Descriptive Essay Essay Research Paper My life
Descriptive Essay Essay, Research Paper
My life has been one struggle after another. Dealing with depression was not as easy or as fun as a ride on a slide. It was more like a sickening spin on the merry-go-round; it felt like I was holding on for dear life and spinning so fast my hands were loosing grip. My therapy sessions were a revolving door. I went in and came out, hoping it to be the last, but only to face another session.
It all started around the tender age of 13-just getting into my teenage years. I battled with my identity. It felt like I was walking against a strong wind. I knew I was adopted ever since I understood what that meant, but I wasn’t happy knowing this. I began going to therapy with my family, only to find myself angrier than a punished child. I attempted suicide twice in that few months, and finally manipulated my parents into taking me out of that therapy.
For the next two years, I kept any negative feelings undercover, not opening my shell to anyone. By the beginning of my junior year in high school, I couldn’t keep it in. My emotions exploded like an overheated bag of popcorn. More suicide attempts were made. I was taken to our local hospital where I was put in the psychiatric unit and diagnosed with major depression. This news hit me like a bug on a moving car’s windshield. I didn’t know this was a sickness. I was released and forced to start individual therapy.
I became very close to my new therapist-she made me laugh and helped me to solve little problems. Although things were looking better, there were a lot of problems still hovering over me like vultures around road kill. I again tried killing myself and was sent back to the hospital. This time, I was released into an intense therapy group for teenagers. These sessions were every weekday for either four or eight hours. My self-esteem went down, and I seemed to have made more problems for myself-getting into drugs.
I made it through nearly two months of this intense therapy, and came out happier and feeling less depressed. I went back to bottling up my anger and sadness in order to stay out of therapy, but a gang rape on me ripped apart the barrier. Once again, I was injuring myself and back in the hospital.
I returned to the powerful group therapy with even lower self-esteem than before. Not happy with my appearance, I became anorexic. I lost a lot of weight, and began looking like a starving child from Bosnia. My therapist forced me to slowly start eating again; however, noticing the slightest weight gain led me to eat and then purposely vomit. My therapist caught on to my bulimia and began monitoring my eating before, during and after. I felt trapped.
I finally realized if I didn’t want to live, I would have succeeded in my suicide attempts. I gradually discovered what I had to live for, and I was sick of being labeled as depressed. I decided I wanted help.
Today, I still visit a another therapist every once in a while, and I am currently getting off my medications. I finally feel free; I am no longer struggling to hold on to the slippery bars of the merry-go-round. The revolving door is now a one-way door, and I have left the building. Good-bye, depression. Hello, slide.