I Have A Secret

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.