#I just found out I’m probably bipolar and my antidepressants have been fucking me up for years and then I switched to new meds but I didn’t

[gatesofember]

Do you know when you will update the original clichecore au?

I am a deeply unstable person so no

[wlovefromemo2000s]

And my Scars Remind Me that the Past is Real...

One day, you’re 18 and experiencing the joys of life for the first time. My first love, came just weeks after I turned 18. I gave him my number on a waitress’ note, signed with my nickname and a heart. He kept that piece of paper in his wallet for the entirety of our relationship. He was four years older, having graduated college when I graduated high school. A four year age gap is cake to me these days. Back then, it was difficult. Not being able to go to bars with your boyfriend? I had no idea what a bar was even like. Insecurity rang through my body. Top it off with the tolls of long distance on a fledgling relationship. Everything I had prayed for, everything I had imagined my soulmate be. The same taste in music, the hobby of stargazing. One moment, you think you’ve found the love of your life.

The first year passed, blissfully enjoying one another, with the presents of the firsts. First Thanksgiving, first Christmas, first sleepover. I’ll never forget when it really started to turn. An August evening, I had just come back from being on vacation with my family. His brother had a show that he was going to...it was at a strip club. He said the event was 21+...it was actually 18+. I could have gone. He didn’t tell me to come after he had found out it was 18+. I was annoyed because he hadn’t even bothered to find out if I could come. I was excited to see him after being a week away. already having suffered from anxiety and depression after my first year four hours away. My ego had suffered from poor grades, something I did not struggle with until I was in college. I had to reconsider my whole dream of being a doctor. That whole year, while blissful, was filled with anxiety. It’s crazy to think that at that time, I had no idea I was suffering from anxiety and depression. My entire life was changing before my eyes. This wasn’t according to plan. 

Getting back to the story of where it began to turn. He was supposed to pick me up at 10:30. He didn’t pick me up until 1 to spite me. He was angry with me for being mad that he didn’t know it was 18+. I was weak to his grip. I went down to his mother’s with him at 1:30 am, even though it was already so late and I was angry. I stared out the window, listening to Jack Mannequin’s Dark Blue on repeat with my headphones in my ears. His way of making it up to me was getting those chicken bites from Burger King on the way home.

This was the beginning of the end. That next year, I went back to college. I would secretly return home to spend weekends with him. He lived in a one bedroom apartment with his roommate and roommate’s girlfriend. Yes, they shared a room. The apartment was super small. I was eating ice cream out of the carton in his living room. The next thing I know, I am berated by his roommate. Apparently, the way I ate off the spoon was annoying and rather triggering. Having already been on the edge from my undiagnosed depression and anxiety, I had a panic attack. I had a mental breakdown. I was suicidal annd wanted nothing more than to not exist in that moment. I had never felt so small....It brought me back to the feeling that I used to get when my dad would berate me.

Having such a hardcore reaction to being berated, his roommate started to talk about how he thought I was bipolar. He had no idea what I had been through, and no self awareness to see that there was no need for such a reaction. Looking back now, I would have screamed at him and gone home. My boyfriend did nothing.

My boyfriend’s brother picked up on how insecure I was. My boyfriend probably told him. He would tell me things like my boyfriend was going to fuck any girl I was insecure of. Coworkers, people that he knew. My boyfriend did nothing.

My boyfriend’s brother shoved my face into the staircase, after telling me I should strip for a living. “You would make a lot of money because you’re thick.” My boyfriend did nothing.

My boyfriend would go to lunch with his female coworker. His brother told me that she was hot. I looked through his phone. Flirty texts, but nothing incriminating enough to break up.

A Punta Cana trip. Twenty of his friends. Day 2 and my phone isn’t working. I use his to contact my loved ones and tell them I’m safe. I get the inclination to look through the phone. A deep dive search. It’s 3 am and he’s knocked out. Texts to a woman off of craigslist. Phone calls and a burner phone. She had sent him a picture of her tits. He had sent her a picture of his face. I’m not sure what panned out, as the texts ended abruptly followed by some mysterious phone calls. I screamed at him. I broke the glass table in our room. I had made him tell his entire family what he did. I said some of the worst things I have ever said in my life. I felt captive, stuck in a miserable place. I did not know what to do. Do I tell my parents? They had paid for me to go on the trip. I didn’t want them to pay for me to come home early. He offers to leave. I do not want to stay on this trip alone with his friends. His friend’s sister was my saving grace. She was fun to hang out with and after I found out he cheated on me, they had offered for me to stay with them. Again, I felt captive. It was my own problem and I had to solve it. I quickly encountered Stockholm Syndrome, having to spend every waking minute with him for the next week. 

I had no idea what to do after that. I obviously didn’t trust him. I was sexting other men behind his back, having no loyalty after what he had done. I had told his mother what a piece of shit he was when I was drunk. I was a mess. I was my worst self. At 20, I had gained thirty pounds over the course of a year. I had to change majors, entire career paths. And I was dealing with my boyfriend and the bullies he surrounded himself with. I had never in my life felt so alone. Looking back, I can’t believe that I made it to this point. I’ll never forget, end of sophomore year. I was at my lowest point and my great grandmother reached out to me through my dreams. The girl I was then would be so proud of the woman I am today.

I’m so thankful for my friends. My best friend from elementary school had saved me in a time of need. A college party, where she asked me if I would ever be able to trust him again. I couldn’t. I would hook up with my old best friend that night, knowing that I was going to break up with my boyfriend. The next day, I went to spend the rest of the weekend with him. He knew something was up. I told him we should break up the day I go back to college. He said okay. I never went back.

I’m sitting here at the age of 25. That was 5 years ago. How far I’ve come..truly. I followed the career path I had chosen. I made new friends my junior year. Many who are my best friends today. The women around me showed me acceptance and love. There was no judgment. I was one of them now, single with the world at my fingers.

I have a great job now. I have my best friends. I have never been stronger. I was diagnosed with anxiety and depression. Recently, I went on antidepressants. I go to therapy. The combination saved my life. I’m moving to an apartment I only ever dreamed of living in. I’m thirty pounds lighter, some of my healthiest years. My dating life is abundant. I’m fortunate to have options. It has been hard to trust again, I won’t lie. I’ve been trying to better myself. I had to work to find the self love that I had lost in that relationship. Only recently have I been able to be content being alone with myself. I’ve had to restructure my image of men. I don’t know what exactly clicked in the last year, or maybe it was the antidepressants, but I’m finally happy. I look forward to the weekends to spend time with my best friends. I enjoy going to work. My workouts and my diet fuel me. I’m proud of myself.

[jenroses]

So I got my 23&me results back, no great surprises in the ancestry department (not why I got the test done)... honestly it’s one of the most unambiguous results I’ve seen... there are like a million youtube videos of people being astonished by their ethnic heritage. You don’t see many 100%... mine came back 100% European, of which 50% is Ashkenazi Jewish. About 1/4 British Isles and 1/4 “broadly” mostly western and northern European.

More rambling about the results behind the cut, including a large picture of my eyeball, and a couple of pictures of me during my cute phase. 

