History: I have struggled with mental illness for the past eight years. Depression has been the primary issue, but at varying times, I’ve been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder, ED-NOS, Anorexia Nervosa, and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. From ’02–’05, I cut myself; from ’08–present, I abused alcohol; in January of this year I took up self-injury again. I have been hospitalized eight times, six of which occurred last year. I have been on and off almost all currently marketed anti-depressants, and I underwent several months of (ultimately unsuccessful) electroconvulsive therapy (ECT). Writing novels has been a part of my life since age eleven, and I have noticed a strong correlation between how much I work on writing and how well I am, mentally. Things were going better until very recently, when a traumatic incident shook me. Badly.
Now: I am currently taking Lithium, Celexa, and Remeron for depression and Lamictal for epilepsy. I see a psychiatrist about once a month and a therapist once a week. My therapist is very nice, but for whatever reason, I’m not completely honest with her. I feel disconnected from everything and avoid social interactions because they make me quite uncomfortable. I’m on constant edge, wary of everything. Sometimes at night, when I’m alone, I hear “phantom” music—it’s as if someone were playing loud rock at my neighbor’s house, although I’m virtually positive that isn’t the case. I also see “phantom” objects, or else movement; that is, I have the sense a book I’m reading is wobbling/tilting/sliding, but I can also tell that it isn’t, or I’ll see an invisible cube twisting in the air. (I realize that “invisible” means exactly that—not able to be seen—but it feels like I’m seeing it anyway.) I have constant dull aches in my head and stomach, sometimes my chest, and am always tired—like I have a slight flu that has lingered at ~30% strength since the incident. My self-respect has dissolved into nothing, as has my self-worth. I was once confident enough in my writing to be seeking in-depth criticism and even publication, but now, I can’t stand looking at the things I’ve written, much less writing new things, without feeling like a fraud, an impostor in the literary world. Because of the ECT, I have lost many memories from the near and far past, which makes me feel in some ways like an impostor in the person who is supposedly me. Given the way I’m withdrawing from the people around me, I’m beginning to consider the idea that it might be better for everyone if I just ended it cleanly here. I’ve been up and down so many times that it feels like I’m not meant to be really Okay, you know? And what’s the point in dragging it out if that’s the case? The fact is, some depression just isn’t treatable; I’m no longer a remotely productive member of society or a positive force in the lives of the people I theoretically love.
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