Trying

A year ago today, my parents came and picked me up, and took me home from the hospital. On August 25th, the second day of the Fall semester, my thesis advisor and general mentor, Dr. Hoffman, put his day aside, and took me to Southeast Hospital in Cape Girardeau. He spent hours with me in the ER, as doctors, nurses, and a social worker came in and out of the room. And then he went upstairs with me to the psych ward, and stayed with me until they made him leave. He called my parents, to tell them I was in the hospital, and he and his wife came back that night to visit, and bring me clothes, which I had not brought with me.

I was in the midst of a very deep, suicidal depression. The breakup I had been dealing with, and the way it had been handled by him, the lack of information and integrity and willingness to take responsibility (and funny enough, I didn't even know just how bad all that was for another few weeks, but it was already bad), the lies he had told his friends and our mutual friends...his refusal to work on things, or even talk them out, despite my complete willingness to do so...it had all taken its toll on me. This was the hardest thing I found myself ever having dealt with. Nothing- not my brother's death, not my loss of the ability to play the piano, not my years being kept in a cult- had been that awful for me. Absolutely nothing. I just didn't want to go on living. I was done.

The doctor and staff at the hospital kept telling me that my life had value. That I was worth something. That I would be missed if I died. In contrast to my previous depressions, I knew all that. Reading the Divergent series really did change my life. It showed me my worth and value as a person. And in the nearly 3 years since then, that hasn't wavered. I remember one day during a group discussion, expressing my frustration. The recreational therapist was asking us how we were going to prepare for success once we got out. How were we going to avoid going back into the hospital? Everyone else in the hospital, the whole time I was there, without exception, had all made destructive choices in their lives, that they were reaping the consequences of. I was the only one who had never had a substance abuse problem. I was the only one with any kind of college degree. I was one of the only ones who had never been in trouble with the law. I was the only person there who had never been in the psych ward before, and I was the only person who, in general, lived a functional life on a day-to-day basis. Even the doctor and therapists had told be that I was the exception to the people they saw go through the psych ward on a regular basis. They said that every once in a while, they got someone like me. And that I wasn't there because I was unhealthy, like everyone else. I was one of the few people who went through there precisely because I was healthy. I recognized a problem and got help in solving the problem. I wasn't there so people could patch me up and do damage control, so I could go out and keep being dysfunctional. I was there so I could get help getting better. One of the social workers told me, in our one on one, that she was actually really surprised and impressed by me. She said that she had encountered cult survivors before. And they're usually attention seeking and difficult to deal with. She said I was the most well-adjusted cult survivor she had ever met. And that I would do so well in life.

But all of that was part of my frustration. If I was in that deep depression and in the hospital because I had screwed up my life, then there would be something I could do to fix the problem. I remember when I had my bad car accident in October of 2014, I was upset more because I hadn't done anything wrong, than anything else. There had been literally nothing I could have done to avoid that accident. I was rear-ended by someone going above the speed limit while waiting for someone else to turn left. I was a sitting duck. I was frustrated, because there wasn't anything I could do to avoid that happening again. And I was feeling exactly the same way here again. I was born with Anxiety and Autism. I was given PTSD four times over, by siblings who tormented (no really, that's the correct word) me, classmates who tormented me because of my Autism, and by my parents who put me in a cult for 9 years and subjected me to abuse, and even abused me themselves. As a result of those three things, I wound up with Persistent Depressive Disorder, with an early onset. I was born with multiple health issues exacerbated by my traumatic early life. I was a good kid, I earnestly sought God, I (usually) happily obeyed my authorities, I did well in school, I tried to follow the social rules I could never quite figure out. When things at home and in the cult became so toxic I couldn't really function anymore, I took responsibility for my own well-being and left home against my parents' wishes. When my PTSD became disruptive, I took responsibility and got help. I fought through years of illness-both mental and physical- to get through college, even though I didn't think I could. When I got my Celiac diagnosis, I took responsibility for my health and changed my diet. I got through grad school, I took on lots of extra jobs to make more money because I didn't make much. I followed the rules. I took risks when I had to. Bottom line, I made good decisions. I remember being there in the hospital- and the months after- feeling so frustrated, because I was the epitome of the good girl. I didn't screw up. I had never in my life done anything to cause anything more than marginal inconveniences for myself or anyone else. Even my parents agree with this. And yet, I had PTSD four times over because of things other people had done to me. And here I was in the hospital, because of the horrible depression I was in because of what someone else had done.

And I was just done. What was the point? Why keep trying? Why keep doing everything I'm supposed to do, when it all gets screwed up anyway? Why keep fighting so hard? It didn't seem to be getting me far.

I still don't have much of an answer to that. I got out of the hospital, and kept doing what I do: making good choices. Surviving. Making my way. I was only in Cape that Fall as long as I absolutely had to be in order to do my job. I spent the weekends out of town. And as soon as I could, I got the hell out of Dodge. I left it all behind and moved a thousand miles away. Literally. I took responsibility for my own life. So far, it has worked out. Things are definitely better than they were. I made the right choices. But it's still rough. I still struggle with everything that happened. I still struggle with wondering when the other shoe is going to drop. Because, in my experience, it always does.

I still have nightmares. I still find myself crying on occasion. I still find myself incredibly confused. But I keep going. Sometimes, I'm not even sure why. I think that's just who I am. Like it or not, I'm a fighter. I'm a survivor. I don't allow myself to be victimized. And above all, I'm Dauntless. That doesn't mean I don't get scared or discouraged or angry at things out of my control. What it does mean, though, is that I keep fighting through all of those things. It's how I have always been, and I suppose it's how I'll always be. Sometimes I wish it wasn't. Sometimes, it gets so tiring. Maybe there's a good reason for all of it, maybe that's just how the chips fell. Regardless, I'll keep going. And I hope, someday, I see it really pay off. For me, or for someone else.