You Are Not Alone.

I have felt called to speak on my experience with depression for some years now. For unknown reasons I have always talked myself out of it. I told myself that other people have it worse, that other people won't care about my story. And maybe that's true. But I know that when I was in the darkest times of my life it was very comforting to know that I wasn't in the depths alone despite the frigid silence I experienced there.

I would like to make a "trigger warning" for those of you who are struggling and might be bothered by some of the things in this blog. Most of my family members and people who know me do not know any of this about me. I am trying to be as vulnerable as possible without being pitiful. I don't want pity: I want to provide hope.

That being said, there will be talk of self-harm, depression, eating disorders, body-dysmorphia, and suicidal ideation. There will be pictures. If you don't feel comfortable hearing about my experience, I'll see you in the next one. But if you want to know, this one's for you.

Also, before you read, please do not blame my parents or any of my loved ones for any of this. I kept most of this a secret until now. A lot of this will come as a surprise to people who know me very well. If you are one of those people, know that it is not your fault I didn't tell you. I was ashamed of myself and I didn't tell ANYONE.

Now, let's get into the story.

The day before my first day of high school, my beloved grandmother, Janet Oldham, was diagnosed with small-cell cancer. I still don't know the specifics of that particular disease, but I do know that it was severe and ate away at her faster than the doctors and our family expected. I do not fault the doctors in any way and I never have; it is hard to predict the future.

I was mad at God at first. I didn't understand why at the time, but the most logical answer was that she had smoked basically all of her life. So as horrible as it sounds, she did it to herself.

Around my birthday in October, Gran called me. She was choked up and at first I thought the worst. When she finally had the words to say, she told me that her cancer was 50% reduced. It was truly a medical miracle, as the chemo was only supposed to slow the cancer, not reduce it. It was the best birthday present of my life.

But a little over a month after that, the weekend after Thanksgiving, she got pneumonia, was hospitalized, and was told she had three days to live.

Now I hated God.

How could God take her away from me? How could He be so selfish and unloving when He is supposed to be merciful and gracious? Could He not spare some grace and mercy for my precious Gran? It still brings tears to my eyes as I write this. I was so angry and resentful toward God that I didn't want to believe that He was real.

The Wednesday after my gran was hospitalized, my sister brought her guitar to the hospital and we played a few songs for our family to keep the spirits up. Then my gramma asked me if I'd sing "In the Garden" for her. It was her favorite hymn. So I began to sing it, sitting on the table in her hospital room. At first, the whole Oldham Clan joined in. Before we got through the first verse everyone's voices were wiggly with choked-back tears. But we sang through the whole song. There's a video of it out there somewhere, but it plays just fine in my mind.

My grandmother passed away around 7:45 a.m. on Saturday, December 7, 2013. I remember my mom gathering one of my brothers, my sister, and two of my cousins around the basement door. We all knew what she was going to say. I don't even remember if she actually said it. I just remember how quiet the room was. I remember looking at my cousin Cameron, seeing her eyes downcast and a single tear forming under her right eye. I didn't cry though. My mind recognized that she was gone, but my heart didn't believe it.

About an hour later we arrived at the hospital to be with the rest of our family. I walked into the room and saw her laying on the bed and I began to cry. For over a year my mom thought it was because of the sight of her, but it wasn't. When I walked into the room I heard angels singing "In The Garden." I felt so ashamed of myself, so unclean in such holiness. I wouldn't go back in the room. That's all I really remember about that day.

Before my gramma was diagnosed with cancer, she told me that she wanted me to learn how to play "In The Garden" on the piano. I told her I would. I didn't actually start learning it until she was diagnosed, and her earthly body never got to hear me play it. I still feel shame about that to this day. After all, my gran was the reason that I started playing the piano.

Every day leading up to her funeral I would sit at the piano and play that hymn for hours at a time. I'm not sure why I did it, I knew how to play it. I guess it was the best way for me to keep the best parts of her alive even though they were dead.

I played the song at her funeral and I like to believe that God let her listen, even though I know that's probably not true. What's a grandchild playing a piano in comparison to a choir of angels?

This is the event that began my depression. It was the spark that caused a flame. Or maybe the ember that caused the forest fire.

I quickly started distancing myself from people and from everything that I loved. I lost all of my friends, and I didn't even sit near the piano for months, much less play it. Every day after school I would come home, go to my room, and go to sleep.

If you are familiar with the symptoms of depression, you've probably already sensed quite a few red flags.

Christmas that year was quiet. I don't remember anyone talking about Gran except for when we received the presents that she had already bought. Christmas was Gran's favorite time of year and she prepared for it all year long. If I'm being honest, Christmas hasn't been the same since and I doubt it ever will be.

For about four months I didn't know what was wrong with me. Then in April, I told my mom that I was not okay, that I needed some sort of help. I wasn't thinking right and I was scared. My mom got me into my first therapist. Her name was Patricia. That's really all I remember about her. She didn't really care much about what I had to say, she just told me that I needed to set goals. But when June came around I thought I felt better and I told my mom I didn't think I needed to go to therapy anymore. So I stopped.

