Coming Back to Life

SENSITIVE THEMES: Mental health; substance abuse; suicide

I am 36 years old, but I have already experienced three rebirths. By rebirth, I mean an almost literal “coming back to life”. One where I discarded my old life and rediscovered life with all its beauty and promise again. The first rebirth occurred when I was only 17 years old. Yes, most kids are coming into their own around that age, but for me, I finally blossomed into a butterfly from the warm cocoon of anxiety and depression that had held me back for far too many years during my adolescence. I call it “debilitating” anxiety and depression. It was so intense that I was not able to attend school regularly from 7^th grade to 11^th grade.

 After close to four years of frequent medication changes by state-funded psychiatrists, a family friend suggested I take a gamble on seeing a general family doctor. He was the doctor of some other family members as well. I saw him in November of my junior year, and I felt like for the first time ever, I was finally “heard”. He carefully listened to all I had endured with previous psychiatrists and attempts at making me better. He decided to put me on just one medication, that would take care of both my major depressive disorder and anxiety. He said someone my age should not be going through such severe anxiety and depression – It was nice to hear that and feel believed. I must also mention that although secondary medications have been added and subtracted, I am still on this same medication 18 years later.

     It took the typical four to six weeks for the medication to kick in. I saw him in November, so it was mid-January by the time it really took effect. In that short window of time, until the end of the year, I experienced profound changes. I broke up with a boyfriend who I had become dependent on, but never really liked. Breaking up with him was like ripping off a bandage that had been on far past healing. He did not take it so well, but I felt free. I started attending school regularly, but in typical Stephanie fashion, I got sick, physically sick, around this time.

      Most, if not all, of my anxiety and depression revolved around an intense FEAR of vomiting. Irrational, I know, but this was my truth. Catching the flu took care of that fear, as it exposed me to vomiting whether I liked it or not! A popular girl (her reason being popular I never fully comprehended, because she had the personality of a cardboard box) coughed in the hallway in between classes. She did not cover her mouth and it was one of those coughs you knew were contagious. I remember KNOWING the moment she passed me, that I was going to catch what she had. My throat started hurting shortly after that. The next day was a Saturday, and on Saturday evenings, Mama brought home double cheeseburgers and fries from McDonald’s. This was my favorite meal, so immediately feeling sick after eating it and actually vomiting told me something was not right. It was not so much the vomiting that got me, the way you would think it would for someone with such an intense fear of it, but the general feeling of unwellness and feverishness that took over my body, letting me know that this was not food poisoning or an upset stomach, but something more serious.

      I was bedridden for the next 7 days. It was early to mid-December at this point and living in the shack we did, we did not have proper heating. Being confined to my twin-sized bed in a cinder-block room with drafty windows certainly did not help what I had. I got weak enough and puked enough that Mama saw it fit to take me to the doctor.

It was the same doctor who had just prescribed me the Effexor. He easily diagnosed it as the flu. I could barely stay in the examination room – I kept running outside to puke up liquid. I had nothing left in me, but my body did not care. It was going to release whatever was in there. A huge part of my fear of vomiting was doing it in front of other people. Well, feeling like you are knocking on death’s door takes away any fear like that. I truly thought I was going to puke out my insides and die on those bricks. I remember an old man passing by saying something, but I did not even care.

      The doctor said that we needed to closely monitor my lungs, because Mama had mentioned that we did not have proper heating, and he was concerned that it could turn into pneumonia. It ALMOST got to that point, but I finally got motivated enough to get out of the bed and venture into the cold living room to sit up for a few hours each day. Mama believed that “sitting up” would keep the cold from "settling" in my lungs. Despite being so sick, I would go through Mama’s cooking magazines and drool over the delicious-looking holiday meals featured. I pulled those pages out of the magazine, hoping to make them, but never did.

