If I Could Tell Her

I wish I could talk to her. I wish I could tell her that I love her. I wish I could tell her that she’s beautiful, smart, funny and courageous. I wish I could tell her that the darkness ends. I wish I could tell her everything will be okay.

I graduated from college six years ago.

I loved my school, my city and my friends. But I felt like shit. All four years I bounced around between therapists like it was my job. Much like my three-month-long career at Chipotle, none of them were the right match. I also lacked the self esteem for therapy.

Saying that now sounds so ridiculous. That’s what therapy is for right? To give you better self esteem?

My 19-year old self didn’t feel good enough to receive help. And neither did my 20- or 21-year old selves. It wasn’t until I was 22 and out of college that I really started to seek change and support.

Like my first full-time job out of school, that didn’t stick either. I moved to Northern California and back, tried several career paths, therapists and SSRIs. The medication didn’t sit well the first time so I stopped and thought I was on my way to managing my mental health med-free.

I was wrong. My now clinical depression was starting to morph into a severe anxiety disorder. I stopped sleeping. I walked through my days surrounded by a thick fog with an unwavering heaviness in my chest. Just trying to survive. I couldn’t imagine being on this earth for another year.

But then finally…after an intense break up that shook me down to my foundations without any tools to rebuild — I went back to therapy. I went back on medication.

And it worked. In a matter of weeks my world completely shifted. I had a new sense of confidence and understanding of myself. I thought that I must have been having a manic episode because there’s no way I could feel that good. But I did.

I still had hard days but I recovered faster. I learned how to sit still and be with my emotions without letting them consume me.

For two years I felt like a whole new person. I was kicking ass at my marketing job and completed yoga teacher training. A beautiful life path began to appear in front of me.

And when COVID first hit it I handled it fine. To be honest I was thrilled to have an excuse to be home alone. I really tapped into my introverted tendencies and gave myself so much space to grow and explore my creative side.

So I went off the meds. Again. I thought I could handle it and I was sick of the side effects. Once the SSRI withdrawals subsided I thought I would be okay. I wasn’t very depressed, but the anxiety came back with a certain force that I’d never experienced. I experienced rolling tidal waves of panic attacks for weeks on end. After a while, there were no more good days. Only restless nights and constant pleading with the universe to heal me.

But it didn’t. Only I could do that.

In November, just before turning 28, I found a psychiatrist and started on a new medication regimen. Once again. But then I had a terrible reaction to a combo of Prozac and Buspar that eventually escalated far enough that I had to stop working.

I took a leave of absence from work and went on disability for five weeks so I could sort out my mental health. The day I left work was the worst day of my life.

I scream-cried as I told my mom how badly I wanted it to stop. I could barely keep food down due to panic-induced nausea. I couldn’t even watch an episode of Sex and the City because their lives, while normally so relatable, seemed completely out of reach. It wasn’t because of their success and expensive shoes, but the fact that they did normal every day things — such as go out to eat or call a cab. “Normal” felt so far away. I completely disassociated from reality and — more importantly — myself.

I even began to question if I ever wanted children — something I always dreamed about. Because 1) How could I ever take care of another living being if I couldn’t take care of myself? and 2) What if I passed on these tainted genes? I feared that my children would be cursed to struggle with mental illness like me.

But then, the new meds started to work. A light finally appeared at the end of a dark, cold, lonely tunnel (thank you Effexor XR!).

I’ve also had the same therapist for three years now and she’s wonderful. I went back to work. I went back to teaching yoga and binge watching TV. I finally had found some peace.

Now we are halfway through 2021 and I just finished moving into my own studio apartment by the beach. I am better than ever.

I am so. Strong.

I am dedicated, I am grounded, I am empathetic, I am beautiful, I am bold. I am independent! I am a better person because of what I’ve gone through and all I see from here is progress.

So, now when I look back — I just wish I could talk to her. I wish I could tell my younger self what this feels like. But I’m no longer her and I can never change the suffering I experienced. Progress isn’t linear, so I’m sure she will visit me from time to time or when I look through old photos from my college days.

I won’t run from her — I will remind her that I love her. I will tell her everything is okay. And I will thank her for helping me get to this place.

All I can do now is move forward. I can tell her (my) story.

And this is where it starts.

—

Writer’s Note: This post was inspired by songs from one of my all-time favorite Broadway musicals Dear Evan Hansen.

Out of the shadows
The morning is breaking
And all is new, all is new
It’s filling up the empty
And suddenly I see that
All is new, all is new

— Dear Evan Hansen, “You Will be Found”