Funnier is the part in “traits” where I am unlikely to have red hair, probably have lighter hair and my eyes are expected to be darker.  This is my hair when I was a teenager (also, 97% better prom dress and hair than most people circa 1990):

While I spent much of my adult life applying henna to get it back to that color, it was definitely quite red. 

This was taken outside (Also, I had like 10 minutes in 1990 when I was pretty good at performing femininity. This was my first SCA event, in borrowed garb.)

And of course, my eyes... which are not darker. Dad’s eyes are a very dark hazel, which he will never admit to, he says they’re just brown. Mom’s eyes are grey-blue. I would call these medium to light hazel, but IDK maybe the iris freckles average out? IDEK.

I’m also more likely to have straight or wavy hair.

I’m laughing about that one. 

This is before it all fell out. It is hennaed in this picture. That was my wedding day. To get those curls, I washed it, and conditioned it with a little leave-in and frizz-be-gone, and let it air dry hanging loose over a diffuser. It was not touched with curlers or a curling iron. Needless to say, it’s not straight. 

Nice things to know include that they didn’t find any of the variants they test for related to Alzheimers. They found one related to a slightly increased risk of Parkinsons (very slight) and a couple related to age-related macular degeneration which honestly doesn’t surprise me, my eyes were great while they lasted but fucking hell they’re frustrating now.

...

More interesting is what’s coming out of Promethease, which is a database of gene info which goes WAY more in depth to the medical stuff than 23&me can...

There we find out that I may have impaired warfarin metabolism (no shit sherlock! There’s a reason I’m on xarelto...) and impaired NSAID metabolism (I’m on actual steroids.)

Oh. No surprise on the FVL I was already diagnosed with, but I’m also homozygous for another gene mutation that causes a 4x increase in thrombophilia, and the two factors probably don’t help each other, which explains why I had 4 pulmonary embolisms.

Ha, Promethease found the red hair gene.

*snort* (or not)... good thing I don’t smoke, I have a gene that makes me more likely to get dependent on nicotine and less likely to get dependent on cocaine. (I couldn’t get addicted to ‘caine drugs if I tried, I’m a super fast processor, and they’re just...gone... before they have time to do much.)

Couple of genes make me higher risk for RA. Shocker. .... oh, and there’s another one. 

Wonder if the Ankylosing Spondiwhatsis gene is related to the EDS symptoms? Lots of people have both. I don’t have AS but do have EDS. 

Oh, nice, my switch to methyl b-vitamins is now justified. Am I shocked to find that I have a mthfr mutation? No I am not. I assumed I did, since my last kid was born with such a bad tongue tie.

And multiple genes that are associated with obesity. Shocker. Fuck you doctor who said I eat too many french fries. Good lord.

Higher risk of alcoholism... confirms things my parents told me. There’s a reason none of us drink much, by deliberate choice. 

Huh. This one I’m homozygous for the worst memory results... I’m curious about what they’re testing. I tend to have very good recall, to a point.

More abnormal drug processing in the liver. I’m stunned. Stunned, I tell you. Oh goddamn motherfucker, including Methotrexate, which I reacted SO badly to. Fuck. But wow I’m glad I told the asshole doctor who wanted me on phen-fen to fuck off.

 Huh. Significantly increased risk of cervical cancer. Good thing I don’t have a cervix anymore.

“Risk” of freckles? Please. I like my freckles. 

Wow. Okay.  rs10248420(A;A)7x less likely to respond to certain antidepressants  including paxil, celexa and amitryptaline, which explains a whole fucking goddamn lot.

Couple low-key risk factors for bipolar. 

Up to three bald genes, I think. 

And like six for Crohns so far. I don’t have that, yet.

Oh, there’s the Hashimotos... risk increase is relatively small but that means nothing since I have it.

Oh. The drug I’m on for RA, my genes don’t help me respond to it as much.

Motherfucker. I told them I didn’t process t3->t4 very well. Homozygously so.

And there’s the gut... more gut things....

Oh, look, I’m more likely to respond to Metformin (which I’m on, which I take a relatively low dose of.)

Fast caffeine metabolizer. That fits.

rs7816345(C;T)0.85x breast size (smaller breast size)  HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA *snort* this is one of those multifactoral things. 

Less mental decline with age. I’ll take that.

I cannot believe I just read the words,”caffeine will not make your breasts smaller”. Is that a thing? 

Ultra fast metabolizer of some drugs, including some antidepressants. 

Typical birthweight babies... given that within 3 days of birth pretty much all of my kids were about 8-ish pounds, that’s fair. 

Win some and lose some on the longevity. My grandmother lived to 101. I’ve got a couple genes in favor, a couple opposed. I guess we’ll find out if I get there.

Somewhat more likely to like staying up late... ha ha ha ha ha.

I mean, I shouldn’t be surprised that I’m homozygous for a big boob gene, but there you go.

... I actually have a gene that’s homozygously associated with a darker skin color? Is that possible?

Oh, this is funny. Apparently I have the cilantro-tastes-like soap gene, homozygously. I like cilantro. I can see what people mean about the soapy, but it tastes good to me? IDK.

In the “you learn new things every day” department, did you know that research has shown Saffron is effective at reversing the sexual dysfunction from SSRI anti-depressants? Me neither. I don’t take SSRI’s but my genotype is at higher risk of sexual side effects. 

Anyway. There’s so much information that it’s really daunting to try to parse, but yeah. We’ve got a couple of things to investigate, and I’m going to push hard for the kind of official genetic testing that looks at drug metabolism. Because I’ve been telling docs for years that drugs either work really well for me at low doses or not at all or I react terribly and that’s... accurate and reflected abundantly in my weirdo liver enzymes. 

[bakugou-ou]

Ik I'm anon and all, but I don't wanna get off it because the embarrassment would probably make it worse. I'm just tired of life… mines is pretty useless if you ask me, and according to everyone else who if ever met, I'm ugly too, I wouldn't kill myself because I'm too much of a coward to do that, but I don't know what I wanna do with my life and I can never be happy without someone ruining it That's why you and other creators' story helps me, it makes me think about my dram life I'll never get

Listen, friendo, whoever you are, you’re not ugly, and not useless. You don’t need to come off anon if you don’t want to, I get it. This is gonna get v personal here in a sec, so I’m putting the rest of this down under a cut in case no one gives a shit about my personal life and doesn’t wanna see my tragic anime backstory, but I’m sharing it with you because you said that you like my writing. This is the story of how I ended up running this blog, it’s got lots of talk about suicide, mentions of rape. It’s not pretty, so read at your own risk. Also, it’s long.

When I was four years old, I tried to jump off the balcony of my apartment, I wanted to die. It wasn’t a kid doing a stupid thing, I literally thought if I fall from this height and hit my head on the ground, I will die and then went for it. I fell onto a 7ft tall cinder block mailbox on the way down, four feet below my balcony, crawled off of it, and walked back upstairs to my parents like nothing had happened. 

What was wrong that someone barely past toddlerhood wanted to kill themselves over? I don’t know, maybe it was just that my parents were fighting all the time and hated each other, maybe it was because I have the genes for it. More on that last bit later.

