Almost a year

It's been almost a year since I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety. My story started a long time before that, but Oct 31, 2016 was the day I actually went to the doctor.


I had been worried about my headaches, upset stomach, and overall lack of energy or desire to do the things I needed to do. I still remember my first reaction after the doctor asked, "Would you be open to looking at treatments for depression?" I scored high above the cutoff for clinical anxiety and clinical depression, and still I was shocked.

I didn't think it was really so bad. I knew I wasn't really doing very well, and that I was struggling with coming to college and having to motivate myself to do homework. But I thought everyone had it that hard. I thought that those were normal feelings. I thought everyone was going through constantly thinking, "Maybe I'm not good enough. Maybe I wasn't meant to succeed at this, and I need to give up." But I thought that if I just kept going, it would get better. I didn't think I needed help, I thought it was just the things around me that were wrong. Maybe I needed to take fewer hours of classes, so that I wasn't overloaded. Maybe I was failing since I hadn't written everything down in my yearly planner. Maybe I wasn't doing very well because I couldn't find good meals in the dining hall that both sounded yummy and were actually healthy. Sometimes I just wouldn't eat because I couldn't find something reasonably delicious and nutritious.

Was it my fault? Should I have just eaten the lukewarm oatmeal and oily pizza and pushed through like every other poor college student with only the dining hall for food?

But I was having trouble just pushing through. I didn't want to get up in the morning, and my back was always hurting. I didn't have any energy, and I'd take naps every time I got home from classes at around 4 PM. Without fail. I fell asleep on my friends' couch at their house off campus when I visited them on weekends, and I'd take a nap after church and lie in bed with my mind running and running. My friend was pretty sure it was an iron deficiency. So she encouraged me to go to the doctor, and that Sunday, I decided to go to campus at 7:30 to get into a walk-in doctor visit when the clinic opened at 8 AM, on Monday morning..

I was about the fourth in line, and we all sat outside the door for a while waiting, as more people lined up. I could tell that a lot of them were sick, and some of them were on sports teams and they needed a note because of an injury. A girl had an ice pack or something taped to her knee.

After the doors opened and we lined up to put our names down, I sat in the waiting room. When they called my name and I went back, the nurse asked all the questions. Purely from my answers of my symptoms, she and the doctor decided to give me the test. It was double-sided, one side for depression and one for anxiety (and, because it wasn't labeled, I didn't know what it was until they told me.) After she scored my paper, she posed the question. "Would you be open to looking at treatments for depression?"

They were going to do a blood test, they were going to make sure it wasn't an iron deficiency like my friend thought, or a blood sugar problem like what I have in my family history. But still, everything pointed to depression and anxiety.

Later, in March of this year, I got a full psychological testing done, and discovered the three main disorders that I was struggling with: Major Depression Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and Panic Disorder.

As I type this, my fingers stumble over the word 'disorder' as it's not one I write often. 'Illness' isn't a normal one, either. I write things like 'smiley face' and 'popcorn' and 'macaroni and cheese.' I thought I was normal, or, at least, pretty close to normal. I thought everybody had these dark thoughts and feeling of worthlessness. I didn't know that adulthood was supposed to be any better than that. But when the doctor showed me irrevocable evidence that I was actually supposed to be doing better, and that life could be more than just trying to get through the day, I cried. Getting diagnosed with depression and anxiety gave me hope.

I had hope that with medication, therapy, and time, my life could be so much better. The things I'd been doing to ease my anxiety and soothe my depression hadn't given me hope. Sleeping all the time, procrastinating on work, isolating myself from the outside world and from my friends: none of these gave me any hope. In fact, I learned that it made things worse.

My path has been kind of rough these past few years. I tried practicing tennis once, and with all the balls coming at me at once, it was too hard to try to bat them all back over the net. I covered my face with the racket to protect myself, and all the tennis balls went bouncing by, missing me. I find this image is pretty metaphorical for how I dealt with stress.

In 2013, coming back to the States in itself was a huge change. And that's not to mention moving to a tiny town in AZ and going to a public high school for the first time, as well as getting my driving permit the very week we arrived, and starting driving lessons. I started learning French horn, reputably the most difficult brass instrument in a high school band. I didn't know anyone at the school, and I just sat with people who I didn't really understand or get along with during lunch. I was hit with so much, all at once. I had a bad relationship that ended poorly, a breakup through instant message. That was a hard blow.

And then, in 2015, moving out to go to college, having problems keeping on task and motivated to turn things in on time, getting stuck in more relationship struggles... Too many things were thrown at me, and my attempts to shield myself from the attack of tennis balls only made all the opportunities for growth fall to the ground. I couldn't catch any of them, I couldn't hit any of them over the net, and I couldn't even keep my eyes open to watch as they came flying at me. I was desperate to protect myself, because too many times, when I'd been optimistic about catching it, the tennis balls had hit me in the face. I took on a lot of guilt and shame for my failures, and I let it drag me down.

But finding out that I didn't have to struggle, that I didn't have to go through the dark alone, it was a shining light in my cave of weary sadness. The hope of healing was a warm torch that I followed, eyes open and hands outstretched.

I'm not out of the woods yet, and it's still pretty bleak if I look behind me. I can still see the darkness of the cave and the shadows of the mountain I got lost in, if I keep my eyes behind. But when I look ahead, through the mist, I see a light and a happiness that doesn't depend on my surroundings and the events that unfold. When I keep my eyes on Christ, I know that He doesn't have a depressing future planned for me. While it might be difficult to imagine that such a great change could ever occur, that a path that went through the shadow of death could lead anywhere good, I know that in light of eternity, nothing is wasted. No hurt or pain is ever for nothing. God's plan incorporates every single resource, and everything we go through ends up serving His kingdom. Maybe my struggles will help me to love people more. Maybe my fears that I overcome will help me to be patient with others who are still living in fear. Maybe, if I let the scars of my past show, I can lead more people to the hope that I have found.

This story isn't over. It used to be a story of realizing that the world wasn't perfect, and that it could really hurt sometimes. Right now, it's a story about tears of pain turning to tears of healing. Maybe someday it will be about laughter and confidence and undeniable joy. But I do hope that along the way, I don't forget that God knows where my story will go. He will guard me and protect me, and only let certain hard things through that I need to conquer in order to grow.

Why is it so hard to remember that?