My mental health struggles have been present for quite some time, and I have always put so much blame and doubt on myself because of them being so present. Also, growing up in a house filled with people who struggled with disordered eating and compared themselves to your little five-year-old body, I was bound to eventually get a raging eating disorder of my own. I'm from Vermont; there are no inpatient or residential facilities that help cater to a person with a severe eating disorder. I started going to treatment in my sophomore year of high school, so almost five years ago. I was never taken seriously for my depression, OCD, or intense anxiety, since they are all mental struggles that "don't affect your well-being," which is a statement I don't agree with. Yet the minute my body started showing signs of sickness, people started to care about me and complimented me like crazy. I finally felt loved, and the extreme willingness to throw everything away surged through me, all because I relied heavily on what other people thought of me. As a kid, I didn't get my emotional needs met. I was ridiculed, bullied, and shown on countless occasions that I was not cared about. My sister is seven years older than me, and she was the one person I looked up to. However, she hated me, and that ended up resulting in me being both physically and verbally hurt. This mindset that I created with this dynamic seeped, very clearly, into how I turned out in my teenage years. I was, and still am, extremely hard on myself. No matter how hard things are for me, I have somehow always found a way to blame myself for it. Why wouldn't I? I have only been told this. At age 11 or 12, I was self-harming with knives and razors, and was only unintentionally egged-on, by my closest friend, to do worse. She was also physically hurting me, so I felt this trauma-bond to her that felt so familiar to me. I couldn't get out of bed in the morning. When my friend eventually went to a psychiatric institution, I felt so much shame for not having the same thing done for myself. I felt the need to get worse. "Maybe someone will finally care about me then." Once my mom found out about my self-harming, my phone was taken and my entire extended family, along with my mom's coworkers and friends; they all knew about it from her. I had this intense itch to be reassured, and it was growing bigger every time it never happened. This cycle of self-blame and punishment continued for a very long time. My friend, same one as earlier, years later stopped talking to me after I got out of my first eating disorder residential, after months of being away from school. I continued down a dangerous path for years, being in and out of residential programs, after spending months at each facility. The deeper I had dived into restriction and isolation, the less connection I had with people in my life. The people that were once so supportive and caring, no longer had the capacity to care for me. I felt like a burden for so long. I would constantly ask myself, "What's wrong with me? Is nothing ever good enough?" I felt impossible, as if no program could "cure" me as I interpreted their promises to be. As hard as my childhood was, I still had good moments. I have good memories of good times. I often wondered why that wasn't enough to keep me stable? After I turned 19, I was diagnosed with BPD, checking off all the symptoms, and giving me a clear diagnosis. It wasn't like my other disorders, though. Borderline personality disorder isn't something that fosters forever. It gave me sense of hope that it didn't have to be detrimental for life. I was told to go through another, yet specifically DBT, IOP program to really focus on my extremely negative core beliefs about myself. It's so hard to try and include any sense of self-respect or kindness when I was truly never given it. I don't feel deserving, I never have. My girlfriend, however, has been that eye-opener for me, and she keeps me motivated for my future. I want a life with her, and I have never been able to say that about myself. She makes me realize that it's not just about me, it's not about my self-punishing values that I hold. I need to do this for the people that I haven't seen around me this entire time. I have had support, support that I have never accepted. My psychiatrist, therapist, doctor, and even my high school 504 coordinators. Eventually, I need to try to make that motivation internal, which is what I am currently trying to achieve, but all these people have opened so many doors for me. I lost so many friendships, teenage opportunities, memories that I could have gotten, friends that I could have made. I hurt the people around me; I was miserable around those I loved, I lost so many people's trust, and I almost lost my life while trying to do the things I thought were keeping me alive. This wasn't even said with the intention of berating myself. I actually wanted to give myself some grace with this. I'm not one to say that "everything happens for a reason," but I do believe that the things I have learned through this whole journey has made everything worth it. I am glad everything happened how it did because it gave me more opportunities for clarity and growth. I now know that I want to be in the psychology field, and I want to make others feel cared for and know that there is light at the end of the tunnel, no matter how long the tunnel is.

Living with an eating disorder and depression at the same time is tricky; anorexia strives to feed off of dopamine, yet depression drains it. It’s almost like it’s a vicious cycle of reaching for that sense of accomplishment and fulfillment. One part of you wants to live for this image you created in your head, and that other part of you wants to give up and face the fact that it may never happen. There was no part of me that wanted a future in my education, a career, anything at all. I just wanted control over my past. With this all being said, my personal experience with loss is with myself, the grief of losing my sense of self. An eating disorder is all-consuming. It swallows you whole and puts you into this dark room, a room with nobody you love there, and as much as you try to find light and your purpose, it’s like you have this false image of the light being turned off again and again. That light, that purpose, was always turned off by yourself. So, unless you forgot to pay your electricity bill, that light will always be able to be turned back on. As much as I was physically calling out for help, I was always contradicting myself by pushing all the help away. I just wanted that control back, in times where I never got the chance. I would reach my hand out for someone, just to immediately grab it back and convince myself I didn’t want it. Even after going to so many treatment facilities, I would come home and immediately relapse. I felt unworthy, unheard, and just flat out terrible with myself. This led me to the suicidal thoughts, the thoughts that if I already lost myself, I may as well go for good. “No one would miss me,” I would think to myself. “It’s like I’m already gone anyways.” This was never true, as the smile I put on my face everyday continued to lift others up, make them laugh, make them put on a smile of their own. I made a difference, but I didn’t see it. I was constantly told how kind and thoughtful I was, but I didn’t see it. I was too consumed by my thoughts to believe any of it. The reason I want to work with mental health, the reason I want to go into Psychology at all, is so I can help someone’s path become a little clearer, or easier to continue. Once the fog is lifted, life becomes liveable again. I don’t plan on solving anyone’s problems. But I do plan on making the load a little lighter for someone, anyone. No one deserves to live their life convinced they’re alone. I want to work directly with people, but I’m still not sure what career I want to pursue as of right now. I think the more than I continue working on myself, the better my work will be for others. My fog isn’t completely lifted, but this time, I’m willing to wait until it is.