letssee
02-20-2014, 01:35 AM
I feel so pathetic, conflicted, hopeless, worthless... DEFINITELY feel free to skip the background junk and get to my question at the end. (Marked by **)
I so desperately want to see enough value in myself to warrant actually seeking help but it's so hard. What incentive is there to nurture something you so deeply loathe? I -want- to be happy but can't make myself feel worthy of happiness. (Not even happiness, just some semblance of normalcy.)
Maybe it's hard for me to find help because no one ever made me feel worthy of being helped, even so far as flat out denying me help when I was too young to do for myself.
Maybe I'm so critical of myself because I never really felt -allowed- to see good in myself.
Maybe I really am a little shit and don't deserve to view my past as anything but what I needed.
At 11 I had dance 3 days a week, played softball, -loved- veggies, had no authority over my intake whatsoever, but was still a little chubby. (But honestly, objectively not even that bad.) My family (mother and grandmother) forced me into weight watchers and changed absolutely -nothing- about our home's *severe* junk-food-only problem and continued preparing absolute garbage and verbally attacking me any time I had any food related suggestions.
Needless to say I failed. Miserably.
At the time I thought I was just defective. "What the fuck is wrong with me if I can't even do this right, while the other kids in my group are doing so amazing?
By 13 I had quit dance, quit the viola after 6 years, started cutting, and put on a ton of depression weight.
I accidentally let a cut show in the locker room one day and the school told my family I desperately needed therapy. I never got it, and the school never checked in. I wasn't surprised another group of people didn't care.
At 15 I started purging and fasting and even after losing 100 pounds in 4 - 5 months I was still constantly berated by my mom and grandma about my unacceptable size and food choices. I could go three days without food without them noticing, go to grab a banana, and be met with "Are you sure you need that right now?" "And you were doing so well... " and/or " I think you've gained a little back" paired with dirty glares. When my mother heard I was purging she said I'm a piece of shit and that she hoped I would go on to do it so much that I burn a whole in my throat and drop dead.
All through high school I stayed involved in theater and the arts and was even in a competitive Vocal Jazz group that traveled to compete and met once a week at night (I know, my lame is showing, but it was actually amazing) and I swear if not for the arts and the language department (German), I would have offed myself before 10th grade. Those subjects and those teachers instilled in me something that was foreign to me; actual confidence.
But I still never applied myself fully because I got daily reminders at home that my future is hopeless and that I'd never succeed at anything. I did virtually no work at all, maybe 20 total assignments in 4 years, and my attendance suffered due to my neglected depression and anxiety impacting my sleep, but I managed to end up in two honor societies because of my test grades alone, and had an "average" GPA. I had a lot of friends, rarely scored below 85 on tests in even classes I would miss for a week at a time, plenty of dating options, subjective talent that allowed me to skip over classes in certain sequences, and threw all of that positivity away because I just couldn't get my family to like me.
(Besides my grandfather, but he had enough on his plate after 7 heart attacks, diabetes, cancer, and my grandmother still making him very upset very frequently with her abuse as well. After he passed when I was 18 every time I did something wrong my grandmother would yell at me about how much of a disappointment I was to him. She knew it would sting because besides my aunt who passed when I was 15 he was the only supportive and loving family I had.)
The depression was always there, but I didn't have my first (recognizable) panic attack until my senior year.
My assistant principal (I don't know how other schools work but we had 3, each assigned a third of each grade) in the two years before I was supposed to graduate reached out to my mother and told them to get me into therapy 5 times. Nothing but one psych ER visit the last time, that I lied (in that I completely downplayed everything I was feeling and that I was suicidal) my way through because I got yelled at the whole way there and felt really shitty and invalidated. Walked away with my bulimia diagnosis and a referral to therapy my grandmother immediately began to complain about so I just never went.
