Personal Stories

On March 26, 2015, my 19-year-old brother died by suicide. His death seemed to come out of nowhere, and it left my family in an understandable state of shock.

I was diagnosed with bipolar II, major depressive disorder and generalized anxiety disorder at the age of 25. It’s hard for me to grasp that my official diagnosis was only two years ago because so much has transpired and changed since then.

I found a therapist and psychiatrist and was diagnosed with OCD, anxiety and depression. The constant worrying, fears, anxiety attacks, rituals and obsessions finally all made sense.

The next step was finding help. As much as I couldn’t wait to feel better, I was none too pleased with the prospect of discussing my innermost feelings with a stranger.

I was so scared of seeing a doctor because I knew what the outcome would be. I didn’t want to put a label on myself and have it define the rest of my life.

I started experiencing some panic and anxiety. Then I couldn’t sleep, and then never could get out of my bed, or shower, or leave my room, or answer my friends, or even go to work. I had dark thoughts.

The smile that’s always on my face is a new look for me. Sure, you’ll see me smiling in pictures from past years, but if you look beneath the surface, if you look into my eyes, you’ll see the hurt and the pain I felt for so long.

As I’d done a couple of times before, I told a brief version of my story, all while looking down in the shame that had been instilled in me. After I finished, he looked at me with the biggest smile and said, “I’m glad you’re here.”

You don’t come around as often as you used to and I can’t say that’s necessarily a bad thing. Ever since we met, you’ve been a weight on my shoulders that always held me down, making even the smallest things nearly impossible.

I am 54 years old and I struggled with the intense pain and chaos of borderline personality disorder for decades…I felt that I was too old to heal.