Life before diagnosis was rather chaotic, whether it was because of my mental illness or because of my own actions. I grew up in a very small community and felt very oppressed, as a result of my view of things, meaning, the inability to be like others; involved in after-school activities, going over to friend's houses either to play or spend the night and not allowed to have anyone over to my house. As a young teen I was required to share a bed with my younger and an older brother. One night my older brother decided he wanted to play a game of "Name the body parts". During this time I already knew I was gay and welcomed the game, which served to confirm my sexual orientation. He made a comment, one night, that I was to keep quiet about this and not tell anyone, and that I had better not turn out to be gay or he would kill me. I did not know how to respond to those words. I held onto those words and never let them out of my head, until I was much older, as an adult. While in therapy, is when I actually learned that even though I was gay, it was still sexual abuse, which I fought so hard to deny despite him being about ten years older than I was.
As I grew older and tried to deal with the issue, he was confronted and denied all activities, stating it was all my fault since I was the one who initiated it, denying any activity or part in the whole event. I never felt the need to further address the issue and never told anyone else of the events. When I was in High School (11th Grade), we were required to write a weekly journal and turn it in for review, (I.e., spelling, grammar, punctuation, etc.) Well as it would play out, one week I turned in a journal in which I had written a suicide plan and had no recall of ever having written that journal for the week. The journal was mine. The handwriting was mine. IT WAS MINE. There was no getting around that fact, however, at the time, I did not recognize the words as mine, but they were. After that I was called to the Guidance Office had to meet with my teacher and the school's psychologist, my mother was called and asked to come in for a meeting, (oh, and did I mention that this all occurred on a Friday afternoon, where I had to go home for the entire weekend and try to explain the reasoning for this meeting.) Despite all the drama through school, I still managed to graduate with honors. Anyway, I was diagnosed with depression, then clinical depression, then situational depression and back to just depression, and that diagnosis was carried on with me since that time until the age of 39 in 2010. I have had three voluntary CSU admissions, and multiple attempts at "Therapy" and "Medical Interventions" but to no avail nothing seemed to be working, beneficial or even motivating enough to want to make any changes in my life. There were "Mommy issues", "Daddy issues", "Family issues", "Sexual Abuse issues", "Sexual Orientation issues" and "work and life issues".
I would work long hours and sometimes as much as 80 hours a week, just to keep myself occupied and feeling like life had some kind of meaning for me. I felt I had to be the perfect one, so that I could save the world, make my parents love me and be proud of me, regardless of the risk of loosing myself and who I was. I would cycle up and down in my employment working outrageous numbers of hours and then have issues relating to attendance. I would have very difficult times of focusing and completing one task before starting another one. My life was just a mess. As I got older, I wanted to have friends that were totally opposite of me and wound up getting involved with the wrong crowds, I had even worse problems relating to the focusing, attendance, reliability, financially, etc., all because of my "episodic periods" of drug use/experimentation. It had even gotten to the point of affecting my jobs, housing, interpersonal relationships and living with what I currently refer to as my "Partial Diagnosis". Even after moving to Tallahassee and having a really good job and loosing it as a result of my "SELF-MEDICATING" a diagnosis of Major Depressive Disorder, things again began to spiral downward to a life of being extremely sick (physically) and not caring about anything in my life, whether I lived or died. I have tried to justify my feelings of having to be perfect for so many years, by saying "I'm just striving for excellence. That is all. Nothing else." I did this as a rope to hold onto - trying to give some sort of meaning to my life.