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To begin, I will give a brief explanation describing my DpDr and as to why I felt I needed to write about this particular subject. If you would like to skip ahead to the struggle with my parents, read under the ___________
My DPDR started when I was 17 years old. I've suffered from severe anxiety/depression for the majority of my teenage years, so to cope with such distress I took various medications. Then suddenly, it was like the light at the end of the tunnel had arrived. I started to feel better, which was a feat I thought never would arrive. About a year later, after being removed from medication, I was with some friends at a house party, and I made the worst decision of my life. I smoked weed. Now don't get me wrong, I've smoked weed before (only about 3 times, and now I've stopped for good), but it was this particular instance that changed my whole life. I woke up the next day, still feeling really strange, as if nothing was real and I was stuck in a dream. It's hard to describe, but the way that I saw things was as if I were in a movie. Objects didn't have a fluid movement, rather it felt like they moved in frames. Honestly, I thought I was still high. However, the days flew by without losing this feeling, and I began to fear I was going literally insane. I couldn't even leave the house to go to work. These days turned into weeks, months... and I still have felt little relief. It has gotten better, because I have extremely empathetic friends that want to help me, and be with me even though I am suffering through this.
However, my parents are a completely different story.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The first 2 weeks, there was no way in hell I was about to tell my parents what I was going through. I feared they would assume I was crazy, or the worst: They would undermine my feelings and tell me to get over it.
By this time, my DPDR was so severe, I was giving myself panic attacks when I would walk outside, on account of all the light and people were just too overwhelming to my brain. It was just too much to comprehend for some reason, so it forced me back inside.
It wasn't long after these incidents that my mom asked me if I was ok. For some reason, I felt like I needed to tell someone in fear that I would take my situation to drastic measures and end up hurting myself in the end. So I told her very seriously that I needed to sit down and talk with her.
It was hard telling her how I felt, because at that time I had no idea what was going on with me. Imagine telling your mom that you felt as if you were no longer real and you felt like you were stuck in a dream. Telling her that you would feel nothing if someone were to stab you with a knife.
That you felt like you weren't in your own body, and the way you see things were almost distorted in a way. And, that is exactly what I told her.
I figured I needed to tell her everything in order to receive help or at least advice. The response I received was somewhat expected. For the longest she just stared at me, probably wondering if I were just going to start laughing and tell her it was all a joke. However, I stood serious, waiting for a response.
"Oh my god, we need to check for a gas leak."
I stood confused. "A gas leak?"
She honest to god thought that my symptoms were that of a gas leak, so she immediately called to have an inspection. I tried telling her, that these were definitely not symptoms of a gas leak, and I tried further explaining my experiences. She waved me off, telling me I wouldn't know unless we checked for sure.
Our house was 100% safe with excellent ventilation.
By this time, I had done my own research and had finally found others with my same exact feelings. I had delved into the community and learned what DPDR was and read many people's experiences through it. I thought this was my saving grace. I honestly thought that if I showed my mom these stories, she would take me more seriously. So, I did.
Her response was cruel. "Katelin," she said, " you're fine, and you need to stop digging too deep in your head. This is the kind of garbage I'd expect you to dig out of the internet. You know you can't believe everything you see online, and now you're diagnosing yourself with some nonsense illness."
That day was hell to me. I realized I had no close support, and that I was bound to fall in the dark pit of this condition alone, tryig to cope with feeling like I was insane. I was so scared. I felt like a helpless child.
Days went by, and now and again she would ask me if I was feeling the same way. Every time I told her yes. The excuses she would come up with literally blew me out of the water.
"You know, we had an unusually warm winter and allergies are bad. You're probably dizzy, take a benadryl."
"You know what I think is wrong Katelin? You need glasses! We need to get you in for glasses soon."
"I told you to stop sleeping with your door closed, you caused this on yourself by having poor ventilation in your room when you sleep!"
With every excuse she pulled up, I felt more and more helpless. All the while, my father didn't want anything to do with it.
I would try to explain to my mom what was going on with me every time. How I felt like I needed real help. She would only get irrationally angry and tell me I was being over-dramatic --that if I didn't try the advice she gave me first, she wouldn't even bother talking to me about it.
After about a month of this, I finally told her it had went away (which was obviously a lie). Her reply was simple. "I told you it was just allergies. You did all of that complaining for nothing."
I am now 19, and doing better with my condition. Rather than relying on family, I talked to people online and found ways to cope.
I have no idea why I wanted to write about this.My guess is that writing it down made me feel like it actually happened, because during that period I felt like nothing was real. I still think back to that month and argue with myself over if it really happened or not. Anyway, thanks for reading.