When I was six, I tried to throw myself in front of a car, thinking that if a small child like myself got hit by a car going 25+ mph, I’d die. The driver hit the brakes, I played it off like I’d tripped into the road, no one knew how I really felt. When I’d told my parents I wanted to die, they thought I was being dramatic, they didn’t think a kid my age even knew what that meant, the finality of it. But I knew, and I craved it.

When I was eight, I tried to hang myself in my older sister’s bedroom with her sheets. She found me, took me down before I blacked out, and we never spoke about it again after that night. I was pissed with my sister for saving me, I cried and punched her as she held onto me.

When I was twelve, I tried to eat a bottle of Xanax, thinking it would kill me. It didn’t, it just made me really, really fucking sick. Not sick enough to go to the hospital, but very sick. I had no lasting organ damage, but I still wanted to die.

When I was fourteen, my boyfriend dumped me over the phone on a day he was supposed to come to my house, and ignored me while I cried. He had me on speaker phone, actually, and his friends were laughing about it and I could hear them. I could hear him laughing along with them. So, I decided to eat a bottle of asprin for dinner a couple of weeks later. I was stupid, it didn’t work, and I was hospitalized in the mental ward for 2 weeks.

When I was seventeen, I had just left an abusive relationship, graduated high school, and my mom told me that my ex raping me repeatedly for 9 months was my fault and that I was asking for it by continuing to date him the whole time. I was too scared to leave, I had been told by a counselor at school that no one would believe me. I tried to eat all of my antidepressants. I was hospitalized for 3 weeks in the mental ward.

When I was eighteen, I tried to do that same thing again, in conjunction to another thing my mom said about my abuser. My cousin had been raped while studying abroad, and she was talking about poor cousin, your poor cousin, it’s so traumatic, but when I mentioned that I’d been abused for three quarters of a year and no one batted an eye, she told me I was being selfish, and that my time for being the victim was over. How dare I detract from my cousin. So, again, I tried to eat a bottle of pills. I was hospitalized for one week in the psych ward.

Earlier this year, at the age of twenty, I was hospitalized because I felt like I was going to slit my wrists if I stayed home. So I checked myself into the hospital. I was there for a week while my doctor tried to find better meds for me because clearly mine weren’t working. My mom had told me that she was ashamed of my sexuality and my gender identity, and the rape issue came up again, with her saying I wanted it, that I let it happen.

I have bipolar II, borderline personality disorder, OCD, PTSD, generalized anxiety disorder, and selective eating disorder. A lot is messed up with me. I get the anxiety from my mother, and the bipolar II from my father. The PTSD was a gift from my ex boyfriend, and the rest I just ended up with.

When I was a little kid, I loved books; my father read all sorts of books to me, all the time. Artemis Fowl was the first series we read, then Harry Potter, then my mother read me the Chronicles of Narnia, then my father read me A Series of Unfortunate Events. We also read other books, things that weren’t series. I loved reading, and I wanted to write things that made people feel the way I felt about the stuff I read. 

Both of my parents are naturally talented writers. At the age of six, I began to write fan fiction for Harry Potter. I was way too young to be on the internet, but I was online writing fanfics on snitchseeker. Some of the only validation I found in my life was from random strangers on the internet, encouraging me to continue writing and complimenting my plot lines, even if my grammar and spelling were atrocious; on the internet, no one knows you’re a little kid writing Drarry fanfic.

I was a really athletic kid, so I didn’t spend all my time writing, but a good chunk of my free time was spent writing if I wasn’t surfing, playing soccer, or skateboarding. I didn’t have a lot of friends, I wasn’t likable, apparently, and I had a really hard time in school. I got into a lot of fights because people picked on me, but I was always the one who got in trouble for defending myself. It pissed me off. I developed issues with authority. I wrote in composition books to escape all the crap around me.

By the time I turned 11, writing was my life. I had just moved to California from Hawaii, my life was basically turned upside down, and I was miserable. So, I made a myspace account, wrote fanfic on there, and threw myself headlong into it. I have a fanfiction.net account I’ve long since forgotten my username and password for, but it’s out there with dramione fanfic, sasusaku, things that I liked at the time. I need to escape everything happening around me. My dad, my best friend, wasn’t anywhere near me, my mom was a bitch, and my demented grandmother moved in with us. It was miserable.

By the time I was 15, the only hobby I had outside of practicing for orchestra, was writing. I laid in bed on days off and just sat on my laptop, writing. I stopped publishing things after I got a mean comment once, my first one ever. It bruised the ego I didn’t even have so badly that I refused to publish anything for three years.

When I was 18, I published my first fanfic in 4 years. It was a Criminal Minds fanfic, featuring an OC and Spencer Reid. I was so fucking proud of it, and while lots of people loved it, a lot of people said mean shit. So, I posted Loki fanfic, which got infinitely more love, and then I did an alternate version of my Criminal Minds fic, that one got even more hate than the original. Then I published a Wallander fanfic. I haven’t touched them in 3 years, despite people asking me for more.

Up until this time last month, I never showed my writing to anyone. I kept everything to myself, hidden, I was ashamed of it. It is my only coping mechanism, but I couldn’t share it with anyone. My parents had my computer passwords up until I was about 16, sometimes they’d look through my text files and come to me later and tell me how amazing my writing was, and encourage me to publish it. But I never believed them.

On a whim, I started this blog; I love Boku no Hero Academia, it has given me something to look forward to every week. I live Chapter to Chapter, episode to episode, I track my time with it, it’s a coping mechanism. I saw that there was a decently active fandom on here, and I wanted to be a part of it. I hesitated on making the blog for a few weeks, thinking that no one would want to read my writing.

A month later, there are nearly 600 people here, constantly asking me to write scenarios and headcanons for them, telling me they love my writing, and think I’m a nice person, and that they’re glad I’m here. Every time I get a message like that, I cry. I never thought anyone would ever care about my writing, let alone write it. When I got a single follower that wasn’t a friend I know in real life, I cried. I was so excited. When I got my first request, I was so, so excited. When people began sending more stuff in, when people started talking to me and wanting to be friends, I cried. I’ve made a dozen friends on here as a direct result of their writing, and my writing.

I love running this blog, and I love writing for everyone. I have felt useless and like a waste of space my entire life, I’ve been told that my entire life, I’m made to feel like that every day of my life even now by the people around me, save for my friends, but when I log on here, I’m reminded that hey, maybe I’m not useless. If I manage to make even one person happy with what I do, that’s all I want.

So, you saying that my writing helps you, helps me. All I’ve ever wanted in life is to make other people happy, to please them, and my writing is apparently doing that. I’m really, really lucky to be in this position.

Even if you don’t have something like this, you’re not useless. You should be here. I know you said you’d never kill yourself because you’re too cowardly, but I’ve never seen suicide as cowardly, but that’s probably because I’ve tried to do it so many times. I’ve made a total of 8 attempts in 21 years. I don’t think I’ll be trying it again, though. It’s taken me 21 years to find something that I’m kind of maybe a little good at, that makes me even a tiny bit happy, and that does some good for other people, too.

