Join Date: May 2009
Location: New Albany, Indiana
I am currently:  
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On my way.
I joined this site what seemed like years ago. I never thought I would be posting in this thread. Never. I would sit here for hours, reading through other people's success stories. Praying that I could get through what I was suffering.
I turned 18 yesterday (the 26th of january) and I just happened to get an automated email from RYL.com, wishing me a happy birthday. Immediately, all the hours spent on this site returned to me, fresh. All the amazing people I met on here, all the advice I was given, all the hope I discovered... it all came rushing back. And so, here I am. Deciding to post here, not really sure if I'm a full blown "success" story. But I'd like to share my story, nonetheless, and I hope someone will read. I hope it will speak to someone, help someone.
When I was about 13 years old, I went into a deep depression. Something that my single mother dismissed as "teenage hormones." Over time, however, that depression grew into something else. Something darker. Something... tangible. It manifested, deep inside me. A nagging, bitter beast who hungered for my demise. It gnawed on my very core. But, it started out slow, only revealing itself through bits and pieces of my personality. I stopped doing things I normally did, I became antisocial. So nervous, always so nervous.
I picked my nails and the skin on my fingers until they were a bloody mess. I would shake and twitch anxiously, never knowing why. I grew an aversion to sunlight and every single day... I realized that the reflection in the mirror was slightly different. Changing. Morphing. Fading. I stopped sleeping at night. I stopped sleeping, period. I was in a daze, I felt like a zombie. Until eventually, I stopped feeling anything.
I cut myself for the first time when I was 13.
Don't ask me why, because I don't know.
I've always had a high tolerance to pain and I used to scratch myself as a child.
My darkness became my addiction. Slowly, like I said. Very slowly. I'd cut every month or so, fending off the darkness. Feeding it almost, trying to tide it over. It didn't like that. It wanted more.
I started cutting every week.
It had taken over my life. It was an addiction.
No one knew for the longest time. I cut my thighs, my ankles, my upper arms. All hidden very easily.
I brought no attention to myself. I cried every night, praying to some God, asking them to help me stop. Don't let me get caught. My mother will think I'm insane. I'll break her heart. My friends will call me "emo."
I stopped eating around 15. It wasn't a sudden thing, I was notoriously known for my crazy diets. (I look back and see how sad it was that my 15 year old self was following the latest diet.) I became a vegetarian at that age. I said I did it for health reasons and to save animals, but as many of you know, the underlying dark purpose was to separate myself from fatty foods. I didn't think anything of it, I really didn't. I knew I was not fat or overweight. I just did not have an appetite. I had always skipped breakfast, so my mother didn't notice at first. But then I stopped eating dinner, lunch. Everything. My mom sent me to therapy. Something I had longed for. I wanted help. I did. I honestly did. I just didn't know how to ask for it.
My hair started falling out. I lost my period. I started getting dizzy all the time, nauseous. Just plain sick. Friends began to notice. I made excuses all the time. I dressed in heavy clothes, layers upon layers. I didn't do it for attention. I didn't want that. I just wanted to fade away. Disappear slowly. Back away from the world. And so, I distanced myself. From friends, from family. I became best friends with my depression. I wore dark clothes. Heavy eyeliner. I was stereotyped by many peers. Emo, crazy, freak, anorexic, scary, loser, attention whore. I tried not to listen. But the words of immature middle school children and high school ****ers will drive you mad. So I started eating again. And throwing it all up. It got people off of my back, distracted them. Let them think I was getting better.
I turned 16. [removed]. I cut almost everyday. I started smoking, which I tried to tell myself I did to avoid cutting. But really, I knew cigarettes curbed your appetite. I lost more weight, I gained more scars.
I started drinking alcohol. Getting drunk with people I barely knew in parks that I didn't remember the day after. In and out of therapy. Different therapists, different boys, different worlds, a different life.
I turned 17. I got with a horrible boy, who led me down a destructive path. The darkness inside of me loved him. Wanted him. And blinded me. I did so many things that I now regret. Deeply. My anger grew. What anger? I don't know. It came from somewhere though. Somewhere inside of me. I started lashing out at everyone. I yelled at friends, I lost so many friends. I started getting into physical fights with my mother. I ran away all the time, stayed out late.
And then, a breakthrough. More so, a break down. I told my mother about my cutting, showed her. I told her I wanted help. I needed help. I told her I've been trying to stop for so long, I just didn't know how.
I went into a mental hospital this past year. May 7th, 2010. I stayed there for a while. They noticed instantly that I wouldn't eat, and they threatened me, saying that if I didn't eat, they would have to put me onto a feeding tube with an IV. I started eating. They fed me awful things, so awful. Foods full of vitamins and proteins and fats and carbs. I got so sick. [removed]. They put me on "purge watch" and every time I went to the bathroom, I had to sing the alphabet.
For the first three days I was there, I was on what was called "line of sight," which meant someone had to be with me at all times because I was so suicidal. They watched me eat, they watched me shower, they watched me while I rolled around in bed, trying to sleep.
It was horrible. I willingly went into this place, wanting them to help me. And at the time, I felt like they were torturing me. I see now, however, that those nurses and doctors... saved me.
When I was released, the psychiatrist told me his final diagnosis. I was surprised with the results and I am going to share them all with you. I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Anorexia with EDNOS (eating disorder not otherwise specified), Depression, Paranoia.
Those terms were so cold. So stoic. So real. I read over the terms for weeks after my release. It wasn't me. Wasn't me. Wasn't me. No. I am not defined by some definition of a mental disorder. I'm not crazy, I kept telling myself.
And no, I am not. And you are not.
I have come to accept my disorders, and I am doing so much better.
I have not cut myself in over 8 months.
I have not purposefully thrown up a meal in over 1 year.
I have not starved myself in over 7 months.
Does this make me a success story? No. I don't think so.
I'm still in recovery. Everyday is hard. It's a struggle. But it has gotten easier. I'm proud of myself. So proud. The accomplishments I've made over these past few months are so empowering. I never, never thought I would make it this far.
I am 18 years old now. I take medicine every single day, three times a day for my mental disorders. I see my therapist once every month now (a newly acquired accomplishment). I eat five meals a day now. Chocolate cake has became a great friend to me. :)
I still get sad. I get mood swings. Yes. It's rough. But it's worth it.
And to anyone who read this whole thing, thank you. Because in some form or another, I consider us friends. Your story may be different from mine. We may be oceans apart. You may be black, white, latina, asian. You may be straight, bisexual, lesbian, gay. You may not believe in a God, or you may be a devout Catholic. But I don't give a ****. Because I love you. And I want you to get help.
I'm here to help anyone I can.
Please, please. Try to get help.
- Kayla Ross.
New Albany, Indiana, USA.
Last edited by -Tough-Cookie- : 01-02-2011 at 11:09 AM.
Reason: Please see PM
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Thanks so much for sharing!