I didn't care that because of my attendance I wouldn't be able to graduate because I was telling myself the whole time (since the summer between 9th and 10th) it wouldn't matter because I'd just kill myself at the end, but I held on a tad longer after because I had a job I absolutely loved at a day care. Less than a year after I was supposed to graduate, was my one and only attempted suicide. My grandmother had a big issue with stealing so there were always a lot of pills of all kinds around. (She was a nurse) A couple mostly full bottles of strong blood pressure pills, a bottle of something that ended up being nausea meds, full bottle of asprin, one and a half big bottles of robitussin, and a handful of oxy.
A year later I got my GED and started feeling a little optimistic.
Still set to the backdrop of living with my emotionally abusive (and occasionally physical, which is embarrassing because of her age, and no one thought the answer "cat fight with my grandmother hahahah" was an amusing answer to "wtf happened to your chest?" when I showed up to junior prom pictures with scratches all over my chest) grandmother and my hostile 22-year alcoholic and narcotic addict mother, I admittedly wasn't doing much, but I was weak, without any support, and didn't have the energy left to fight what they said was inevitable; my failure.
(I know one might think it was my own fault for staying but Long Island is -extremely- expensive and I couldn't ask anyone to help me)
Finally a year ago I moved from NY to MT to start my life with my boyfriend. The only work I found was at Walmart... But I didn't know it was literally statistically one of the busiest in the country... I was spending at bare minimum an hour of my shift in the bathroom either dry heaving for ten minutes, with the nervous runs, or throwing up. I don't think it was exactly the "crowd" (in that it doesn't bother me to go to big crowded concerts) but more the "hustle and bustle", and I was stocking grocery in the middle of the day, so I always felt like I was in customers' way, would literally get in trouble or just get dirty looks for going -too- far to be helpful to individual customers, and felt close to tears because of how embarrassed of myself I was after every interaction with one (which was like a million times a day) so I quit in July after a month of it getting worse and worse, and intended to immediately find something else. I wish I had stayed longer, but I really don't think it would have worked.
But the nausea wouldn't subside and actually was feeding into my anxiety pretty bad. I didn't want to go anywhere or be seen by anyone or talk to anyone. I was more terrified than usual to give anyone the opportunity to judge me.
Months later, turned out the nausea was due to pregnancy, and I found that out by way of miscarriage. (Period was always irregular and I took a test very early that was negative, so that's why I didn't know.) But of course, lucky me, not one that went smoothly.
Now since July I leave the apartment on average 3-4 times a month, and have only been out of our small studio apartment 10 times actually without my boyfriend with me for comfort. Every time besides at most 6 times was with 2 blocks of either end of my street.
The longer my anxiety keeps me this isolated the more severe my depression gets because personality-wise I used to love love love being around people.
I even cut my bangs short again to force myself to shower more than once a week...
I'm not trying to put more weight than necessary on my past, but I think denying it's significance is just as much of an injustice to yourself as exaggerating it, and I really needed to let it all out, which is actually just the tip of the iceberg.
I have so many conflicting feelings and I don't know what to do with myself. I spend the better part of my 50 hours a week alone either staring at the ceiling in hopelessness fueled apathy, sobbing for no reason, turning everything I see into something to be upset over, (sometimes I'll cry for like an hour if I hear the neighbor's dog when I'm home alone and missing having a warm fluffy pet for company) or just with the anxious trembles. The muscle aches, the weakness, that I've lost 30 pounds this year but have been completely sedentary and look even worse, the bone spur in my foot, the tension headaches almost every day. I'm just so tired.
Every time I have a good day, a day where I think "hey, you know what, I might just be okay, I think I can do this", I spend the entirety of the next day drilling into my head that it was stupid to think for even a second I could be something, that I could accomplish something.
**So, question for those who have had to voluntarily find help: How do I move past that I wake up every day and feel I have no worth, and make myself seek help? How do you learn to value yourself when you've been told most of your life by the people who should love you most that you're absolutely worthless? How do I make myself start taking care of the thing I hate?
Sorry that was so lengthy and all over, I just feel so hopeless, and haven't had much of any outlet besides my poor boyfriend, and I feel more like a burden every single day.