Shit sucks, life is really awful, and I completely understand the plethora of reasons any given person would feel like wanting to die. I’ve never thought it unreasonable or dramatic to feel that way, it’s just how some people feel. I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life until 3 years ago, and even now I’m unsure if it’s really what I want to do with my life. I’ve got a lot going on behind the scenes that makes me feel like shite, and a lot of the time, the people around me try to ruin what little I have that I enjoy and that makes me happy…

Even with all that happening, somehow, I’m still here, and I’m writing this. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I get your feelings, I hear you, they’re valid, and I love you, stranger. Because I feel the same way as you all the time. This blog is my escape from that. It’s really the only thing I have keeping me from my intrusive thoughts.

If you never come off anon, that’s fine, but if you need to talk about things, I’m here for you, or anyone else who needs it. Really, if I can even try to help, I’ll do my damnedest to help. I hate seeing other people feeling as junk as I do on a daily basis, I want to try and make it better. If being a friend, even if I don’t know who you are, helps, I want to help. If writing things helps, I want to do it. But, for me, it’s not just helping other people, it’s helping myself. You coming into the box helped me. So, you’re not useless. You’re keeping me here, too.

[steviemillersdiary-blog]

MY FIRST POST! -From the start (age 6) to my first section in a psychiatric unit.

May be triggering to some.

Hey, my name is Stevie-Lee Miller, but i prefer just Stevie. I’m 21, i was born 18th June 1995 and crazy bitch is my middle name.

I’ve been on a absolute rollercoaster when it comes to my mental health and sustainability. When i was around 6/7 years old, i used to get overwhelming feelings of sadness, emptiness, loneliness, you name it, i felt it. I didn’t understand why i felt this way as my family were wonderful, and people i went to school with never spoke of or seemed as if they were feeling the same so with my lack of understanding, i began turning sadness into anger. I understood anger. Anger was on TV, adults got angry, my friends at school would get angry, teachers got angry, i just understood it a lot more than sadness.

I began turning into a demon child, smashing up my room, my siblings rooms, my mums room, ok so basically i smashed up the whole house on a regular. I refused to leave the house, let alone go to school, i punched and head-butted absolutely everything until i either passed out or was restrained.

At the age of 11 and after a long 4 years of me hating the world and causing my family so much distress, i finally broke down and begged my mum for help. I was immediately put forward for Anger Management and i worked my ass off to try get control of this horrible demon in my mind, that stopped after around 2 years and my anger got better, i still struggle sometimes to keep it under wrap, and i do lose control sometimes but surely that’s better than before?

Well, kind of.. As i began to learn to control my anger, i also began to learn that it’s okay to feel sad and that everyone feels sad sometimes, so as i pushed one issue under the rug, many more issues began flooding out.

When i was 13 i began self harming, whether that was through cutting, burning, pulling my hair out, head butting things or food. When i started, it was MY thing, and no one would ever have to find out, i finally had control of something.. Well, so i thought.

(To those who think they have control over their self harm, whatever form, i promise you with every inch of my heart, that control will disappear and it will be difficult to stop.. So while you have control, don’t test it, stop NOW.. Before it’s too late)

A year later, my mum found out about my self harm and took me to the doctors, they refused to medicate me due to being a high suicide risk (some tablets can make you more suicidal) and instead, i went for counselling - which was pointless as i'd had a great upbringing and they were searching for a problem that wasn't there and CBT (Cognitive Behavioural Therapy). Sessions were going well, i was too miserable to care that much, but they were going okay, until my counsellor went on annual leave and i had someone fill in for her.

The conversation went something along the lines of:

"Hi, Stevie. I've read through your notes but i'd like to hear things from you, if that's okay?" "Yeah sure, what do you wanna know?" "Just a bit about yourself, please." "Umm, okay. I'm Stevie, I'm miserable, I self harm, I-" "OHHH you self harm, what do you use?"

I then went on to tell her what i used and how i did it and no word of a lie, she cracked up laughing and said "Damn, you must be determined!" To which i responded "No shit, why do you think i'm here?!"

I walked out and never went back. I went from age 14-17 with no professional help other than a prescription of Prozac from my GP. Due to both my mum and dad reacting awfully to Prozac, my mum wasn’t happy about this decision. I was clueless towards everything, to me, this pill was the answer to all of my problems...

Damn, i was wrong.

My mood began to elevate over the course of a few weeks, and it continued to elevate, my anxiety was crazy, but my mood? Fuck, it’d never been better! I continued going up up up up up up up until the 21st December 2012 - I had my first psychotic episode.. 

I now know that the reason for this is because someone with Bipolar shouldn’t be medicated with antidepressants alone, they almost always have to be either replaced or paired with a mood stabiliser, but because i had no mood stabiliser (They didn’t know i had Bipolar at the time) my mood continued to shoot upwards until it couldn’t go any higher.

I remember it like it was yesterday, fuckkk. I began having HORRIFIC anxiety attacks and had to be taken home (i was at a friends birthday) when i got home, the paranoia kicked in, i felt like someone was watching me. Everything escalated so quickly, next thing i know, i have people saying the words ‘you’ve got to get out, you’ve got to go, you know you’re not meant to be here” OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER for hours! I was freaking, i could hear them, like as if someone in the room was saying it. I didn’t know what or WHO was real. My mum wouldn’t let me leave the house, all the doors were locked and my shoes were hidden - not that i really cared about shoes, - so i attempted to jump from my bedroom window but was caught and pulled back in. I wanted the voices to stop, i was scared, why me? What did i do to anger them? Where are they? I can hear them, but i can’t see anyone?

And that’s when the psychosis went from hearing things, to completely changing my reality.

My mums girlfriend (at the time) was trying to restrain me while my mum tried to humour me and i thought my mums girlfriend was a monster that had got in and was going to hurt me and my family..

So i grabbed a knife and launched at her with every bit of force i had.

Thankfully, she managed to JUST dodge the knife and i was tackled to the ground where i was held until a doctor come out and medicated me, sending me to snooze land until the next day.

I woke up with what felt like the worst hangover EVER. I was sooo tired, my muscles hurt, my head hurt, i had bruises and cuts, both self inflicted and not and i was scared. Everything felt like a bad dream..

After i woke up, my mum bought me in a coffee and explained that we had to go see some special people that were going to help me be happy again and after begging her to cancel it, i was put in the car and driven to the local hospital where i met with the Crisis Team (now known as the Access and Assessment team) being 17 and a half, i was given the choice between an adult psychiatric unit or a child’s one.. I refused both and was put on a section and given the same choice. I decided to go to the adults unit as it was only 20 minutes from my home, whereas the child’s unit was around 2 hours away.

That was my first ever psychiatric admission, it was fucking crazy and so much shit went on.. But i’ll save that for another blog.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you sooo fucking much for reading this and actually paying an interest in all of the rubbish i have to vent.

For those curious about Youtube, don’t worry, i’ll be back!!! I just have to focus on my health first which is why i made this blog.. And knowing people are reading it makes me nervous, but happy but still nervous. I’ll be posting probably all of the time, i’ll also upload videos that are like phone quality with little to zero editing. I will be using this as a diary of my life.

If you want me to write about certain things, or post about certain things or reblog certain things, just drop me a message! (There’s a button next to the ‘Follow’ button)

I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH THANK YOU FOR BEING MY FRIENDS AND SUPPORTING ME THROUGH EVERYTHING! I hope this blog can bring us ALL closer together, like a little family.

