This is partly machine translated article.
I intended to write about how people like to label things, and how it can be both good and bad, but I ended up veering off course.
I want to write about my journey to understanding the causes of my struggles a little better. Since it takes time and energy to write in one article, I will split it into parts. This is the first part.
Depression, personality disorders, bipolar disorder, developmental disorders. This mix is who I am. It took me many years to self-diagnose like this. It’s tough to live feeling out of place, being perceived as normal, and trying to act normal.
I don’t want this to be misunderstood negatively, but sometimes I think I would feel somewhat at peace if I were recognized as “disabled.”
It’s like forcing myself to laugh at an unfunny boss’s story or working drenched in sweat because no one lowers the air conditioning temperature in a too-hot office.
I’ve visited many psychiatrists and mental health clinics, but I’ve never been diagnosed with a specific illness or disorder.
I started self-harming in middle school. At that time, it was just minor scratches, but it gradually escalated to the point where the scars won’t fade on their own. I didn’t know the term “cutting” or even “self-harm” back then, as a middle schooler, of course.
There are many reasons for self-harm. (By the way, I prefer the term “self-harm” over “cutting” because I feel it doesn’t belittle the act.) It might be to vent frustration, to distract from sadness, to acknowledge feelings of worthlessness, or for other reasons that I can’t remember unless I’m in that moment.
After self-harming, seeing the wounds and blood can bring a sense of calm, which is often said, and I think it’s true. The overwhelming emotions, discomfort, and the messy feelings in my chest seem to slowly flow out.
Sometimes, looking at the wounds, I encourage myself by thinking, “I’m trying so hard to live.”
In college, I read books like “The Complete Manual of Suicide” and “The Cost of Suicide” and even took antidepressants mentioned in them. I don’t remember the name, but it was a yellow capsule or powder from Pfizer. I could buy it at the pharmacy without restrictions. I remember drinking it with alcohol, smoking, self-harming, and comforting myself. I think all these acts of despair—smoking, drinking, taking pills—are similar to cutting in being forms of self-harm.
Through these books (I don’t remember which one), I learned about the differences between SSRIs (Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors) and SNRIs (Serotonin-Norepinephrine Reuptake Inhibitors), which sparked my interest in the effects of various medications.
This has become a story about self-harm, but anyway, with such tendencies, when I wasn’t feeling well, living was really tough, I envied others, felt suffocated, couldn’t express it, and thought, “Something’s wrong. Is this depression?” That was in college.
So, I went to a hospital for the first time for a mental (or rather, a brain) illness.
At the hospital, I talked about self-harming, the struggles of living, and how I couldn’t share my painful feelings with anyone.
Looking back, that hospital provided very attentive care. The doctor was a calm, experienced, and kind woman, and although I don’t remember clearly, I recall undergoing some tests. I was prescribed antidepressants and sleep aids to see how things would go.
I was nervous for my first visit to a psychiatrist, but the doctor was friendly. However, I don’t think I was diagnosed with anything. At the time, I didn’t feel anything about not being told, “You have this illness/disorder, so let’s proceed with this treatment.” These kinds of illnesses are hard to diagnose definitively, can change over time or with environment, and that’s just how it is.
Not being able to continue visiting regularly was also a problem. Honestly, I didn’t feel dramatic effects from the medication. The sleep aid improved my sleep quality, but the antidepressants just made me sleepy without changing my daily mood. So, I got tired of going.
However, my struggle with living never resolved, and even as an adult, I kept hopping from one hospital to another.
Especially in my first job after graduating college, I experienced typical depression. I didn’t get along with many people at work, and my alcohol and smoking intake increased. I kept getting nagged by people around my age and eventually couldn’t go to work.
In the end, I went through a cycle of leave, return, and resignation. During that time, even at the hospitals I visited, I was never given a diagnosis, just prescribed antidepressants. Looking back now, that was the time I truly had depression.
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