Countless
times I have contemplated sharing this personal experience, and
countless times I have concluded that it is much too draining of an
ordeal for me to try and express such a dark time in my life. But,
more often than not, people approach me about their own personal
struggles with depression and I feel compelled to share my story. So
here I sit with a pressing weight on my shoulders and apprehension in
my gut, but a determination to share my story of depression, mental
illness, and most importantly, of faith. The spirit compels me on,
therefore I must conclude that it will be of some benefit to
somebody, somewhere.
“The
greatest battle of life is fought within the silent chambers of your
own soul.”
-President
David O. McKay
Growing
up I was often surrounded by people struggling with depression. In my
ignorance and pride, as someone who had yet to struggle with it
personally, I thought that depression was simply a choice one made. I
thought that each individual had the power to decide if they were
going to allow themselves to be depressed or not. Snap
out of it, I often
thought, and at times may have even voiced that sentiment. I have
come to regret that way of thinking now. Maybe part of my particular
trial was learning humility. I can honestly say that now, I do not
hold to those same views.
It
wasn't until I was 21 that the first stirrings of depression began
making their way into my life. Well perhaps that's not exactly the
best way to describe it. If I'm going to be honest, I will have to
admit that my depression pretty much hit me full force, head on, the
moment I entered the MTC in preparation for my mission call to serve
in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The two weeks I spent there learning
about the Gospel and how to effectively teach it were hard. I often
attributed the strange and sudden appearance of my depression to the
adversary trying to thwart me from serving a mission. In hindsight, I
still fully believe that was true.
I
remember perfectly my first night in Pittsburgh. My trainer had spent
the day taking me out and showing me the ropes. We ended the day by
tracting in a residential neighborhood full of families. It was dark
as we knocked on doors and people were angry at the intrusion. They
were upset that we dared knock on their doors so late at night,
intruding on their bedtime and nightly rituals. And of course they
were generally just angry because us
Mormon's had the
audacity to come to their homes and try to preach to them. I soon
learned that missionary's for the church were not well received in
Pittsburgh.
Growing
up in Utah, I had a different ideal of what a mission would be like,
of how a missionary would be received. I did not except such a cold,
uncomfortable welcome in my field of labor. I was shocked and more
than a little upset as we drove back to our apartment. That night as
I was praying I had an intensely spiritual experience with my Savior,
followed immediately by a very real and personal experience with the
adversary. It shook me to my core. To this day, I don't speak of the
details to many people. It seemed to set a tone for my entire
mission, in fact, for my entire life. From that point forward, I felt
as if a legion of demons surrounded me, trying desperately to pull me
down.
These
feelings were so foreign to me, so painful. Everyday was a chore, a
battle to live. I had to convince myself daily to stay on my mission,
to stay faithful to what I knew was true. After a time, I began to
become bitter, I couldn't understand why I felt the way I did. I was
at the my righteous peak; I was giving every single hour of every
single day in service to the Lord. Why wasn't that enough? Why would
God do this to me?
In
my last area I hit my lowest point. At times I even questioned if
there was a God. If there was, and He really loved me, why was I
suffering so? I hated myself, I hated the constant feeling of
darkness and hopelessness that enshrouded me. I was quite literally
in pain. But eventually I became numb, and that was a whole new level
of scariness. I was past feeling.
I
suffered somewhat of a nervous breakdown in my last area. My
companion and mission president had no idea that there was even a
problem. I was reminded by my mission president that I was one of
their hardest working missionaries. My mission president eventually
helped me to seek out an LDS counselor. I began seeing her but we
never fully clicked. She said that she thought that I possibly
suffered from mild depression, that nothing was really wrong. But
inside I was dying. I knew that it wasn't normal to have such low
moments in my life, such worthless feelings. The feeling wasn't
always constant—sometimes I would feel fine, then at others I would
feel low. My moods shifted so quickly and rapidly and for seemingly
no reason at all. How could she possibly think nothing was wrong?
I
never did get any help or understanding on my mission, but I was able
to serve honorably to the very end. I desperately hoped that once I
got home, I would go back to normal, that I would feel like me again.
I wish I could say that was how my story ended, but the feelings of
depression and worthlessness increased once I got home. It took
everything in me to talk to my dad about what I was experiencing. He
suggested I see a counselor once more. I scheduled an appointment and
met once again with a stranger to discuss my innermost feelings. At
the end of the session, he diagnosed me with mild depression, said
that I didn't need medication and basically sent me on my way.