Tomorrow is a new day, smile.

I love you, Stevie xo 

[samtheflamingomain]

0 reasons why

It's been about two and a half months since I was kicked out. I've told the story of how and why that happened, but since then I haven't posted much if anything.

A lot of it is because I've been incredibly busy and stressed, homeless and in the hospital. But it's been a week since I finally got settled. I've had a bad cold but I've also had a bad case of emotional numbness.

I've desperately needed to do some writing to process everything that's happened in the last few months but haven't felt like I could. I still don't, but it's time to give it a try.

After I was kicked out I spent two weeks living in a shitty run-down motel next to a strip club. I was confronted by pimps on my second day and was nearly arrested twice, but for some ungodly reason, looking back on the last 2.5 months, that's when I was happiest.

I kind of understand why; I'd been duped and brainwashed by my abusive parents my entire life and now I was seeing the light. I was frantically searching for a place to live before I ran out of time at the motel, but I found one, and that only amplified my happiness. Now I was going to get out on my own and truly start my life.

Only that didn't happen. What I thought was a "shared accommodations" apartment was actually classified as a boarding house because the landlord lived there and shared the kitchen with the boarders. Legally, I had no right to keep my cat there.

I informed my ex-mother of this fact and she threatened to throw out all my stuff, get rid of my cat, and cut off my phone service. In tears, I ran to the police station where they called my birthgivers to tell them they had to keep my stuff and cat until I found a place to keep them.

So round two of looking for a place to live had begun. It took longer this time but I eventually found two girls who were looking for a third roommate. We meshed well and they'd let me move in on April 1st.

I still had more than two weeks of having not much to do though; kind of where I'm at now but with better excuses: I didn't have my cat, most of my art supplies, or any money. I also knew that I desperately needed to be on different meds.

Let me interlude briefly here to explain in monotonous detail my med situation: in the past, I've been diagnosed with depression. I've since been diagnosed with bipolar and recently re-diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder. They're diagnostically very similar, so this distinction doesn't mean much in practice. I'm the kind of mentally ill where they do their best to treat the symptoms without worrying much about the label. Because my symptoms fulfill the requirements of almost every mental illness, and I'm not exaggerating.

There's also another diagnosis that's somewhat difficult to explain and impossible to treat medically: Reactive Attachment Disorder. I've written about it in the past so I won't bore you again, but basically it means my parents didn't parent right and as a result I don't love them and never did. When diagnosed in children, the treatment is taking the child from the abusive parents. Which I would've loved. I spent my entire childhood waiting for my parents to divorce, wishing I was an orphan, even wishing I'd wake up or come home and they'd be dead.

When it goes unnoticed till adulthood, the only thing that treats this attachment disorder is cutting ties with the parents and a metric fucktonne of therapy.

A bit of a tangent: has anyone read Sybil? I know a lot of people from my high school did because it was required reading for a popular course. It's about the titular character's child abuse manifesting itself as "multiple personalities" or dissociative identity disorder. In it, Sybil has a therapist that she sees almost every day. I remember thinking many things at the time of reading it, but two stand out: "Sybil's childhood was nothing compared to mine" and "I wish I could afford to see a therapist every day, lord knows I need it."

Anyway, back to my meds: I still need something for anxiety, something for sleep, and something for a symptom called mood lability: emotional disregulation. For me, this comes as a result of never learning about emotions or controlling them. Until I was 20, I had never even understood that thoughts are seperate from emotions. All I knew about controlling my emotions was that I should be able to do so at the drop of a hat, less my parents scream at me till I puked from crying so hard.

But you can't control your emotions, only how you react to and express them. So I learned as a young child how to do that, and the best way was to lie. I'm probably the best liar I know with the exception of my ex-father, who is a literal sociopath. I'm not. I feel guilt when I lie, but it became a necessary way of coping with my parents.

ANYWAY, back AGAIN to my meds. Mood lability is common in bipolar and schizoaffective and is treated by a mood stabilizer. In the past, psychiatrists would usually encounter me during a depressive phase, mark me as depressed, and put me on an antidepressant. I've been on every single SSR/NI and none have done a single damn thing. In 2015 I was referred to rTMS brain stimulation. I did it a year later. And at the end, I was manic, and diagnosed with bipolar.

Unfortunately, my psychiatrist didn't listen to the psychiatrist running the rTMS who rediagnosed me, and continued to ignore my pleas to put me on a mood stabilizer. After another 6 months of re-trying all the SSRIs I'd already tried, he referred me to ECT, a last-resort treatment that can cause permanent memory loss. That's when I begged my doctor to get me a new psychiatrist.

He did. Same drugs, same attitude, same bullshit.

I saw him the day before I was kicked out. He did nothing. I tried to kill myself twice the following week but the hospital wouldn't admit me because I was homeless. I came in a third time psychotic. They sent me home to lay in bed hallucinating and sobbing for 8 hours till I passed out. I saw the psychiatrist again, and I told him that I'd been kicked out and homeless and he told me, more or less, to save it for my therapist, he only dispensed drugs.

This brings us back to mid-March when I'd just gotten a place to live starting April first. Knowing the hospital wouldn't admit me, knowing the psychiatrist wouldn't change my meds, and knowing I couldn't deal with the insanely rapid-fire mood cycling I was going through, I slowly deterriorated mentally, only getting worse when my ex-mother told me she'd had a heart attack. That's when I saw a way out: to kill my ex-father.

He was the cause of all this. At first I lamented the idea that I'd caused her heart-attack, but if anything, he did. He's the one who cheated on her and he's the reason she kicked me out. He's the reason I'm a liar and an asshole and a generally awful person. Because I had to be those things to survive living with him. More than a few times, I've been afraid that he'd kill me in a bout of uncontrollable anger. He deserved it.

But I knew it was fucking insane. I wouldn't go to prison, so I knew I'd have to kill myself after doing it. But I also knew I wouldn't do it. I went back to the hospital for the forth time in a month.

Thankfully, because they give more of a shit about my waste-of-space ex-father's life than my own, threatening to kill someone gets you a bed on the psych ward much faster than threatening to kill yourself. Once I knew I was momentarily safe and that I'd likely walk out with new meds and a new psychiatrist, I felt instantly better. I was only there 4 days. I quickly came to the conclusion that it would actually be more merciful for me to kill him than to let him live out the rest of his short lifespan. 

(He's got a degenerative disease called ankylosing spondalitis. Since age 25, his vertebrae have been slowly, painfully fusing together to form one giant spine bone. He won’t make it to 65. He can't bend his back and some days he can barely walk it's so painful. I'm glad.)

It takes a certain kind of person to enjoy someone else's pain, but I know I'm not evil because of it. I still pity my ex-mother because she's going to have to be in emotional pain for the rest of her life and I will never, ever forgive her for chosing him over me. I don't enjoy thinking about anyone else in pain except him. Because he truly, truly deserves it. 

I was prescribed a mood stabilizer on March 20th, got a new psychiatrist for March 31st, and a new sleeping pill on that same date. I moved the next day and couldn't fill the prescription until I moved, then the pharmacy said they'd have to order my new sleeping pill. So, on April 2nd, just a day after moving in, I went to the wine store, bought a bottle of 20% fortified wine, drank it in 2 hours, found rope in the garage and tried to hang myself.