      A week later, I wanted to get out of the house late Saturday afternoon. I was a half mile from the house when I had to pull over, not because I felt like I was going to puke, but because I felt diarrhea coming on. I let it pass and continued on to the store. I made it to there without being sick. It felt nice to get out of the house. It also felt nice thinking that maybe I was getting well enough to not get pneumonia. I do not remember the exact reasons, but I was out of school for the next week too. A total of two weeks of school missed, that were because I was physically sick, not due to anxiety. The next two weeks after that were Christmas break, so I had been out of school for a whole month. This could be bad news for someone who just got back into the swing of attending school after being housebound by anxiety for four years. I had decided only in that Fall I wanted to attend college. I was afraid that I had gotten too behind in school to pass the college-prep classes I needed to complete my high school degree.

      That January, I came back to school the first week, made up lots of tests, and realized I was finally feeling more comfortable being there. I attended full days, with little to no anxiety. I was in a remedial class that basically served as a period for me to recollect myself from the heavy college-prep classes I had been thrown back into after being out of school for so long.

      It was in that class that I made a friend. He was weird, always wearing Wile E. Coyote and Roadrunner shirts. His breath was atrocious too. He would take naps and we would watch as the drool dripped from his open mouth, down to the desk, and back up again. He tried in vain to be my friend. I would have figured that he was trying to hit on me, but he had a serious girlfriend AND I was two years older than him. Our class was during the lunch period. He noticed that I always sat by myself at lunch (hell, he had no clue that this was the first time in my high school career that I sat in the cafeteria DURING lunch time, not hiding out in some empty classroom!). He asked if I would sit with him and his friends. He warned me that they were “weird” and younger than me, but he thought I would like them.

      He was right. They WERE weird. All 9th graders who seemed to think I was the coolest thing ever because I was older, wore all black, and had a car. I liked how for the first time in high school, I was able to be myself without fear of rejection. I felt accepted by this group. I looked forward to seeing them at lunch. Hell, I looked forward to lunch period for the first time ever since 3^rd grade!

      Fast-forward a couple of months, to March, when Spring had started to be sprung. I forgot to mention somewhere in here that because of my attendance, I lost my driving privileges to school. I got them back that February. That was the first time I had consistently driven to school, as I quickly lost my driving privileges in the first month of my 11th grade year for missing too much school because of my depression and anxiety.

      Between driving myself to school and the "kicking in" of the medicine, I began to feel “okay”. I began to be treated like the adult I had always felt like deep inside. I would listen to obscure Brit-Pop on the way to school that would pump me up for the day. “Mile End” by Pulp was always the song I would ride into the school parking lot playing loud. The sun would start shining brightly as I entered the parking lot at 7:30am, and soon began my rebirth. “Mile End”, my driving freedoms, and the rising sun. I began to feel ALIVE for the first time since actual birth. I equated spring as my “coming back to life”. The chill in the morning air, the condensation on the blooming flowers, the promising sun... it all felt so very new and welcoming to me.

      This new zest for life even gave me the confidence to sign up for an SAT study course, offered by our chemistry teacher on a random Saturday morning. Initially, I would have avoided this like the plague because I would be fearful of the other students asking where I had been for the past four years. I became so determined to take advantage of this rebirth and grab life “by the horns” that I risked it. It was not until I was in the parking lot that Saturday morning that I could believe I was doing this. All the goody-two shoes smart kids, who likely did not even need an SAT review, were there. At first, I felt a bit of panic, thinking I did not belong there, but when the teacher came in and saw me, and said that he was “so happy to see” me, I felt like I belonged. This was the defining moment that changed the trajectory of my future. I was going to be okay; I was going to be “normal”. I was “good enough”. Even a teacher who was very aware of my crappy attendance knew it.

      I attended and graduated college not once, but twice until age 35. Life from 18 to 25 was pretty good. I could not do much with my bachelor's degree, so I dabbled in different menial jobs until I decided to attend mortuary school at 27. You have no idea of the hell and regret I felt and continue to feel about entering the funeral industry. I just started my career, but already dreaded the burnout I was beginning to feel. After graduating mortuary school and finishing my two-year apprenticeship afterward, my mental well-being could not keep up anymore.

