An Honest Post Part 3:
Therapists and Theories

I started seeing a therapist for the first time when I was seventeen, the summer before my senior year of high school.
Initially it was by my parents' persuasion--they were hopeful I could receive help coping with my ADHD especially in relation to my school work.
I was diagnosed with ADHD when I was thirteen and immediately prescribed Ritalin. By the time I was in high school, I was on the highest dosage the doctor could legally prescribe and I was already developing an immunity to that too.
I was awkward. I chattered too much, laughed too hard.
I didn't mature at the same level as my peers, which left me socially inept, and suddenly I had a difficult time making and keeping friends. But when I started college and unwisely decided to just quit all my medications cold turkey, I learned something. Actually many somethings. I realized I had reached the point where I had been taking the medication, not to tolerate my disorder, but rather to survive the withdrawal I had otherwise. When I forget my pills, I became so lethargic I could not wake up and sometimes slept so deeply that I could be unconscious for several days in the extreme cases. I would have constant unbearable migraines that made me even more nauseated than I was already daily when on the medication, which was itself considerable. I had little to no appetite. I had always been petite, but on the meds, I didn't gain weight, and my body didn't develop at a normal rate. As a result, when I entered college unmedicated, it was like going through a second, somehow more awkward puberty. When taking the pills, I was so subdued, it felt like I had little personality, or at least, that I couldn't express it because my brain and my body felt separate and confused from each other. So when I quit, I was suddenly everywhere--energetic, social, healthy. I hadn't not felt sick in seven years. I could go on a road trip without vomiting, exercise without getting immediately light-headed. It was a revelation. I had friends, and even a brief romance. People enjoyed me, and found my "hyperactivity" more endearing than simply obnoxious.

But we could talk about my ADHD for a novel, and I have another point to make in this post.
While all of that was lovely, there was one freedom I still hadn't been granted, and it bubbled under the surface, ever threatening to engulf me entirely. Depression-- Major Depressive Disorder. The beast that it is.
I was officially diagnosed when I was eighteen, after aforementioned traumatic events made life so unbearable I was on an edge ready to jump. Literally. But this wasn't simply the beginning of a depressive episode, it was an extreme of something I'd dealt with since the earliest I can remember.

As a kid, depression isn't something you realize. To a kid, depression is just a big word you hope you never get on a spelling test. When I was little I had no idea what it was, it was just that, a confusing thing I couldn't name or explain. People often thought I was pouting as a kid--and admittedly I did my fair share of that too--but many times I was actually feeling something overwhelming that didn't make sense and I was hiding to try to deal with it, and wasn't comfortable sharing.  I remember in Elementary School, waking up sometimes completely and inexplicably unmotivated. I didn't want to go to school, but I didn't want to stay home either, I didn't want to do anything at all, and I had no idea why. I was a very needy child. I demanded a lot of affection and required a lot of attention.
As I got older, as it does in many people, it got worse, and I got worse at handling myself.

After the diagnosis, I returned to therapy, but it was different. And I approached it differently. Honestly, I lied a lot. The therapist was always so eager for my improvement and so enthusiastic about anything that they considered a step in the right direction that I just started telling them what they wanted to hear. I preferred the undeserved affirmations to actually having to deal with any of my problems. Obviously, this was not an effective pursuit. I got tired of the guilt and disappointment, so I quit again and didn't return until my primary physician required I see the resident psychiatrist or he would insist on hospitalization in fear of my safety.

I didn't stay with that one long either, but he did say something that stayed with me, and all that semi-tangential stuff before this was the lead up to it.
 In an early session, I expressed that I felt worthless and, specifically, lost. And it was at that point that he explained something to me. He told me, "There is a difference between being lost and being confused. And Abbey, you're not lost. "

I have had a hard time agreeing with that, but I think he was onto something I'm still figuring out.
I have what some have called a savior complex. I collect people, I try to keep everyone. I have never been able to accept that anyone else is a lost cause. But now I'm having to accept the fact that generalizing it so means I have to let that apply to me too.
So here's what I want it to mean.
You're not a lost cause, and neither am I. We might not believe it yet, but let's try. Together.



(Afternote: my experience with medication was completely individual situation, and by no means applies to everyone as many people find medicating highly successful.)

A More Sincere Approach To Something.

It's been over two years since I had anything to do with this blog. I could make many excuses to justify this, but the reality is, I honestly felt I had run out of worthwhile things to say.
When I first created this blog it was with the intention of creating a witty persona--I wanted to be charming and impressive and comedic. I wanted everyone who read it to believe I was utterly delightful. But it didn't mean anything.
To be frank, I think maybe I've spent a large part of my life trying to create this idea of a person..a shell of what I wanted to be, shielding the reality of what I am.
That's not to say I don't believe I can be clever or amusing, I'll say I have my moments, but there's a big part of what and who I am that I try to keep unknown beneath those other qualities, and you know what, that's not fair to me, or to the people who know me, or to you.
Mark Twain once said, "When in doubt, tell the truth." So let's tell the truth, and I'll start.

