Hurting and healing
ONE INDIVIDUAL’S JOURNEY WITH SELF-ACCEPTANCE AND DISCOVERING THAT RECOVERY TAKES TIME — MAYBE EVEN A LIFETIME
By Victor Mitterando
(Clint MckKoy / Unsplash)
Part of healing is accepting that there's something that needs to be healed. That’s the first step.
For years, I just thought there was something inherently wrong with me. I never had to worry about having a roof over my head or food on the table or clothes on my back. I was raised in a wealthy area. My childhood was free from physical or sexual abuse. My parents are still together, and my siblings and I get along as well as siblings who are so close in age can get along.
So why was I always so anxious? Why was I so profoundly depressed?
Healing is defined as “to make well again” or “to make sound or whole.” What if you never really were well in the first place?
I don’t remember much of my childhood, and what I do remember is tainted with profound sadness and intense anxiety.
I had my first panic attack when I was six years old. I cried on the way to school every day from first through third grade. I thought it was normal to hate myself and “not want to be here anymore.” It was normal to intentionally inflict harm and pain onto myself. I didn’t know these were problematic thoughts or behaviors.
As a teenager, after years of intensive outpatient, emergency room visits, hospitalizations, and countless clinicians, my parents sent me to a “therapeutic” wilderness program, followed by a residential treatment center, both twelve hours from home in a different state. I want to emphasize how disparagingly I use the term “therapeutic” regarding that wilderness program. I wasn’t home for 17 months.
Despite this intensive treatment, I was still convinced that I was the problem, not a mental illness. I could accept the diagnoses that continued to appear, but I felt that they were solely my fault. The people I met in treatment had experienced addictions, sexual assaults, and divorced parents. What the hell was I doing there? In fact, I believed I wasn’t deserving of these treatment programs because I was completely fine. I felt guilty for taking up space.
When I returned home from treatment and was still struggling, attempting to end my life just made sense in my head. I couldn’t help but wonder why was I so fucked up that even out-of-home treatment didn’t help? I believed that I truly deserved to die.
There was never one specific “a-ha!” moment when things changed. It happened when I was 18, though. I asked for help, even though it felt like accepting defeat. I knew something wasn’t right. Although hurting myself every day was familiar, I was able to recognize it wasn't healthy. I started what would be my last adolescent program, an intensive outpatient program that meant leaving my senior year of high school early three days a week for four months.
Over the course of those four months, I started to notice things around me. Recollections from my childhood. Patterns in my family. Memories from the wilderness program resurfaced with accompanying distress. Maybe it wasn’t me. Maybe I didn’t cause this shitshow, and maybe, just maybe, I didn’t deserve it either.
All that I have control over is my response to the world. My mental illnesses may continue to throw whatever they can at me, but it’s up to me how I choose to interact with them.
If I’m being honest, the feeling that something is inherently wrong with me has been resurfacing lately. My mental illnesses may very well be there for the rest of my life. I’m still learning how to cope.
It’s not typical that you hear of a young child with anxiety and depression who self harms. But that’s my story. Maybe it’s not “normal” or conventional, but that’s okay.
This piece was written and shared during the IDONTMIND Writing Workshop. Learn more about our free, nine-week course and be the first to know about the next workshop here. Visit Mental Health Connecticut’s YouTube channel for a video version of Victor’s story.
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Vic Mitterando is passionate about mental health and helping others. He is currently studying to obtain his associates degree in social work.