a career I love, stability…I’m fucking successful so I should be happy! I am happy. But I’m not. At the same damn time. And that is okay.
I have my ups and downs. I still take medications and go to therapy. I think I’m better, but I’m still fighting this battle inside. I have to continue to feed myself with positivity. I’m like the peace lily plant we have at the corner of our apartment (pictured above). It wilts when it needs to be watered. A few hours after I water it, it always perks up again.