An Honest Post Part 1:

I was raped when I was eighteen, and since then anyone who learns this about me makes it a part of their impression of me. They find me stronger or more sympathetic. And that's a great kindness, but not to be rude, it's not what I think it ought to be.
Because I'm not a victim. I'm a person.
I share it because, yes, it was an important experience in my life, but what I want understood is that, it was an experience, not an identity crisis. It was traumatic. Of course it was. But I'm not angry, I'm grateful.  I'm grateful because it could have been much worse, but wasn't. I'm grateful for the humility I learned in realizing I needed to ask for and accept help. I am grateful for the empathy and love I received, and the new love I could give back. I am grateful that it gave me a lesson in forgiveness I needed to struggle with. I learned that forgiving is a type of freedom. And though, I would never ask to go through it again, I may not have gotten the liberation I needed at that time in my life. I'm not angry with the individual responsible, I'm proud. The redemption process after such a misguided choice, I believe, must have been difficult in a way I can't really understand, and I know he struggled through it. Recently, he was married and sealed to the love of his life in an LDS temple, and I sincerely believe he has made good on his life and he deserves the happiness he has worked for. Some people are haunted by memories after experiencing something like I did, and for a long time, I was. I became frustrated that I couldn't get over it at the rate I believed I should be. That's something else I learned. A time limit doesn't heal. It took me four years to stop thinking about it, but now, I really don't. It doesn't affect or define any part of my daily life anymore. I'm better than fine. But I don't romanticize my recovery and I don't want anyone else to. I didn't instantly become stronger because I got over something so hurtful, and I certainly didn't become a "better person" because I survived such a thing. I'm just a person who survived. And that's all I want to be. A person.
I want therapists to stop focusing on that fact, and making my entire treatment about getting over something that I just wanna be done talking about.
I don't want that to be the  thing that people know about me, a thing that decides any part of their opinion of who I am. I'm a person. And I am so many other things than someone who was raped.
So let me use this blog now to talk about the things I'd rather people knew about me--I'd rather they judged me on. Here's what I am as just another person.

...I Blame It On James Dean.

Recently, I was accused of having an irrational and irrepressible affinity with, what some might call, the "bad boy" appeal. Well, as they say...guilty until proven innocent, and I have absolutely no intention of proving any such thing. I feel no obligation to, indeed, I happily confess! I am completely attracted to the "rebel without a cause" sort of infamy vibe that denotes this class, and, personally, I blame it all on James Dean. Before I get ahead of myself, let me provide some background on our perpetrator here... not to mention some much needed visual representation, for some eye candy and cardiac stimulation, if nothing else.
So dear reader, try not to be too overcome as I introduce you to....
...Mr. James Dean






 I know you are probably wondering, so allow me to relieve your curiosity...he is MINE. He is dead, yes, I am fully aware, but I have already claimed him for the next life, so don't even bother yourself over him. This beautiful man took full hold on my soul a few years ago when I caught a glimpse of his perfection on television as I flipped through local channels. It was a scene from East of Eden, one of only three movies he starred in before his tragic death. I had heard of James Dean...heard he was attractive, rather scandalous, and of course infamous for his characteristic "bad boy" image and appeal. I saw that face and instantly knew, this was James Dean. (I hastened to look him up on Google afterward, merely to confirm my suspicion). And thus, true love---or rather true lust was born. For at that point, the foundation for my adoration was based purely on physical attraction, but true love was still come...and oh how it came! I was soon introduced to the movie Rebel Without A Cause, and I think I can safely say, it was after that movie that I swore my unwavering devotion. It was that movie, and, of course, the man himself, that invoked in me a new perception of the male sex. Firstly, it was decided that every man should be exquisitely attractive, if he possibly can, and more specifically he ought to be the kind of unbearably beautiful--in a masculine way--that would denote the modern perception of a Greek god. Secondly, a man should be manly, but there is a certain sensitivity desired also, but not so much that any actual masculinity is abandoned...it's a sort of "I ride a ridiculously fast and dangerous motorcycle, but I always carry an extra helmet" phenomenon--rather difficult to explain. Thirdly, if one could combine the sex appeal of both James Dean and Mr. Darcy, the planet would simply explode from over-exposure to sheer perfection. Fourthly...well, point in case, you just can't beat James Dean...James Franco, my friend, you come very very close, but you'll just have to settle for second place in the end. Back now to the point of this monologue. The truth is, this--dare I accept the term--obsession, has now fringed into my actual life, breaching the barriers of my secret alter ego's  alternate reality, and affecting aspects of my literal existence. This, I believe, is the only real cause for concern--and when I say concern I do not mean to claim it as my own, I am merely referring to the expressed notions of certain others. Recently it was suggested that perhaps my inclination towards this particular breed of man, is the cause of my lack of success with mankind in general, that perhaps I am deterring the potential for good, healthy offers by wistfully imaging the basic opposite, which is certainly madness! This may or may not actually be true...I offer no confession for this. All I do know is that, healthy or not, I am in love with "the infamy," and I blame it all on James Dean...in the best way possible.
Farewellings for now!
-Abbey Road Rutter