 I started dealing with the stress by drinking excessively. I became depressed. I was awful to my husband. I let others get in my head and drown me in their toxicity. Ultimately, I became suicidal. I did one thing right during this time. I got a counselor in December of 2017. I started seeing her weekly. It was strange, because I always quit going to counseling previously, but I consistently saw her every week. She was different. She believed in me. She made me realize I already had the power in me to do what I knew I needed to do.

 I am fortunate enough to remember the actual date of my second rebirth – April 11, 2018. This was the first day of my short-term disability from work, where I vowed to get my mental health in order during the next two months. On that very day, I went to two different mental hospitals ready to check in. My counselor, who I still see every other week to this day, still jokes around about the day I came into her office and “announced” that I was going to check myself into a mental hospital. She jokes around because I am her only client who was serious enough to do it.

The first facility would not take me because I was not actively suicidal, and if I did check myself in with them, my treatment would revolve around my “alcoholism”, not my actual depression. This was not what I was seeking. I was drinking because I was depressed, not depressed because I was drinking. On to the next place! Once again, this place also focused on sobriety and combatting substance use before my actual mental health needs. The intake social worker was my savior. He said, “you don’t belong here. There are hardcore drug addicts in here and that’s not you.” He instead referred me to the hospital’s intensive outpatient group, where I immediately walked over to and got signed up.

I would start treatment the very next day! Due to my awful insurance coverage, I was only able to attend the group for 11 days, but those were the best 11 days of my adult life. I would attend 3 to 4 different groups each day with other patients, as well as be seen by the psychiatrist and social worker once a week. For the first time, I was completely VALIDATED in all my feelings about my career! I was not “too sensitive”, as I had been told by so many of my bosses and colleagues. I was used and abused for my desire to succeed in an antiquated, conservative, male-driven industry. Other patients and counselors believed me and helped me start seeing sun rays through the clouds again.

I ultimately decided to give my two weeks while I was still out on short term disability. I did not care if it was unprofessional. I did not know what I was going to do next, but luckily, I had the support of my husband to take some time to decide. I started working for another funeral home a month later, but it was different from my previous experiences. I now had the skills to be assertive and place boundaries on how I would and would not be treated. No, I was not perfect at it, but I was a million times better than I was before treatment. I did not take things personally or hold on to it for too long. I saw the mental illness that many of my colleagues struggled with, so I guess you could say I gave them grace despite their efforts to bring me down with them.

My counselor was encouraging me to attend graduate school to become a counselor this entire time. That is what I always dreamed of doing since age 11. I even have an oil pastel painting depicting it. I was afraid of the expense and of taking the GRE, but I stumbled across a local university that did not require GREs! I applied, had an interview, and was accepted! Not surprisingly, I was not supported by my work colleagues when I told them of my plans. I needed to leave early one day a week to attend class, and that was the end of the world for them, because it meant they may have to do some work while I was gone. I believe that most of them doubted I would finish, but damn, did I show them!

 I attended college for the final time, starting grad school in January 2020, and COVID appeared shortly after. I was getting fed up with the complete disregard the funeral industry had about COVID, so I left in May to focus on my studies. I guess you could say this was my third rebirth, as I was completely changed by the experience. I felt no guilt about not giving a two weeks’ notice. My boss did not deserve that. He consistently showed his lack of care for his employees, so I like to think of my walking out as the ultimate “F*** you” to him.

In May of 2022, I graduated with my Master of Arts in Clinical Mental Health Counseling. I began my new career in August 2022 and have loved every minute of it since. I was meant to be a counselor. I am glad I became one later in life, because my life experiences are more valuable in relating to my clients than any amount of education has been.

Three rebirths so far. Two of them only within a couple years of each other. I am thankful for my “sensitivity”, for it makes me more self-aware of what I need to change to make life the best it can be. My past two rebirths were the most challenging, as I grew so much emotionally and had to endure being around some of the most negative, mean-spirited people I have ever encountered. I am now where I want to be. Best of all, my rebirths can serve as inspiration to my clients who may be in a similar situation. My rebirths all happened in spring, which has always led me to think of spring as a chance to open the curtains, crack open the windows, and allow the fresh air of life to begin again – my coming back to life.