Hi. I’m Elisa. I’m 18. I have my high school degree and I’m finishing my AA as we speak…er, type. I’m starting Uni in the fall. (None of that is really relevant to this blog, but I’m pretty proud of it, so I try to tell people whenever occasion arises.)
I have an unsupportive mother, who always seems to be around. And a overly supportive father, who is incidentally, not in my life. Funny how those things happen, huh?
I am a very happy person and incredibly optimistic. However, in fourth grade I was diagnosed with Anxiety Disorder. I had panic attacks about everything until eighth grade. I didn’t medicate, but I was taught some coping mechanisms. Some of them were wonderful (like writing). Some of them were awful (distracting myself with pain).
In seventh grade I started softball, which originally gave me many panic attacks. I almost quit several times, but I’m glad I didn’t. The second year was better. I had fun even though it was harder. I dropped softball in ninth grade, because I would have had to play for the high school team, and I knew I wouldn’t be happy doing that.
I also took up ballet in eighth grade. I absolutely loved it. I didn’t have to compete with anyone but myself. I did ballet until this year, when school and graduation and next year (not to mention getting evicted and having my sister break her ankle in short succession) made me have to choose something to drop.
Now then (which is a funny statement if you think about the words separately). In the beginning of ninth grade, while I was still having panic attacks, my mom took me to a doctor about my stuff (not on her own, mind you, I had to beg.) He said that he thought the panic attacks were linked to depression and asked if there was a history of depression in my family.
Everyone in my family has depression.
So he gave me medication. Which I took for a long time. But I didn’t like the way it made me feel. So then I stopped. I took up yoga. I drank tea. I meditated. My mom still thinks I’m an idiot for quitting my meds because they make her feel so wonderfully numb.
Ninth grade was good. I’m sort of emotionally unstable, so pair that with normal high school angst, plus coming out to myself and realizing that I really like girls? But it was still a good year compared to the previous two. I got into drama club and made some good friends. I felt like I had a purpose and goals again, which I hadn’t felt in a while.
Tenth grade sucked. But I guess that’s normal. I kept doing yoga. I stopped eating the things I’m allergic to. I had dance for 2 or 3 hours, twice a week. I rode my bike EVERYWHERE. Physically, I felt wonderful (it’s actually how I’m keeping track of my new weight loss, feel as good as I did then). Mentally, everything sucked. There’s not a lot to say about this year. It started my down hill skid.
Eleventh grade, I started Running Start, which lets juniors and seniors attend the local community college to get a jump on their education. It was the best decision of my life, but also led to one of my worst.
In eleventh grade, I started self-harming. I started having panic attacks again. I wasn’t doing yoga much. I wasn’t writing. I didn’t have time. I was taking 15-18 credits each quarter and still in high school choir and drama club. When I would have a panic attack at home, I burnt myself. It was a quick way to snap me out of it (based on the completely idiotic suggestion from a therapist that I distract myself with pain.) I didn’t have time for goddam panic attacks! Eventually, I started cutting. That whole year was not good emotionally.
This last year was better. I started burning/cutting less. I had fewer responibilities from the high school. I didn’t do choir, which was incredibly heart-breaking for me, but also healthier. I had a lot of help from my few friends. Not much from my family, though my little sister tries so hard to be there for me. Then, ok don’t judge me, because it was important.
I found One Direction. Not the music. The people. They are really wonderful boys, and I don’t have many friends. They try to reach out to fans and I needed someone to reach out. One of the boys saw a fan with cuts on her wrist and said, “Please don’t. I love you.” That was it for me. No more. I decided that, by god, if I couldn’t do it for myself, I would do it for them.
To be honest, I’m still working on not stopping. But I told one of my best friends about it, so now she knows and that helps.
Also, when taking my psychology class in the winter, I learned that I actually have bi-polar dissorder, but I prefer to call it manic-depressive, because that explains it better. I haven’t gone to the doctor yet, because I’m still working up the courage. I tried to talk to my mom about it and she just told me to stop being stupid, I’m depressed like everyone else, go take my fucking meds and stop whining.
So. That’s my story. I think I said something about weight loss in there. I want to be happy and healthy. When I felt my best physically, I maintained between 115 and 120 pounds and was very active. I’m working to get back to that.
If you read all the way through this, bless you.
If you ever want to talk, I would love to.