User Profile

As of 01/24/09, this journal will be a record of my mental health day-to-day. I will not make the commitment to post daily, as it would be too easy to despise myself for missing days.

History

I am 27 years old, not unattractive, very intelligent. I am the third of four children born of two attractive, intelligent parents. As a child I was painfully shy in public, but given to attention-getting tantrums at home. My parents both had their own sufferings and were ill-equipped to give the attention I needed. With happier, more outspoken siblings on either side of me, it was easy enough to feel cast aside.

My younger brother, closest to me in age and interests, was more industrious, more motivated, and better at making friends. As he was the youngest, there was always a kind of jealousy in me that imagined my mother favored him. She may have, I can't rely on my memory or hers to know. It was obvious to me that my father favored me, saw in me the developing sadness, but also the brightness and potential. His optimism was not catching, and I found it awkward to receive his attention and encouragement when it so blatantly exceeded what he gave to my siblings. Or so it seemed to me. In a recent conversation with my mother, I learned she was ignorant of any such favor. Did I imagine it? Nevertheless I felt it.

My memory of the time surrounding my beginning therapy as a young adolescent is more than a little hazy, in fact I believe I have done my very best to forget as much of it as possible. I can trace the beginnings of it but not the feelings that led to the changes in my behavior. I did not act out, though I continued to cry easily. I gave up on schoolwork, though not on my high expectations for myself. I was on and off Prozac through high school, which I got through only just barely.

The freedom of college was a wonderful change of scenery, but not of behavior. Once the work became demanding I gave it up for psychologically self-destructive habits. I gained something of the confidence I had always lacked, I made valued friends, and so I do not regret my going to college. My grades were bad in the third year and I knew the news would not be welcome at home. I was more depressed than ever. Rather than facing my parents' wrath, rather than being turned out of the house and forced to survive in a world I was still wholly unready for, I decided I should die. I hoped testimonies of how largely unsuccessful wrist-cutting is would prove untrue in my case, as it was the only method I could muster the courage to attempt. I ran a hot bath, got in clothed, and I tried and tried, but I must not have been deep enough or I must not have been hitting the veins. The flow kept stopping. The water grew tepid. I gave up. I got out, my brother got me bandages and called mom home from work.

Since then I have gained something more of an adult life. I have been fortunate to find a job I love. I support myself. I still hurt. I still face the same self-hating thoughts as ever. I am reading Dr. Tara Brach's Radical Acceptance and trying to learn to love myself through becoming aware of my thoughts and emotions and not judging myself for having them. I am not so uncautious as to have hope of succeeding, but I am at least willing to try. Tragedy has brought emotions to the surface and I find it harder than ever to find mirth.

Let this journal document my trying.