Diagnosed, Part 1

I was about sixteen years old when I was diagnosed.

I always knew there was something different about me.  My emotions were extreme and intense, whether it was anger, sadness or excitement.  These emotions can be perfectly normal for a child as children often lack the ability to control their emotions while their brains are still developing.

I reached a point in high school when I knew I needed help.  The emotional pain I was feeling was overwhelming.  I felt like I was suffocating and control had been lost for some time.  I was scared to tell my parents I needed help, I was afraid of letting them down, of disappointing them in some way.  I didn’t want them to know that I was falling apart.

I remember sitting on my mom’s bed crying.  I remember the TV was on; news I think.  She was getting ready for bed; her nightly routine.  I don’t think she understood what I meant at first when I told her I needed help.  I don’t think I understood what I needed when I first asked for help.  That night I opened the door to my pain, just a crack, as I tried to explain my feelings to my mother.

My parents wasted no time in getting me an appointment with a professional.  It helped that one of my father’s closest friends from high school was a psychiatrist. It all began getting very real.

I was so confused, I felt nauseous, I thought both my head and my heart might explode at any moment.  What if there’s something really wrong with me?  How am I supposed to open up to my dad’s friend about the things that are tearing me apart inside?  It was hard enough telling my mom that I was losing it, I don’t think I can tell a complete stranger!  I’m not crazy.  Maybe I am crazy!  This can’t be happening.  I just want this pain to go away.

I was scared, to say the least.  Some of the things I was thinking, and writing in my journals, were frightening and potentially harmful to others.  I struggled with peers at school, I hesitate to say I was bullied because I know people who had it far worse than I did, but it was brutal enough.  My sister was equally cruel, if not more so, which meant home was not emotionally ‘safe’ either.  So I wrote down ways I wanted to harm my tormentors, it was the only space I had control over.  I am not proud to admit that, but I made a promise to always be honest on this blog. Although I knew about doctor-patient confidentiality, part of me feared that my doctor would tell my dad what I said in our sessions because they were friends.

Try to imagine all of these thoughts, emotions, and fears building in the mind of a sixteen-year-old girl awaiting her first appointment with a psychiatrist!  I was already so confused, I was sure nobody understood what I was going through, and my emotions felt like shards of glass ripping me to pieces from the inside out.

It was too late to turn back, I was about to find out what ’getting help’ meant.  But knowing what I know now, I wonder how my life might have progressed had I not asked for that ‘help’.   

That concludes Part 1 (of 4)

To Be Continued…

The following will take you directly to Part 2

NanoPoblano2015 | NaBloPoMo15
Day 10

25 thoughts on “Diagnosed, Part 1

  1. Your post is emotionally raw and AMAZING. Beautifully written! It brought tears to my eyes knowing I was not the only one. I know it must be hard to write such pure honesty. I am looking forward to reading the entire story. Thank you for being you and sharing something that will impact readers like myself. You have inspired me!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Reading this causes me some pain because when I was 16 I needed help but didn’t get it. I am however intrigued to read what you have to share next. Psych treatment through the eyes of a 16 yr old. Thanks for sharing your story. ☺

    Liked by 2 people

    • It’s hard to know how to ask for help when you’re that young, and it is very scary. I thought ‘help’ meant I would be able to gain control over my emotions and face the world again. I won’t go into any more detail as there are three more parts coming out, but I really do wonder where my life might be if I hadn’t taken that first step.


    • Thanks, Pete 🙂 It was emotionally labor intensive and by the end of part 4 many tears had been shed. I’m pretty sure it’s put me into a serious funk :/ I needed to write it, I’m glad I wrote it, and now it’s time to find a way to accept my own truth.

      Liked by 1 person

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