One of the roommates heard my desperate pleas for death to envelope me, came in and pulled me down. When she went for her phone, I went for my razor and cut my arm wide open.

I was taken to the hospital by ambulance and sewn up, but left to suffer a psychotic episode in the waiting area for 4 hours till I passed out. I was there for over 15 hours, given no pain meds, no food, and none of my regular medication. I didn't even have my phone or wallet on me. The psychiatrist released me the next morning. I was only able to get back "home" thanks to a friendly patient giving me some money for the bus.

I got back at noon and the roommates were very cold. I get it, I really do. It can't be easy to have to call an ambulance for someone you just let move in. But that's partially why I did it: they barely knew me, so they wouldn't be as affected by it as they would if they'd gotten to know me first.

I immediately tried to sleep with my new sleeping pill. As I was drifting off, the landlord barges in and says I have to leave, immediately, and find a new place for May 1st. Just hours after being released from the hospital. I tried to explain to him that I just needed to sleep and I'd be okay. He said, and I quote, "You need help. You need to be in the hospital 24/7."

Well actually, asshat, if that were the case, I would've still been at the hospital. I told him I had nowhere to go. He said "find somewhere." So I said goodbye to my cat, whom I'd just gotten back after a month and a half of not seeing him, and went to stay at a youth homeless shelter while I looked for a new place to live. They changed the locks and said that if I wanted to get something I had to call and ask the landlord first and he'd let me in, maybe, if he felt like it.

I talked to a lawyer the next day. Since the landlord's daughter is one of the tenants, I was, again, not covered by the Landlord and Tenant Act, meaning he could kick me out for any reason at any time - but he did need to give me at least a week's notice or give me my rent back. I wanted to stay at the house till I found a new place, but he refused. He (illegally) withheld my rent until I moved out. Thankfully I found a place almost immediately, signed a lease with my name on it, and was able to move in on the 15th.

Unfortunately, many, MANY things went wrong between the 3rd when I left and the 15th when I moved in to the place I'm at now.

On the 5th, my bike seat was stolen. I replaced it. On the 6th, my entire bike was stolen. The police said I might as well forget about it; bikes are low on their priority list and are almost never found.

On the 7th, I woke up in the shelter to a phone-shaped hole in my belongings. I reported it stolen and the shelter said I'd have to wait several days (which turned into several weeks) before they'd do anything about it. They just installed new cameras, the only person authorized to view the cameras was on vacation, the police could only do something if they had the camera footage.

But I thought of something. It was an iPhone, so I went into the Cloud and clicked "Find My iPhone". Unfortunately, "Sam's iPhone" couldn't be located. Fortunately, this was because it had turned into "Jessy's iPhone". And it was at Bleams and Strausberg.

Showing this to the shelter workers was proof enough to get him kicked out of the shelter, but not enough to get my phone back. I know it's long gone by now, along with my SIM card and over 400 pictures of my cat growing up, but I'm still pressing charges, because the first day I spent without so much as a way to tell time was one of the worst days of my life and I almost killed myself several times. It wasn’t just a phone, it was the only thing I had to keep in contact with people who made me feel safe.

I somehow managed to make it another week and hire movers for the 15th. I needed to pack so I set up an "appointment" with my "landlord" to go back to my "house" to pack my stuff. The movers also needed to do an "estimate" so I set that up for the same date.

Now we get to the part where I fucking hate religion. We live in a SECULAR society whose workings are still controlled by ancient pagan rituals. That is to say, I had unknowingly planned to move on the Easter weekend. That meant several things: the movers called me back to cancel 3 days before the move, I had to hire last-minute movers that cost twice as much, and my landlord, a devout Catholic, was pissed.

Despite him being the reason I was moving, he didn't want me to move till "sometime next week". I told him I'd be moving into my new place on the 15th and if that meant sleeping on the floor, that'd be because of him. I would not spend another night at the homeless shelter when I didn't have to. After a lot of yelling at me and the movers for not showing up TWICE, I finally got my shit moved out of the old place, got my rent back, and got moved into the new place by 11pm on the 15th. I had scheduled the movers for 9am, so I'd been up since 7.

I thought I'd be manic again as I always am when I move houses, but it was actually just profound repression. I slept in till 10am then spent 15 hours straight unpacking and decorating because I didn't want to face whatever I'd be feeling if I stopped.

But eventually I ran out of things to unpack and walls to decorate. That's when the depression starting sinking in and I started trying everything I could to distract myself. I have a massive backlog of Youtube videos I've been working my way through for six months, a bunch of video games I got for Christmas I haven't played yet, and a shitload of errands to do. So I filled my days with those.

I got a new phone, but it didn't make me feel much better because my best friend, who’d just finished school, was just as unresponsive as he was during school. I then spent 4 days with a terrible cold, unable to do anything but watch TV and sleep, and now, it's been a week that I've been here, and I'm more miserable than ever.

A lot of it is because I'm constantly reminded of what happened the last time I was home alone for weeks on end: I tried to kill myself. And that was when I still had a family.

I know I'm infinitely better off without them; I've always tried to live by the immortally wise words of Robin Williams: "It is better to be alone than to be around those who make you feel alone." It's the reason I got rid of my sister, my cousins, even many people I once considered friends: they made me feel alone.

But that doesn't change the fact that I am, ultimately, alone now. Yes, I have a lot of friends and acquaintances on my side, a good psychiatrist for once, and my amazing therapist. But I don't have any family. I have so little family that I had to reach across the globe to a host family I stayed with in France to take another surname.

I've never felt the ever-elusive feeling of homesickness. I've missed my room, my bed, and my pets, but I've never missed my parents. I still don't. I guess that's partially why this is so hard.

I spent my entire life thoroughly enjoying every single second I could get away from them. Ever since I could remember I was counting down the years till I could move out. When I finally did, I became more depressed than ever, culminating, as I mentioned, in a suicide attempt. I hated the hospital so much that I agreed to leave on the condition that I live with my parents again. I never intended to stay more than a month or so, but it ended up being a year.

I spent that year distracting myself and making things feel like they did before I left, because that's what I considered safe. I'd never actually felt safe at home, just safe from change.

Which brings me back to the point I was making about homesickness: I've never felt it because I've never felt at home anywhere. Home is supposed to be a place where you aren't afraid to exist, where you aren't walking on eggshells when you do anything. Home is supposed to be safe from everything. And because I was raised to believe that I'm truly a bad person at my core, I never felt safe from that feeling. And that feeling came from the places and people I was told were "home".

But they weren't. The closest thing to "home" I've ever felt was in fact the sleazy motel on Victoria Street. Despite the dirty dealings going on just walls away and the shady characters I encountered, I felt safe. It was the first place that I lived by myself without needing to explain myself. Let me, ironically, explain myself.

One of the running themes throughout my life has been explaining myself. As a child, I learned that I had to have a reason for doing or feeling anything, and I had to have that reason at the ready when prompted for it. If I wanted to do something and I didn't know the reason why, I either didn't do it, or I invented a reason. Thus how my incredible talent of lying came to be cultivated.

