Sadness Is All I’ve Ever Known

I can’t remember a time in my life that I ever felt “normal.” For as long as I can remember, I have always felt different from the rest of the world. I had a psychiatrist ask me once when my depression first started. I stared at her blankly for a few seconds as I tried my hardest to think. Finally, I opened my mouth. “Always? I can’t say a particular time when I felt it begin. Is it possible to be born depressed?”

Most little girls dream of becoming mommies, they fantasize about what their weddings will be like. I, on the hand, dreamed of the day when I would be adopted. Surely my life wouldn’t always be this bad. 

Instinctively, I knew from a young age that I was not the child my mother wanted. My mother, a quiet, passive, shy woman, gave birth to her husband’s daughter. I was loud, energetic and loved being in the spotlight. I was creative, inquisitive and ready to take the world by storm. 

And I was four when I was first placed on medication. By nine, I had three different prescriptions.

No longer was I free spirited. No longer did I have boundless energy and a desire to experience the world. Instead, at nine years old, on a typical Saturday, I could be found alone in my room, with my coloring book and crayons, intensely focused. 

I was ten when I was sent to live with my maternal grandmother. Because instead of staying home and being a parent, my mother, freshly divorced, had met a man online. She worked throughout the week, and every weekend was reserved for her new boyfriend, who lived in Pennsylvania, while we were in New Jersey. In the meantime, a ten and fourteen year old were left to fend for ourselves. 

Maybe things would have been different if my sister actually liked me or cared about my personal well-being. But she didn’t. 

I first began to toy with the idea of bulimia when I was thirteen. It was all so glamorous and appealing. At first. 

At seventeen, the day before my senior year of high school was to begin, my grandmother suffered a massive stroke. Two weeks later, she died. 

It was at this point that I realized I was ever going to get out of this nightmare, the only way would be college. And after being accepted to all seven schools I applied for, I had many choices. 

But with the stress of college, came the return of my disordered eating habits. Before I knew what was happening, I found myself twenty years old and surviving on coffee, diet coke and laxatives. 

Alone, and so unsure of where to turn, I called my mother. 

"There’s a problem.” I said as I drove home from classes one evening. 

She paused. “What kind of problem?”

“I have an eating disorder.” I explained, only to be met with silence. 

“What makes you think you have an eating disorder?" 

I tried to explain it all. The vomiting, the laxatives, the restricting, the intense obsession with the scale. But she heard none of it.

"Oh, now come on, you are perfectly healthy. This is just a phase the women in our family go through. I went through it, Aunt Sue went through it.”

I would come to find out, that unbeknownst to me, every female on my mother’s side had at one point in their life had an eating disorder. 

I would eventually go on to recover, completely on my own, without any support of family. As of today, I am five and a half years recovered from an EDNOS. 

When I was twenty three, I met a man and fell deeply in love. 

When I was twenty five, he left me six weeks before our wedding. He and all my “friends.” Again, I found myself alone and left to pick up the pieces. 

Four months later, after a rebound relationship, I suffered a miscarriage. I never even suspected I was pregnant until I found myself lying in a hospital bed and a doctor telling me there was nothing that could be done. 

Every once in a while, the little girl in me hopes that someone will someday swoop down and save the day, taking me away from all of this. The realistic soon to be twenty-seven year old me knows that at the end of the day, the only one person I can truly rely on is myself. 

I’m in a relationship now, I have a steady job, I live with my best friend, I pay my own bills, I’m planning a two week excursion to Spain and Italy next year with two of my best friends. I can’t complain. With the help of life saving medication, I function better than I could have ever hoped after everything that has transpired. 

That doesn’t mean I don’t still ache. I have been to hell and back twice. Sometimes, my strength wavers, and I allow myself to cry. When people tell me they don’t know how I’ve survived, all I can do is stare back at them.

What choice did I have? There was no other option but to continuously put one foot in front of the other. Through the neglect of my own mother, the emotional and verbal abuse of her boyfriend, my eating disorder, depression and miscarriage, there is no other choice but to keep going. Because for me, I’ve become used to the pain. When one hurdle ends, there are three more to overcome. 

This is my life. I get up, and realize “yup, still stuck with the same life.” I curse, sometimes I cry, sometimes I yell, and then, the day begins. I start the coffee, I run the shower, I remind myself that I have no choice but to eat and I go to work, doing my best to contribute positively to society. 

I go on every day to reach my goal. 

Having children and giving them the life I always dreamed of and never got. 

In the end, all I know is this: Hope is the only thing I have to cling to. Each new day brings with it new hope and a second chance to get things right.