"I would, if only..."

For a long time, I felt like my depression was ruining my marriage, but after I started going to therapy, I finally felt like I was making progress towards being "normal."

One day, my therapist told me that often with her married patients, improving their sex life was pivotal in improving their self-esteem. This made sense to me, because my sex life was nearly nonexistent.

I picked my husband up from work that evening, and told him about what my therapist had said. Before I could go further, he interrupted me to say, "I would want to have sex with you, if only you had a rockstar body."

Even when I was thin, my body image was terrible. But this shot what little confidence I had. His cruelty in that moment made me never want sex again, and I've not since initiated. 

It's been five years since then. He's had affairs. I've been suicidal. He's told me to kill myself. And one day, I might.

"I missed you so much."

A few years ago, I started dating a guy. He was amazing in the beginning, and we stayed together for about six months.

After a little while, he started to become distant. I eventually managed to get him to confess that he kissed another girl. I gave him the opportunity to explain himself, but we ended up breaking things off. 

During our last month together, I suffered a traumatic injury that prevented me from walking correctly, and gave me severe physical PTSD. I couldn't stand to be touched in the slightest, and the sounds of things crashing or hitting made me flinch and become anxious. The want for death to come was an impending thought I couldn't get rid of.

After he and I broke up, we ended up being paired together for projects in two of our classes. Even though his current girlfriend was against him even speaking to me, he slowly began to see my cracks, and eventually I told him about how I had nearly attempted suicide and how there were many times I wanted nothing more than to die. My grades had dropped dramatically, my attitude hardened, and I was almost a completely different person.

After I confided in him, he told me, "I missed you so much. And to even think I almost lost you forever, just hurts too much." 

Those words struck me simply because I didn't believe at the time that I had anyone with me who cared. Even him, who stayed in the shadows and watched me get worse and worse.

It was one of the saddest and worst times because I knew deep down, he was the reason I almost died. But he's also the reason I'm still alive.

That's what stuck with me.

"The Distraction"

My two friends and I all live in a dorm together. One day we were all hanging out and joking around like we usually do, and one of my friends suggested we should probably start our homework soon. 

My other friend replied, "Yeah, but I can't get any work done with the distraction in here." She looked at me and laughed, meaning it as a joke. 

I have severe ADHD, and do often get off topic and distracted. I understand why it's hard to concentrate with me in the room. But it only affirmed the message I have been getting my whole life: that while I may be fun to hang out with, I'm not useful when real work needs to get done. I'm not serious. I don't belong in an intellectual environment. I'm not smart. I don't work hard. I only distract people from the things that are actually important.

"Well, you haven't done any of that yet."

When I was in college, I struggled with serious depression. I would get overwhelmed easily and I ended up missing a lot of class. 

I was always upfront with my professors about this at the beginning of the semester, giving them a heads up about my situation before anything happened. 

I was enrolled in a class with a professor who was very esteemed and beloved by all students and fellow professors in the department, and on the first day, I explained my situation.

His reply was, "Well, you haven't done any of that yet."

Later in the semester, I missed a very important part of his class, one that others relied on me to be there for. He called me into his office, told me that I had disappointed everyone in my class, and that I would not be welcome to attend the rest of his class for the semester. He told me that I owed it to my peers to stand up in front of them and apologize, which I did. It was the worst experience of my life, considering the state I was in.

The next year, he retired. The school put on a ceremony in his honor. I had made great progress since then, and so I attended, and I realized something. I recognize that he has made so many positive contributions to the lives of so many students for decades. I recognize his accomplishments as an educator. That doesn't mean that he is without fault, and that doesn't mean he was right. I respect his reputation, but his dismissive response to my trying to warn him about a personal issue is what stuck with me.

Terrible Role Model

I was in a bad marriage, had a small child and suffered back to back miscarriages. I was also battling depression and really had no one to turn to. 

One day, I saw an email to my husband from his mother stating that I was a terrible role model for our daughter.

This completely crushed me. 

I somehow found the courage to end the marriage, which really helped the depression. I went back to school and got my degree (which my ex never finished). And I have stood by my child as she has battled mental health issues, without her dad. 

I try so hard to support my child in every way possible, yet I will never forget that email.

"You have too many problems."

When I was about 12, my mom and I were driving to a school event, and I told her I was scared and nervous.

I will never forget her turning around and saying, "You have too many problems. You're always complaining or crying. It would have been easier to have had another boy than you." 

At that time I had bad depression and anxiety that she did not know about, and that still makes me upset to this day.

"At least one of them will turn out normal."

After years of abuse, a group home, and an abusive foster mother, my life finally settled down. I went to therapy, got diagnosed with depression and PTSD, and received the help I needed. I became happier, more confident, more in control of my life than I have ever been. I felt like for the first time, my life was going in the right direction.

One day I was talking to my adoptive mother about how my little brother might be too young for therapy because he wasn't talking much in his sessions. The she told me what his therapist said to her:

"At least one of them will turn out normal." 

I had always felt judged for what my birth parents did, but hearing that a professional believed that I would forever be tainted because of my past sticks with me. 

I may have issues, but I am not broken. I am not destined to follow in my parents' footsteps and I'm not destined to lose my battle with my illnesses. 

I understand all of this on a logical level, but there's still that intrusive voice telling me that I will fail, I'm sick, I'm not normal, and I never will be.

"Nobody cares."

When I was in first grade, there was a girl who liked to tease me in a rather simple but hurtful way. I was a very talkative child, but every time I said something, she said to me, "Nobody cares." 

Eventually I stopped being talkative and became a quiet child. Now I am a quiet 20 year old struggling to talk to people, with barely any friends.

To top this all, my parents say I'm a very boring person. They don't believe in mental illnesses or disorders that I could have, so they just tell me to get over myself.

I just honestly think that nobody cares.

"Just a phase."

Sophomore year of high school, I was well into my depression and struggling to find a reason to keep going. The first person I confided in was my dad, and he assured me that he'd help me find a therapist. 

Fast forward to a few months later, and my mom and stepdad were the ones who were helping me to find the help I so desperately needed. 

My dad finally attended a session with me, and afterwards he admitted to me in the car that he thought that my depression was "just a phase," and that he had never actually looked for help for me. 

It's been nearly 6 years, and I still don't think he takes me seriously.
 

"You're strong, and you should never forget that."

My art teacher was the one teacher who helped me with my mental illness. He never pointed out when I lost or gained weight, or when it was obvious that I was hiding the new wounds on my arms and legs.  He made sure I ate lunch in his classroom every day because he knew I had an eating disorder. Most days I just ate an apple, but seeing someone put forth so much effort into my well-being helped me more than he will ever know.

I came back to visit him after I graduated, and he told me, "When you first started coming to class your freshman year, I thought we were going to lose you before you graduated."

Then he smiled and said, "But you made it. And you did it on your own. You're strong, and you should never forget that. I'm proud of you."