Growing up, I was
always a stressed, perfectionist student. I wanted to do everything right and I
didn't want anyone to disapprove of me. I graduated from high school as
valedictorian and continued to get straight A’s in college. I couldn't imagine
getting less than an A. My self-worth was measured by how well I accomplished
the responsibilities and assignments I was given. I was always trying to use my
time effectively to get more done. If I didn't get finish enough items on my to
do list each day, I felt terrible about myself. I didn't like how this made me
feel, but I figured it was just part of my perfectionist personality.
With the prompting of Heavenly
Father, I decided to serve as a full-time missionary. I knew it was going to be
hard, but I had no idea what was in store. I don’t know if I would have served
if I really knew what was coming my way. Yes there is the physical strain that
comes from a demanding missionary schedule, but there is also an emotional
strain that can only be understood by going through the experience of being a
missionary. Not only was I thousands of miles away from my family, learning to
live with people I had never met before, trying to understand and speak a
foreign language, and being rejected on a daily basis, I was also “working” for the
Lord in a more real way than ever before. Having a perfect “Boss” and trying so
hard to please Him made feeling inadequate very easy. Day after day, no matter
how hard I tried, I felt like I was never good enough, nor would I ever be.
Recognizing how much I was messing up, and feeling like every weakness I
possess was being put on display, I felt worse and worse about myself, and I
felt an increasing need to punish myself in order to catch up or make up for
the moments that I did things wrong or didn't work as hard as I should have.
This was really self-destructive, but I didn't know what to do about it.
I felt like I had been given a task
that was too big for me to handle. With all of the sadness, doubt, and
discouragement I felt, I often thought that if I just had more faith, if I was
just more diligent, I would not be struggling so much. So I was struggling, and
then beating myself up for struggling, which just made my struggles worse. I
had not really told my mission president about all of these feelings, but in an
interview I had with him, he told me exactly what I needed. Definitely
inspired, he told me that it was not because I was doing something wrong that I
was feeling as I was. He told me it was just imbalances in my body that were
causing it. This was a huge answer to prayers, and a huge turning point. It took
a lot of repeating this to myself for me to really believe it, but when I
accepted that it was not my fault, I felt doors of hope open.
Yet even when I had only three or
four months left before I would come home, I would wake up each morning
wondering if I could possibly make it that much longer. I had a lot of rough
days, but my sweet companions loved me anyway and helped me to endure to the
end. In my last interview with my mission president, he encouraged me to go to
as many doctors as it took when I got home so that I could get this figured
out.
After arriving home, with the
stress of missionary work being removed, I was doing better and decided maybe I
didn't need to see a doctor after all. But several weeks later, I broke down
and knew that I needed to follow the counsel of my mission president. Going to
the doctor was a nerve-wracking experience. I was so afraid that I was going to
tell him what was wrong, and he was going to respond by saying, “What do you
think I can do about that? Go talk to a counselor!” I loved the counselor I
talked to on my mission, but I didn't want to have to do counseling again. I
was praying that the doctor could just give me a little pill and it would make
everything better. Fortunately my worst case scenarios never come true, and the
doctor was so kind. As soon as I started explaining how I was feeling, he knew
exactly what the problem was and he prescribed me some medication for my
Generalized Anxiety Disorder.
That next month was the best! The
medication worked so well, and for the first time in 21 years, I knew what
everyone else who does not suffer from anxiety feels like. It was such a
liberating feeling. I did not care if I had to take medicine for the rest of my
life, I was finally free! But unfortunately, the next three months were
terrible. I was so exhausted all the time, my appetite significantly decreased,
I unintentionally lost 8 pounds, and I started experiencing lasting depression.
The doctor changed my medication and I had a couple rough weeks as my body
adjusted. I am still experiencing a lot of fatigue, appetite problems, and
depression, but I go back to the doctor next week. Only Heavenly Father knows
the next chapter in my story.
UPDATE: When I went back to the doctor's, I found out that I had lost another 3-4 lbs over the last month. The doctor told me to force myself to eat, and increased the dosage of my medication. I moved back to school and had a sweet friend who convinced me to see another doctor for a second opinion. This doctor lowered my prescription back down and added a sedative medication. It is still a struggle and my medication sometimes makes me more tired or out of it than I would like to be, but I have started to have more good days. It was as if a fog was lifted, that I could finally see clearly through the anxiety to a more hopeful future. I laugh a lot more with my roommates and am starting to enjoy life again. I am starting to get my capacity to feel back. I also started seeing a counselor, which is slowly but surely helping. He helped me see that in conjunction to the depression and anxiety, I have something called Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder. This is not the same as the excessive hand-washing and clean freak OCD that we normally think of. OCPD has to do with tendencies toward perfectionism, orderliness, and desire for control. This realization has helped me to step back from my actions and define myself by them less.