Another
piece of me died inside. It took literally everything I had to reach
out and seek for help and twice now, I had been turned away, brushed
off. I knew the feelings I had couldn't simply be explained away by a
'mildly depressed' diagnosis. Why couldn't anyone, even
professionals, see what was wrong? I felt completely hopeless as I
fought, arms flailing, trying to reach for a lifeline that would keep
me from sinking, but there was none there. At this time of great
darkness, I received a letter from some missionaries still serving in
Pittsburgh with ill intent. They accused me of being a bad missionary
and other such things. It broke my heart. I was not perfect, but
despite the turbulent depression I had been trying to function in, I
honestly can say I tried my hardest. In fact, I struggled with
extreme perfectionism on my mission, which only added to my feelings
of despair. I wanted so desperately for those missionaries to
understand that I was fighting against something more powerful than
their words, but I knew I could never explain. Instead, it just added
to my feelings of worthlessness and made me angry.
One
day, out of the blue, I got a phone call from my Stake President. He
said that ever since I had returned home from my mission he'd had me
on his mind. He asked if I would come to his office and meet with
him. I agreed. When I got there he said that he got the impression
that something was wrong, that something had happened to me on my
mission, that I had gone through something that most people don't
usually go through. I recounted the incident I had with the adversary
my first night in Pittsburgh. He asked me a few more questions
regarding the incident then asked if he could give me a blessing. I
readily agreed.
Tears
poured down my face as this humble man of God, a man that knew almost
nothing about me and my trials, placed his hands upon my head and
bestowed upon me a blessing of healing. He told me that I would be
cured of my depression. It was the first time I recall feeling hope.
I was optimistic that I would walk out of that office a new woman, a
woman free of depression. That didn't happen. If anything, the
symptoms only escalated. I fasted, I poured my heart out to God to
help me understand what was wrong with me, I went to the Temple
often. I was looking for answers in all of the right places, yet
there were none.
Several
months passed by before my sister and I moved down to Provo. We were
excited for this new adventure in our lives. I was hoping that the
change of environment would prove a blessing. Since my mission, I had
been prompted to move to Provo. When my admittance to BYU was
rejected, I thought maybe I wasn't really supposed to go there, but
several experiences and prompting reassured me that I was.
I
remember the day I went and registered for classes at UVU. It took
everything I had in me to go to campus and sign up for my classes. It
was as if I had run a marathon. The dark, hopeless, depression was
becoming more of a constant companion. People irritated me,
socializing drained me, and even little things would send me over the
edge. I was called to be the Relief Society President of my single's
ward, a job I was excited and willing to accept. I hoped that if I
just served more, was more righteous, that eventually I would be
cured. Yet none of those things seemed to be the antidote. I begin to
grow bitter once more. Hadn't I received a blessing from God that I
would be healed? Why wasn't I being healed? Anger and bitterness
warred with the depression, causing an almost lethal combination.
I
finally reached a snapping point. One day I was laying in my bed in
my empty apartment. I couldn't muster up the strength or desire to do
anything, even live. In fact, I had even notified the school that I
was dropping out, before I had even started, because I knew there was
no way I could be a student in my current condition. As I lay
wallowing in the pain and agony of my soul, I came to the conclusion
that there were only two options left for me; admit myself to a
mental hospital, or commit suicide. I had literally hit rock bottom.
I found myself driving to the nearest hospital, unsure of what I was
going to do or say, but knowing I needed help and I needed it now. I
walked into the hospital's mental ward, went to the front desk and
told them I needed to admit myself. The receptionist looked at me
strangely before telling me to go home and call my doctor. I was
devastated. It had taken everything left of my soul to take myself
there and ask for help and here I was being rejected.
I
don't even remember driving home, but I can almost guarantee I was
crying. Holed up once more in my dark room, I pulled out a phone
book. The task seemed enormous and I wasn't sure I even wanted to
attempt it. But something compelled me onward. I called the first
doctor only to get the office's answering machine. My fingers shook
as I hung up the phone. Maybe that was my answer. I decided to try
one more. The next doctor's office said they could see me the
following day. I scheduled the appointment and hung up the phone,
still feeling determined. How can you tell someone who is barely
hanging on to life to wait another day. Another day may as well have
been eternity.