One of the best ways I'm able to articulate and exemplify this feeling of "needing a reason to feel" is via this anecdote: when I was 13 and my parents discovered I was cutting myself, they screamed at me to tell them why I was doing it and wouldn't stop until I gave them a reason. At the time, I didn't know the reason. So I made one up, one that they said was, and I quote, "not good enough". All my life I'd been terrified of hearing that my reasons weren't good enough. Because that meant that I couldn't control everything, that I couldn't lie my way out of anything I did. This was the first time I found myself caught in a lie and the only reason was because I didn't know the truth myself.

I remember the intense feeling of needing a reason in that moment very well. Not wanting to ever feel that again, and still not knowing the "reason" I was depressed, I learned not to tell my parents anything because I feared that no "reason" would ever be "good enough" for them.

Even when I wasn't living with them, it was still ingrained in my mind that everything, every action, every feeling, every thought, required a reason to be. I came up with a million reasons for my depression, but none of them were ever "good enough" - I was going based on what I imagined my parents would say in response to whatever "reason" I had.

Eventually, I was so depressed for so long that they decided it was an actual illness that I couldn't control, that had no reason besides genetics, and that had no treatment besides pills. But that seemed like a contradiction to me: all my life they'd demanded reasons for everything, and now they decided that this one thing was an exception?

It took many years for me to even entertain the possibility that my parents were part of the "reason" for my mental illness. I knew that mental illness was a combination of nature and nurture, but for most of my life I assumed I was on the far end of the spectrum towards "just nature". Now I know the opposite is true.

Once I started becoming aware that they were a huge part of my problem, they started blaming me more and more for absolutely everything. When I was in the hospital in September, the first thing they did when I came home was yell at me to try harder, telling me that I was the reason I wasn't getting better. It took this much happening for me to realize just how deluded they are into believing they never did anything wrong.

The moment of clarity for me was the day I was kicked out. I had spent the night researching and pulling up dozens of webpages about cheaters and liars to prove that my "father" was a lying sack of shit who had cheated on my "mother". I brought my computer upstairs to slowly walk her through the evidence, leading her to the conclusion that he did it and he's lying about it. The first webpage was about gaslighting. She was so far up her own ass, so far in denial that she said, and I quote, "I don't even believe 'gaslighting' is a thing, I bet the ‘doctor’ cited in this isn’t even real." As someone who's been gaslit their entire life and knows it, I realized I would never get through to her if she couldn't even agree on basic terms and concepts.

Then, over the next few weeks, it dawned on me that I never would've gotten through to myself if I hadn't tried getting through to her. I never would've believed she'd be so far in denial until I saw it with my own eyes. I never would've believed she'd chose him over me until it happened.

That's why, after a week of homelessness following 22 years of being chained to their incredibly flawed reasoning about my depression, the shitty motel was like home to me. I did whatever I wanted and didn't ask myself why every step of the way. I felt whatever I felt and didn't need a reason; or, rather, I finally had one that was "good enough" - my parents were and always will be abusive monsters. I and every therapist I've ever talked to agreed on this. I knew it intellectually, but I never believed it, just like my parents never believed I had a "good enough reason" to be depressed.

I guess now that I know I do, I can dust myself off and call it a day. I'd solved the puzzle 20 years in the making of why I've never been happy. But it's not enough to actually make me happy. Because, as I've finally realized in the writing of this monstrosity that reasons aren't enough. They never have been. I've been raised to think that once I found the truth to something, everything would fall into place. But like I've known all my life but never believed, knowing the truth isn't enough to stop it being so.

I honestly didn't know where I was going with this or what would come of it, if anything. But I'm pleasantly surprised. I needed to write some-5000 words to understand that I've lived my entire life obsessed with finding truth without realizing that truth isn't the be-all-end-all of living. Important for many disciplines, of course, but not necessary to justify feelings.

I think now that I understand why I was so happy at the motel I can try and fill in the gaps here. I can try applying the notion of not needing to reason out everything I do and feel. Because, after all, that's what I was doing there, and that's what made the motel the safest and happiest "home" I've ever had. And I need to continue that pattern if I want this new place to become a safe and happy home.

I know nobody has stuck with me throughout this insanely lengthy rambling; it's pretty specific and not worth much to anyone but myself. So for the first time, I say this to myself: Stay Greater, Flamingo.

[mamagagax3]

Living with Bipolar disorder

So about a week ago I switched from topimax to lithium and holy hell this stuff really works. I am only on 300mg (starter dose), but I can definitely tell a HUGE difference than before. For the first time in over 6 years I am waking up and actually wanting to get up. Normally, mornings were the hardest for me. I would wake up and instantly feel overwhelmed, and full of anxiety. Now it’s so easy to wake up and take on the day. For months I thought that my anxiety medications needed to be upped, or my antidepressants, as I thought that the anxiety was making me feel so overwhelmed every day. This entire time I just wasn’t on the correct bipolar medication. It has been beyond exhausting holding onto hope, hope that I would finally find the right medication and finally begin to get better. Over the last year my doctor has basically been experimenting with me and my medications. I eventually got so sick of it and saw a new doctor for a second opinion. So I was re-evaluated and all of my medications were adjusted and lithium was finally added. I just can’t remember how long it’s been since I’ve felt this kind of happiness. And to think that this whole time I was on the wrong bipolar medication. FYI to anyone who suffers from bipolar disorder, I do NOT recommend lamotrigine or topimax. The lamotrigine caused me to have severe cystic acne, and didn’t really control manic episodes, and the topimax also made me break out and it didn’t feel like it was doing anything at all to be honest. I was maxed out on antidepressants and anxiety medicine and could not understand why I was not getting better. Come to find out the antidepressants were way too high and conflicting with each other which actually caused me to have even more anxiety. Confused yet? I know that most people probably could care less about what I’m talking about, but I’m hoping that I can reach someone who is struggling and provide them with hope that they can get better. A month ago I was in the worst mental condition I’ve ever experienced. I almost lost hope. Because it’s just so easy to remain angry. Angry that I have to see all of these doctors constantly, all of the medications, just everything was draining me. You get to a point where you don’t understand why. Living with bipolar disorder can be extremely daunting. You just never know how you’re going to feel. But since I began Lithium it’s like all the lights turned on in my brain. I have finally found a medication that keeps me even. I haven’t felt so “normal” in so many years. My anxiety has reduced tremendously, and the depression is no longer present. I’ve made it. I had to dig so fucking deep to get myself out of this last depression. I had never felt so low in my life. I believe it was “rock bottom” for me. Sink or swim type of shit. And I refuse to sink. My point here is not to lose hope. Stay in constant prayer. Continue to make positive changes in your life. I’ve prayed for years for God to take away my depression and anxiety. I know that being on the right medication plays a huge role in me getting better, but God also answered my prayers. He knew that I was at my limit, my “breaking point”. I couldn’t hold onto life much longer. I’ve taken back control of my life, and no longer allow my illnesses to make all of my decisions.