I want to be better than this.
I so desperately want to see enough value in myself to warrant actually seeking help but it's so hard. What incentive is there to nurture something you so deeply loathe? I -want- to be happy but can't make myself feel worthy of happiness. (Not even happiness, just some semblance of normalcy.)
Maybe it's hard for me to find help because no one ever made me feel worthy of being helped, even so far as flat out denying me help when I was too young to do for myself.
Maybe I'm so critical of myself because I never really felt -allowed- to see good in myself.
Maybe I really am a little shit and don't deserve to view my past as anything but what I needed.
At 11 I had dance 3 days a week, played softball, -loved- veggies, had no authority over my intake whatsoever, but was still a little chubby. (But honestly, objectively not even that bad.) My family (mother and grandmother) forced me into weight watchers and changed absolutely -nothing- about our home's *severe* junk-food-only problem and continued preparing absolute garbage and verbally attacking me any time I had any food related suggestions.
Needless to say I failed. Miserably.
At the time I thought I was just defective. "What the fuck is wrong with me if I can't even do this right, while the other kids in my group are doing so amazing?
By 13 I had quit dance, quit the viola after 6 years, started cutting, and put on a ton of depression weight.
I accidentally let a cut show in the locker room one day and the school told my family I desperately needed therapy. I never got it, and the school never checked in. I wasn't surprised another group of people didn't care.
At 15 I started purging and fasting and even after losing 100 pounds in 4 - 5 months I was still constantly berated by my mom and grandma about my unacceptable size and food choices. I could go three days without food without them noticing, go to grab a banana, and be met with "Are you sure you need that right now?" "And you were doing so well... " and/or " I think you've gained a little back" paired with dirty glares. When my mother heard I was purging she said I'm a piece of shit and that she hoped I would go on to do it so much that I burn a whole in my throat and drop dead.
All through high school I stayed involved in theater and the arts and was even in a competitive Vocal Jazz group that traveled to compete and met once a week at night (I know, my lame is showing, but it was actually amazing) and I swear if not for the arts and the language department (German), I would have offed myself before 10th grade. Those subjects and those teachers instilled in me something that was foreign to me; actual confidence.
But I still never applied myself fully because I got daily reminders at home that my future is hopeless and that I'd never succeed at anything. I did virtually no work at all, maybe 20 total assignments in 4 years, and my attendance suffered due to my neglected depression and anxiety impacting my sleep, but I managed to end up in two honor societies because of my test grades alone, and had an "average" GPA. I had a lot of friends, rarely scored below 85 on tests in even classes I would miss for a week at a time, plenty of dating options, subjective talent that allowed me to skip over classes in certain sequences, and threw all of that positivity away because I just couldn't get my family to like me.
(Besides my grandfather, but he had enough on his plate after 7 heart attacks, diabetes, cancer, and my grandmother still making him very upset very frequently with her abuse as well. After he passed when I was 18 every time I did something wrong my grandmother would yell at me about how much of a disappointment I was to him. She knew it would sting because besides my aunt who passed when I was 15 he was the only supportive and loving family I had.)
The depression was always there, but I didn't have my first (recognizable) panic attack until my senior year.
My assistant principal (I don't know how other schools work but we had 3, each assigned a third of each grade) in the two years before I was supposed to graduate reached out to my mother and told them to get me into therapy 5 times. Nothing but one psych ER visit the last time, that I lied (in that I completely downplayed everything I was feeling and that I was suicidal) my way through because I got yelled at the whole way there and felt really shitty and invalidated. Walked away with my bulimia diagnosis and a referral to therapy my grandmother immediately began to complain about so I just never went.
