I've been struggling with mental illness for seven years now. I first realized something was wrong with me when I was 15 years old. During my first two years of school my grades were very poor. I did not have much of a social life. Throughout my life, I've always felt like I didn't belong. Then my life soon took a turn for the worse.
During track practice one day, I tried to overdose on Tylenol. One-by-one I started popping the pills up to the fifth pill when my coach ran by. From the expression on my face and the bottle of pills in my hand he knew something was wrong. He immediately escorted me to the school psychiatrist. My mother was called and joined me to talk to the psychiatrist. He advised my mother to take me to Saint Vincent's psychiatric emergency room for further evaluation.
At St. Vincent's, the doctor questioned me why was I suicidal and depressed. I declined to answer him. I kept thinking: why am I here, I'm not crazy! The doctor decided to put me on the adolescent unit. I didn't want to be there. I begged my mother to take me home, but it was no use. She told me she loved me and walked out the door.
I met with a therapist and we began to talk about my life and why I felt suicidal. I told her I've been very depressed because my family did not pay attention to me. I was never able to sit down and have a conversation with my mother. I felt like there was no use to be alive if no one cared about me. She said my life is very important and things might seem hard now, but eventually they'll get better. It made me feel good inside to know that someone really cared about me. I met with her on a daily basis for one month. During that time I was prescribed Paxil for depression. I was discharged a month later.
After my discharge I started going to therapy once a week at Saint Vincent's outpatient department. My mom disapproved of my therapy because she didn't feel anything was wrong with me. My life at home was still the same. I still felt like no one cared about me.
When I was in the hospital I was around people who cared about me and gave me attention. Throughout the next three years I became a revolving door case. The hospital was like a sanctuary for me. The doctor at Saint Vincent's hospital felt I needed long-term care, so I was transferred to South Beach Psychiatric Center at the age of 17.
At South Beach I met with a therapist on a continuous basis for six weeks, but I became very depressed. I began to develop these voices in my head. Whenever I would get really stressed out or depressed they would tell me to do physical harm to myself. I did whatever they told me to do.
I didn't tell the therapists what was going on. Instead, I began to cut my wrists. Eventually, I couldn't hide the scars on my arms anymore. While meeting with my therapist one day she noticed the cuts on my wrist. I explained to her that the voices told me to do it. She questioned me about the voices and why I didn't tell her about them. She explained to me that a lot of people under stress develop symptoms while in the hospital. She felt that I needed to be put on one-to-one care for my own safety. I was administered Zyprexa, an antipsychotic medication. Eventually the doctors felt I was stable enough to go home and released me on December 26, 1999.
And that was my last time in an inpatient unit.
At home I received more attention from my mom and my family. I started working with the garden crew at South Beach Psychiatric Center for two days per week, a landscaping job. I was also receiving SSI thanks to my mental disability.
Out of the hospital I felt that I didn't need the medication anymore because I didn't hear any voices. My therapist told me that I feel better now because the medication is working for me.
I discontinued my medication for five months, got depressed and the voices began to overpower my mind again. I would then take the meds for a couple of months, feel better, and discontinue them again. I continued to do that for six months. Finally, I was put on Seroquel, another antipsychotic and still took Paxil for depression. The right medication was finally working for me.
One day I was coming home from work and decided to take a walk on the beach. The beach was a place where I could clear my mind of all my troubles. It was 7 p.m. I passed by three guys who made a lustful comment about my rear end. I said, "Screw off!" They threw me under the boardwalk and I raped me.
Several weeks went by and the attackers were not found. I was admitted to the crisis residence at South Beach where I stayed for two days and signed myself out. That was in May of 2002.
I laid around for three and a half months collecting my SSI checks and spending my money on useless things. On January 26, 2003, I became pregnant by my boyfriend. I thought that having a baby would feel good because I would have someone who would love me no matter what happened in my life. My family told me that I couldn't even take care of myself let alone a baby. I decided I wanted to keep my baby and no one could tell me otherwise.
In February of 2003, I decided that if I'm going to have a baby, I needed to support it somehow. I went on an interview with the Baltic Street Mental Health Board. I successfully got a job as peer advocate working at South Beach Psychiatric Center on February 10.
During my 1st month as peer advocate, not having the support I needed from my family was my biggest stressor. I now had a supervisor who depended on me to be at work on time and everyday. It was very difficult because I was pregnant and I just wanted to sleep all day. On March 26, 2003, I had a miscarriage. That was the worst day of my life.
My mother was living with her boyfriend who was an alcoholic and had been in jail for six years for robbery. I realized I couldn't take living there anymore.
I had nowhere to go. My friends lived in an abandoned building on Father Capadano Boulevard. I stayed there for a week without anything. I then moved into a basement apartment with one of my other friends. The living conditions here were much better, but I was the only female surrounded by four men. That didn't last very long because everyone there did drugs everyday.
I was fortunate enough to have a friend to give me support throughout this crisis. My mother and my friend gave me some money for a hotel for a couple of nights. Every day I would visit the crisis residence until 8 pm and then I would make a long journey back to the Midland hotel. I felt I needed to get back into the crisis residence, but I didn't think they would let me back in.
I spoke to the director of community services at South Beach, and I was back in the crisis residence by October. During my time there, I tried to get into an apartment program.
I had a lot of ups and downs. I made some interviews and missed some also. I came close to getting an apartment in Brooklyn, but I screwed it up. Finally, I met with a woman from Austin House and she was very impressed with me. They had an extra bedroom and she wanted me to have it. I really enjoyed being there.
Throughout my life, I've had good things and bad things happen, but I've always managed to get through those problems.
I am very grateful to have been around people who cared enough to help me when I needed help.
I would have never made it without the support from my co-workers and my peers. Sometimes we all need support from a friend and we need someone to believe in us.