My DPDR started when I was 17 years old. I've suffered from severe anxiety/depression for the majority of my teenage years, so to cope with such distress I took various medications. Then suddenly, it was like the light at the end of the tunnel had arrived. I started to feel better, which was a feat I thought never would arrive. About a year later, after being removed from medication, I was with some friends at a house party, and I made the worst decision of my life. I smoked weed. Now don't get me wrong, I've smoked weed before (only about 3 times, and now I've stopped for good), but it was this particular instance that changed my whole life. I woke up the next day, still feeling really strange, as if nothing was real and I was stuck in a dream. It's hard to describe, but the way that I saw things was as if I were in a movie. Objects didn't have a fluid movement, rather it felt like they moved in frames. Honestly, I thought I was still high. However, the days flew by without losing this feeling, and I began to fear I was going literally insane. I couldn't even leave the house to go to work. These days turned into weeks, months... and I still have felt little relief. It has gotten better, because I have extremely empathetic friends that want to help me, and be with me even though I am suffering through this.
However, my parents are a completely different story.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The first 2 weeks, there was no way in hell I was about to tell my parents what I was going through. I feared they would assume I was crazy, or the worst: They would undermine my feelings and tell me to get over it.
By this time, my DPDR was so severe, I was giving myself panic attacks when I would walk outside, on account of all the light and people were just too overwhelming to my brain. It was just too much to comprehend for some reason, so it forced me back inside.
It wasn't long after these incidents that my mom asked me if I was ok. For some reason, I felt like I needed to tell someone in fear that I would take my situation to drastic measures and end up hurting myself in the end. So I told her very seriously that I needed to sit down and talk with her.
It was hard telling her how I felt, because at that time I had no idea what was going on with me. Imagine telling your mom that you felt as if you were no longer real and you felt like you were stuck in a dream. Telling her that you would feel nothing if someone were to stab you with a knife.
That you felt like you weren't in your own body, and the way you see things were almost distorted in a way. And, that is exactly what I told her.
I figured I needed to tell her everything in order to receive help or at least advice. The response I received was somewhat expected. For the longest she just stared at me, probably wondering if I were just going to start laughing and tell her it was all a joke. However, I stood serious, waiting for a response.
"Oh my god, we need to check for a gas leak."
I stood confused. "A gas leak?"
She honest to god thought that my symptoms were that of a gas leak, so she immediately called to have an inspection. I tried telling her, that these were definitely not symptoms of a gas leak, and I tried further explaining my experiences. She waved me off, telling me I wouldn't know unless we checked for sure.
Our house was 100% safe with excellent ventilation.
By this time, I had done my own research and had finally found others with my same exact feelings. I had delved into the community and learned what DPDR was and read many people's experiences through it. I thought this was my saving grace. I honestly thought that if I showed my mom these stories, she would take me more seriously. So, I did.
Her response was cruel. "Katelin," she said, " you're fine, and you need to stop digging too deep in your head. This is the kind of garbage I'd expect you to dig out of the internet. You know you can't believe everything you see online, and now you're diagnosing yourself with some nonsense illness."
That day was hell to me. I realized I had no close support, and that I was bound to fall in the dark pit of this condition alone, tryig to cope with feeling like I was insane. I was so scared. I felt like a helpless child.
Days went by, and now and again she would ask me if I was feeling the same way. Every time I told her yes. The excuses she would come up with literally blew me out of the water.
"You know, we had an unusually warm winter and allergies are bad. You're probably dizzy, take a benadryl."
"You know what I think is wrong Katelin? You need glasses! We need to get you in for glasses soon."
"I told you to stop sleeping with your door closed, you caused this on yourself by having poor ventilation in your room when you sleep!"
With every excuse she pulled up, I felt more and more helpless. All the while, my father didn't want anything to do with it.
I would try to explain to my mom what was going on with me every time. How I felt like I needed real help. She would only get irrationally angry and tell me I was being over-dramatic --that if I didn't try the advice she gave me first, she wouldn't even bother talking to me about it.
After about a month of this, I finally told her it had went away (which was obviously a lie). Her reply was simple. "I told you it was just allergies. You did all of that complaining for nothing."
I am now 19, and doing better with my condition. Rather than relying on family, I talked to people online and found ways to cope.
I have no idea why I wanted to write about this.My guess is that writing it down made me feel like it actually happened, because during that period I felt like nothing was real. I still think back to that month and argue with myself over if it really happened or not. Anyway, thanks for reading.
