This Is Me Swallowing My Pride...

I'm getting pretty good at these disappearing acts, aren't I?

First, a confession: I just read a book all the way to the end for the first time since I left home last April. I've probably started half a dozen books since the semester started, reading many, sometimes making it all the way to the beginning of the climax, but never finishing it. It was frustrating, to say the least. I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I've had to do a lot of healing this semester, and little things like the feel of holding a book with just a few pages to go, the deep sigh that comes once the last sentence has been read, they all let me know that I've made progress.

To my friends who read this, I feel like I can finally get this out. Writing it somewhere other than my own diary, getting it out to real people, might just take me a little bit further.

This semester started with a new sensation for me: homesickness. My second semester at college, certainly not the first time I'd been away from home, and I wanted to be anywhere but here. Which was ridiculous, because I loved my classes and had made friends. Still, the only reason I wasn't packing up my car, jumping on the I-15, and driving 'til I hit the Golden State was because I knew I needed to be here, and had enough willpower to make it happen. Still, I called my parents from inside my car (the only place I could get privacy) every night for days, seeking any comfort and help they could give.

I hit a second speed bump as I realized that I was letting myself sink into some pretty destructive habits and behaviors. I realized I needed to change that, and with the help of my church leaders, was able to get myself back on track. Life seemed to be picking up, I was back in touch with my characters, and for a few short days, I was happy. About this same time is when my roommates health started failing, as I mentioned in an earlier post, just to give a point of reference. Exactly three days after I made major breakthroughs with my behaviors, I got a devastating call from my parents:

They were selling the house. It was that, or file for bankruptcy. I'd lived in that house for twelve years. It sheltered me from all the awkward middleschool years, was my respite from the storm of highschool, was my stronghold during my terrible breakup. And just like that, there was the possibility that I'd never set foot in it again.
Of course, though, that could never be the end.
My brother put in applications to serve his country in Iraq and the Arizona Warzone. My brother already goes to work everyday in a bulletproof vest. This new development was so Not Okay.

I was scared. I was angry. I felt alone. I didn't know where I would live in the summer, let alone where I'd eventually call 'home'. I didn't want to talk to my parents, because I couldn't say anything without crying. It grew worse than that though. I stopped going to class. I went when it was crucial, but if I could afford to miss, I did. I was battered by constant streams of "what's wrong" from those closest to me. I stopped eating. I'd be starving, but the thought of food repulsed me. I hated eating. I'd just sit there, day in, day out, unable to make myself do anything of value. Life had lost its savor. Everything was just...colorless. I stopped finding happiness in the onset of spring, the beauty of my college campus, even the company of my roommates. Later, I'd describe this as a time when the Dementors attacked daily in full force. My world had turned to Azkaban, and I saw no hope for escape. It was at this time that the Carpal Tunnel set in, stealing from me my music and my writing, my last few feeble forms of escape, which were already weakened anyway. At the coercing of my roommates, I finally signed up for my school's free counseling center. I was wait-listed.

The weeks dragged on. I called my parents regularly, considering options for finding off-campus counseling. Even with insurance, it wouldn't be cheap, which wasn't really an option. Finally, just over two weeks ago, I got an appointment with my school's center. My counselor was nice, she listened to me talk--erm--cry, and after a lot of discussion, I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain, and 'flared' by current stresses. I know a lot of people don't like labels and psych diagnoses, but for me, a diagnosis means answers, and once I know what I'm dealing with, I can start to fix it.

Bless my counselor, she likes medications as much as I do. As in, a deep, dark loathing of them. So we started "Behavioral Prozac" instead. Everyday, I am required to do four things:
1: Record five specific things that I was grateful for, or that made me happy (i.e. "I saw a pretty flower that made me smile")
2: Get 30 minutes of physical activity every day.
3: Spend as much time around people as possible
4: Do one thing, every day, that I know makes me happy on the good days. Even if that means going to WalMart and watching the fish for half an hour.

For the most part, my Behavioral Prozac works well enough. I have fewer bad days, at least. It gives me an excuse to watch TV or read a book. I'm probably one of the only kids who goes to a therapist, tells her she doesn't hear the characters in her head anymore, and the therapist says, "It's okay, they'll come back in time. Just let them come. They'll be there when your mind heals enough."

Like I said, I guess I'm healing. I've written seven pages this week, more than almost the entire semester. Maybe I'll have some Diary to post by the end of summer. I'll keep better updates now, with my progress going as it is. If you have any questions, feel free to ask.

With much love and thanks,
-Jordy