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The Struggle.

So I guess to get this out of the way I'm going to tell you about my history of what I believe must be depression and anxiety issues.

It started when I was twelve. I remember the first time I realized I had a problem. I was sitting out in the parking lot during our lunch/recess and just held my hands around my throat, trying to stop myself from breathing. It felt like a joke at the time, and my friends found it amusing, but later I admitted to myself that in a way I had hoped it would work.

From then on middle school just became a blur of drama and pain. There wasn't really anything to set it off, but by the time I got out I was cutting myself and wishing I would die. A friend turned me into the guidance office, who in turn called my parents. They went through my room and found lots of drawings and rantings scrawled over the pages of a notebook. They brought these things with them and I spent the next few hours crying in the guidance office as the counselor talked to my parents and referred them to an outpatient clinic.

For the next few months I had a weekly meeting with a woman named Gale. I did not like Gale. I felt she was trying to treat me for something entirely different than what I was sent there for and after three months I convinced her I was okay and we stopped meeting.

It was a few more years until I sought help again. Freshman year of high school was not good. I was told by a sophomore friend that it'd get better next year, but it did not. I still felt depressed and lost and my stress was getting worse.

By junior year I was fooling everyone most of the time. I was the silly, happy Mandi that could make everyone laugh. But occasionally I'd snap and freak out. My episodes confused most people and worried those closest to me. There was a lot of rocking back and forth and ridiculous giggle fits and too much energy. I couldn't think. All I could do was wait it out.

About a week before the end of junior year I went to see one of the guidance counselors. The max time slot for a session was 20 minutes, I spent that first meeting crying to her for an hour.

I went back at the start of my senior year but after a while her focus seemed to shift from what I came to her for to how my [nonexistent] love life was going. I felt there wasn't enough time for me to get to know one of the other counselors, so I quit. And by the end of the year I was falling so bad that one of my best friends who had always cared and always supported me didn't want to be around me anymore because she just couldn't deal with it. I never liked to cry in public but I often broke down in the halls.

My anxiety wasn't much better. It often prevented me from doing simple things like calling to make appointments or going to hang out with friends because I just worried that something bad would happen even when I knew nothing would.

And then I left for college. I've been here for a month and today I finally met with a counselor. My fear of speaking on the phone prevented me from doing this sooner, but over the weekend something happened that drove me to call. I'm glad I did but I'm so afraid it won't help. I really need this to work. I can't go on like this for much longer. I'm afraid that someday I'll snap and jump out my window, falling eight floors to the sidewalk below just to stop dealing with this.

Anyway. That was more venting than anything else, but I felt I should get it out. If you read all that... wooow. There's my wall of text for you. I swear the rest will be more interesting.