I didn't care that because of my attendance I wouldn't be able to graduate because I was telling myself the whole time (since the summer between 9th and 10th) it wouldn't matter because I'd just kill myself at the end, but I held on a tad longer after because I had a job I absolutely loved at a day care. Less than a year after I was supposed to graduate, was my one and only attempted suicide. My grandmother had a big issue with stealing so there were always a lot of pills of all kinds around. (She was a nurse) A couple mostly full bottles of strong blood pressure pills, a bottle of something that ended up being nausea meds, full bottle of asprin, one and a half big bottles of robitussin, and a handful of oxy.
A year later I got my GED and started feeling a little optimistic.
Still set to the backdrop of living with my emotionally abusive (and occasionally physical, which is embarrassing because of her age, and no one thought the answer "cat fight with my grandmother hahahah" was an amusing answer to "wtf happened to your chest?" when I showed up to junior prom pictures with scratches all over my chest) grandmother and my hostile 22-year alcoholic and narcotic addict mother, I admittedly wasn't doing much, but I was weak, without any support, and didn't have the energy left to fight what they said was inevitable; my failure.
(I know one might think it was my own fault for staying but Long Island is -extremely- expensive and I couldn't ask anyone to help me)
Finally a year ago I moved from NY to MT to start my life with my boyfriend. The only work I found was at Walmart... But I didn't know it was literally statistically one of the busiest in the country... I was spending at bare minimum an hour of my shift in the bathroom either dry heaving for ten minutes, with the nervous runs, or throwing up. I don't think it was exactly the "crowd" (in that it doesn't bother me to go to big crowded concerts) but more the "hustle and bustle", and I was stocking grocery in the middle of the day, so I always felt like I was in customers' way, would literally get in trouble or just get dirty looks for going -too- far to be helpful to individual customers, and felt close to tears because of how embarrassed of myself I was after every interaction with one (which was like a million times a day) so I quit in July after a month of it getting worse and worse, and intended to immediately find something else. I wish I had stayed longer, but I really don't think it would have worked.
But the nausea wouldn't subside and actually was feeding into my anxiety pretty bad. I didn't want to go anywhere or be seen by anyone or talk to anyone. I was more terrified than usual to give anyone the opportunity to judge me.
Months later, turned out the nausea was due to pregnancy, and I found that out by way of miscarriage. (Period was always irregular and I took a test very early that was negative, so that's why I didn't know.) But of course, lucky me, not one that went smoothly.
Now since July I leave the apartment on average 3-4 times a month, and have only been out of our small studio apartment 10 times actually without my boyfriend with me for comfort. Every time besides at most 6 times was with 2 blocks of either end of my street.
The longer my anxiety keeps me this isolated the more severe my depression gets because personality-wise I used to love love love being around people.
I even cut my bangs short again to force myself to shower more than once a week...
I'm not trying to put more weight than necessary on my past, but I think denying it's significance is just as much of an injustice to yourself as exaggerating it, and I really needed to let it all out, which is actually just the tip of the iceberg.
I have so many conflicting feelings and I don't know what to do with myself. I spend the better part of my 50 hours a week alone either staring at the ceiling in hopelessness fueled apathy, sobbing for no reason, turning everything I see into something to be upset over, (sometimes I'll cry for like an hour if I hear the neighbor's dog when I'm home alone and missing having a warm fluffy pet for company) or just with the anxious trembles. The muscle aches, the weakness, that I've lost 30 pounds this year but have been completely sedentary and look even worse, the bone spur in my foot, the tension headaches almost every day. I'm just so tired.
Every time I have a good day, a day where I think "hey, you know what, I might just be okay, I think I can do this", I spend the entirety of the next day drilling into my head that it was stupid to think for even a second I could be something, that I could accomplish something.
**So, question for those who have had to voluntarily find help: How do I move past that I wake up every day and feel I have no worth, and make myself seek help? How do you learn to value yourself when you've been told most of your life by the people who should love you most that you're absolutely worthless? How do I make myself start taking care of the thing I hate?
Sorry that was so lengthy and all over, I just feel so hopeless, and haven't had much of any outlet besides my poor boyfriend, and I feel more like a burden every single day.
I want to be better than this.