I’ll be honest it’s sometimes embarrassing putting all of this stuff out there. Most people would not want anyone to know about their mental illnesses. But this topic needs to be discussed more. People need to feel comfortable talking about their illnesses.There are people out there suffering in silence. And that silence can kill you. I have been through some really scary shit in life, REALLY scary shit, and I will say that 3 weeks ago nothing mattered to me. It’s even scary to write about. But I promised myself that I would document this. When you are not scared to take your own life, it does something to you. It shook me to my core. This is a feeling I never want to feel again. I will never ever let myself get to the point where I ever feel like that again. 

As for now, I am in a really really good place. I am happy just to be alive and well. I am actually living, and damn does it feel good.

-A

[kennexara]

I don’t know the exact words for it...but I feel like there’s a distinction between people who have always been considered fat vs people who find themselves fat later in life. 

NOT a distinction like, one’s better than the other. Just....look, here’s my experience.

I started puberty maybe around like fifth grade? And remember how people put on weight before puberty? Yeah so like fourth grade is the first time I remember other kids making me feel bad about my weight. And then there was puberty where everything was awful in general. Around eighth grade, maybe, I had a huge growth spurt? Kid I hadn’t seen in years told me I looked so good since I lost weight. Adult relatives said the same. But I didn’t lose anything, I just gained height. And eventually the weight went up to match the new height and no one said I looked good again. And then I stopped growing and my weight stayed stable. Like 225ish pounds? At 5 feet 8 inches? And I didn’t...I looked in the mirror and I saw I was bigger than my classmates, but at the same time I didn’t look...I didn’t look like what I thought of as fat? I guess...one thing my body does alright is it distributes fat sort of evenly? So I still have that sought after hourglass shape, it’s just a big hourglass? 

Anyways, but then I’d see weight loss shows and these women bawling their eyes out because they’d ‘let themselves go’ and ended up at my weight? my weight that i did nothing to end up at? like this was in high school. you know, when i was on the fucking soccer team? And my mom...my mom weighed about the same but is a few inches shorter. And she still looks in the mirror and says ‘oh god I look like a cow.’ And that...that messes with me too. 

I remember being 12 and my mom finding her old jeans from when she first met my dad and I...I couldn’t fit into them. I couldn’t fit into what my mom wore at 25 when I was only 12. 

And then I went to college and got put on antidepressants and my weight started going up. Oh, there was the brief interlude where I had some suicidal ideation and wasn’t going to class or really eating and dropped below 200 for the first time since middle school. Had family members again telling me I looked so good. I had to withdraw from college due to severe depression but sure at least i was losing weight.

anyways, got put on other antidepressants that helped a bit. weight went back up again. started at community college. met girls that weighed more than me? like, for the first time in my life i wasn’t the fattest kid in the friend group? it was so weird. like, i was so proud i found a specialty ottoman that would actually hold my weight and they were like...yeah we can’t use that and i didn’t know what to say or do??

but it still bugged the shit out of me that my weight kept going up no matter what i did. like, i fucking tried eating healthy and exercising more for about four or five months. and i still gained weight at the same rate as when i didn’t exercise or attempt to eat better. i think my highest weight was about 280?

i found a new doctor to get mental health meds from for unrelated reasons (old one said i was bipolar and i do not agree with that diagnosis) but while i was there i was like, could we try some meds that DON’T cause weight gain because i feel like the sadness caused by the weight gain cancels out whatever feel good chemicals the antidepressant is giving me.

new med lady is chill and actually fucking listens and gave me new meds. and i’ve been losing weight since i started them? no change in diet. no added exercising. i eat every day but the one med does make me less hungry? so i guess the med itself caused a change in diet. i still don’t eat well, i just eat less of it. 

now i’m back to 225ish and its nice. but every reason it’s nice should not be reasons, you know? It’s nice because its easier to find clothes that fit. It’s still hard, but less hard than before. It’s nice because people treat me with a tiny bit more respect. hopefully doctors won’t be so quick to tell me to ‘lose weight’ as a solution to any health issue. These should not be things. I should be able to find clothes at any size, my health complaints should be taken seriously at any size. 

so that’s me, almost always been kinda fat. but i mentioned how my mom, and now a lot of my 30-something 40-something cousins, were all skinny for all of their youth and only later in life started gaining weight to where they or perhaps others classify them as ‘fat.’

and it’s like...i support them doing whatever they want to do. they want to go to the gym and eat salad? good for them! but could they...could they not act like it’s the end of the fucking world that they weigh more? could they not act like they absolutely HAVE to lose the weight they gained?  

could they not act like looking like me is something bad? 

i know, that because they were once skinny, they feel like they can return to that. and i understand why they want to; life is easier if you’re skinny. life and people are nicer if you’re skinny.

but i never had that. there was no before for me. fat is my default state. 

and i hesitate to even say any of this, because i just know there’s someone 300 plus going, “oh your life is so hard, being under 300 pounds. shut up you’re not even fat.”

i know because i throw that same fit when i read product reviews of ‘i was up to 150 pounds and i knew something had to change i couldn’t keep living like this.” 

i don’t...i don’t know what the solution to any of it is. i just...i don’t tell people they have to stay at their new weight. why must they tell me i have to change mine? i don’t have any health problems relating to being fat. and even if i did...so what? almost all of my uncles are either smokers or alcoholics that probably have health issues due to the smoking/drinking. but they’re still skinny so my cousins don’t care i guess? i mean, i don’t care. as long as they don’t smoke near me i’m not going to yell at them and in return they better not yell at me if i get seconds or thirds of grandma’s homemade ice cream, you know? 

i haven’t even touched on how men/boys treat you when you’re fat and i’m too tired to get into all of it. just...i understand that it fucking sucks that half the time men are only nice because they want sex. but i need skinny people to understand that it also sucks when half the time men ignore you or are straight up rude and insulting to you because they find you unfuckable and that is a sin apparently. or like, being cat-called. i understand it’s fucking terrible. its also terrible to hear shit like ‘oh a catcall is just saying you’re attractive’ or ‘every woman gets cat-called.’ great, i’m apparently fucking ugly and not even a girl. the f on my birth certificate actually stands for fat not female.

i don’t know how to change society. i don’t even know how to change my own internalized fatphobia. i just sometimes get the sense that there’s this divide. it’s like the femininity thing in feminism, i guess. you want to wear makeup? go for it. but it should NOT be necessary for me to be respected. you want to lose weight? go for it. but again it should NOT be necessary for me to be respected.

and i don’t know how to bridge that divide. oh it’s also like the marriage and motherhood thing. getting married and have kids if you want. but i don’t want to and i’m so sick of being fed this idea that i have to.

i don’t...i’m trying not to tell people they can’t do those things, but sometimes it feels like the second i say ‘you don’t have to wear makeup/lose weight/have children” i get yelled as if i’m saying they can’t have those things. you can have them!!!! i just, personally, need to hear that i don’t have to do those things more often!!! and no one ever says it to me!!!! “you’ll find someone eventually!” what if i don’t??? why can’t they ever say “you don’t need someone” i’d love to find someone but between the fatness and my general personality and lack of social skills and the fact that in nearly 25 years there’s really not been anyone interested yet i’m gonna bet on not happening!!!!!

tl;dr: yo can people respect each other a bit more maybe?