Walking
into Dr. Olsen's office that day, I knew that this was my last
attempt at seeking help. The answers I did or did not get that day
would be final. I was apprehensive to talk to a therapist who wasn't
LDS. I sat down on her couch and started telling her what I was going
through. Literally within minutes she said, “You have bipolar 2.”
I didn't understand what that meant, but relief flooded over me at
finally having an answer to what was going on with me.
Dr.
Olsen went on to explain that unlike people with traditional bipolar
who experience extreme ups and extreme downs, a person with bipolar2
only gets the extreme downs with mild ups in between. She explained
to me the cycles of emotions, and I could identify with all of it. I
had spent the last several months rapid cycling, meaning I would
volley back and forth between both extreme emotions
rapidly...sometimes hundreds of times during the course of a day. No
wonder I was physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted. She
then prescribed me medication.
I
drove to the Walmart pharmacy immediately after my appointment,
feeling relieved that I had finally gotten an answer. I picked up my
prescription and began taking it immediately. From the moment I took
that first pill, I was changed. The rapid thoughts cycling through my
brain ceased and my spirit felt peace for the first time in as long
as I could remember.
I
can't say that was the end of my story, of my experience with mental
illness, because in many ways it was just the beginning of a lifetime
journey. After talking to numerous people with mental illness and
sharing our experiences, I came to learn how incredibly fortunate I
was to find a medicine that worked for me so quickly and so well. It
wasn't until many years later when I was discussing my disease and
the management of it with my OBGYN during my pregnancy with my son
that I truly realized what a miracle it was. I had progressed to a
point where I no longer had to take the medication daily. For the
last several years I have been able to take it on an “as needed”
basis. As I was explaining this to her she stopped me and said,
“First off, I want you to know how odd it is that your doctor would
prescribe you that particular pill for bipolar 2, it's almost unheard
of. Second off, I want to tell you that everything I know from my
training and my medical profession tells me that it should not work
the way it works for you.”
She
wasn't telling me this to condemn me, but rather, she spoke the words
in awe. It was at that appointment that I truly came to know how big
of a hand my Heavenly Father had in curing me. I used to think the
only way I would be cured was to have my disease removed from me, but
I have since learned that sometimes God cures us by giving us the
tools we need to survive, to thrive.
Over
the years my symptoms have lessened considerably. During both of my
pregnancies I was able to go completely off the medication so as not
to harm my unborn children. Sometimes I forget that I have a mental
illness, and sometimes I can't see past it. The first few years of
marriage were hard, my husband had a hard time understanding what I
was going through. Looking back I realize that was a pattern in my
illness. I think I became really good at keeping a solid, composed
front whilst inside I was literally dying. I think that's what makes
mental illness so hard for people to understand. Often times it's the
“normal” looking people you associate with on a regular basis
that are crying the loudest on the inside, that are in a place of
such complete darkness and self loathing that they feel there is no
way out.
Sometimes
depression is a product of our lifestyles. Poor choices and sin,
whether on our part or the part of others, can lead to feelings of
despair. And other times, it's out of our control, it is literally
caused by chemical imbalances in the brain and nothing you say,
nothing you do, will fix it. I had erroneously thought that if I
could just be righteous enough, I would be healed.
It
was during my darkest days, months, and years that I came to know
firsthand that the healing power of the atonement is real. My Savior
was standing beside me more than I ever knew. I know that it was He
that directed me to the right place at the right time in my life so
that I could find the right doctor to diagnose me and prescribe me
with the exact medication that my body needed to function correctly.
I feel that Dr. Olsen was guided and inspired as well.
I
now look on people with mental illness and those who suffer with
depression with such compassion and empathy, not disdain. I know that
when the Savior lay suffering, bleeding in the Garden of Gethsemane
that He felt the awful chains of hell that had wrapped themselves
around my soul, that He felt perfectly what I was going through and
therefore knows how to succor me perfectly. I know that I was given
this trial for a reason. I can honestly say that the things I have
learned as a result have changed me into a better person. I also know
that my trial wasn't meant for me alone. My husband had to go through
his own journey as well as he learned to live with a spouse affected
by mental illness. He has become a more loving, understanding person.
I literally could not live without his love and his support.
I
know that there are more people than we can even know who are
currently suffering through these inner battles, that are crying
inside like I was for somebody to offer them relief. I pray that we
can all be a little more kind, a little more loving, a little less
judgmental, to ourselves and to others, for we never know the battles
that are raging within another's soul. Only God does, and I promise
you He loves those children of His dearly.