For the next few months I began to lose my appetite. Just watching other people eat made me feel nauseous. So I stopped eating. February of my Sophomore year of high school I weighed as low as 84 pounds. At the time, I wasn't conscious of what I was doing. The thought of food repulsed me and I thought that was okay. 

These jeans were a size 10 in kids.

Not long after I stopped eating, I began harming myself. Please, if you're reading this and you think you want to harm yourself, I assure you that you don't. It is a deep, dark hole. It becomes an addiction.

I was very sneaky in the way that I did this. I would normally only harm myself on my hips, because you couldn't see it even if I was wearing a bathing suit. I only harmed myself once on my arm and my dad saw it. I told him I got it caught on a chair. (I'm sorry I lied to you, Dad)

The worst was yet to come. 

On June 28, 2014, I wrote a suicide letter. I thought that I was going to take my own life. I thought that nobody loved me and that nobody cared about me. I believed there was nothing left to live for and there was nothing in this world for me. I laid in my bed and cried as I wrote. It was late at night and I knew that my mom was asleep. The only thing that stopped me was knowing that she would be the one who would find me. She may not know that I know, but I heard my mom come into my room throughout the night at times to check on me. She never did it before this and she hasn't done it much since.

I had dreams about her coming into my room and finding me. What I dreamed, I can only imagine, wasn't even as close to as bad as what it really would've been.

To those around me I seemed to be getting better during this time. My mom and dad thought that my outbursts were just teenage angst.

In December of 2014 I was sitting in youth group. I suddenly had this vision of crashing myself into a tree on the side of the road and I felt myself burning. I started silently sobbing and my boyfriend at the time took me out of the room and called my mom for me.

When I got in the car with her I could tell she didn't know how to feel. She told me that she didn't know if I was doing this for attention or if something was actually wrong. I told her there was something seriously wrong with me. A few years later my mom told me that she almost took me to OLOP that night. I'm glad she didn't, though it might've helped me at the time.

The next day, I met my current therapist, Miss Karen. We had a very long talk about how I was feeling. She had me take a mental health test. The test asked questions about your motivation, how much you sleep, how tired you feel after you rest, if you want to hurt yourself, if you do hurt yourself, etc. It was scored 1-40, 1 being completely fine and happy, 40 being on the verge of suicide. I scored a 38. I think that's when my parents truly understood how badly I was hurting.

Not long after that, my therapist suggested to my parents that I start taking antidepressants. (For those of you who care, I took Lexapro) At first my parents were against it because they didn't want me stuck on a pill for the rest of my life. My therapist reassured them that this would be very helpful for me and I could take myself off of it slowly with little-to-no side effects. 

She was so right.

Just a week into taking those tiny 10mg pills I felt like myself again. I started playing the piano again, I started singing to myself, I started wanting to be around people.

A few months after that I decided that I didn't think I needed to take them anymore. So I stopped. And I felt great for a long time. But when it started getting cold and the sun didn't shine as much anymore, I found myself folding back into the darkness. When I talked to Miss Karen about this, she diagnosed me with Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), more commonly known as Seasonal Depression.

I told her that I believed I could manage without the medication. Miss Karen taught me many coping skills and how to speak truth to myself even when I didn't want to believe it. The things that she taught me honestly saved my life. Anti-depressants are amazing if you need them, but you have to learn how to manage your emotions without them.

Now fast-forward to 2020. 

I am about to graduate college, a life-long dream of mine. As a little girl I didn't think about my wedding or having a baby, I thought about graduating from college.

Then this virus strikes. 

Now I can't leave my house, I can't go to school, my graduation is postponed, I can't go to work, I can't visit my grandparents. Then my grandpa dies. Then one of the most influential people in my life dies. Then I can't find a job. I feel absolutely worthless and hopeless.

I didn't want to admit to myself that I am depressed, because this depression isn't as soul-crushing as what I felt in high school. But this depression lingers day in and day out. It keeps me up at night. It makes me tired. It makes me not want to eat. I've lost 15 pounds since March.

Luckily, this time, I knew the warning signs and I was able to talk to my therapist. I am going to be taking anti-depressants again for a short season of my life. That is okay. It is better to take a pill than to feel the way that I feel.

All of this being said, I don't want anyone to be afraid for me. I do not want to hurt or kill myself. I do not want people to pity me or feel guilty that they didn't know.

I wrote this blog for those of you who feel like no one understands. I wrote this blog for people who believe that they are all alone in this mess. You are not alone. I will always be one message, one call away. If you ever need someone to talk to I will always answer. There's a reason I always turn on the ringer on my phone at night despite having it set on vibrate all day. I will not miss your call. I don't care if you're reading this and you believe that I don't like you. I don't care if the last time we talked it was an argument. I don't care about any of that. All I care about is saving even just one person in this world from believing that no one cares about them. Even if you believe that no one else in the world cares about you, know that I do and I always will no matter the circumstance of our relationship. Even if you're reading this and you're someone I've never met in my life, I promise to answer when you need me to.

If you don't feel comfortable talking to me, here is the phone number for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

1-800-273-8255

I care about you. I want you to be here. You are not alone.