*this question is for people who were professionally diagnosed with SAD/SP*
I remember when I was first diagnosed with SAD about four years ago. It was an incredibly turbulent time in my life; my parents' marriage was falling apart before my eyes and it was an ugly sight to behold at times, but while I was becoming more familiar with life in a broken home, that issue was nothing compared to the utter isolation I'd been suffering at school for over a year on account of my anxiety. After a falling out with my only circle of "friends", I was too shy to find another clique to join, and so I spent my school days alone. This boy I very much liked at the time was talking about me behind my back and meanwhile, ironically, my former best friend was spreading a rumor that I was a lesbian. Besides the excessive pubescent drama, I regularly put up with relatives who spoke to me and treated me as if I were some social leper--a hideous lost cause.
All of this criticism, rejection, and unwelcome solitude had gotten to me and I became dangerously depressed, so my mother forced me into seeing a shrink.
After a number of sessions and personal confessions on my part, my therapist diagnosed me with Social Anxiety Disorder.
My response? I all but lost my temper. I took her diagnosis as being synonymous with mental illness, which to me was dangerously close to being clinically insane. I passionately protested the diagnosis, even going so far as lying to her; I recall asserting that my description of my anxiety came out the wrong way, I exaggerated my feelings, I wasn't that lonely, and so on.
I succeeded in getting her to take back her diagnosis, but this did not make me feel any better as I knew that what I said to change her mind was only a desperate attempt to come off as fairly normal.
But I knew I wasn't normal. I was insulted and more depressed than ever in acknowledging my freefall toward madness, and the revelation of having SAD prompted suicidal thoughts for years afterward.
Maybe I was being melodramatic in my reaction to the news. But I just never imagined that my life would take a turn in this direction. I mean, a phobia of social interaction? A phobia of something so basic as speaking can be as crippling as a phobia of sunlight or air. Socializing is an inevitable part of everyday life, and I could hardly handle it.
All I could focus on was how I could vaguely recall a more blissful time loong ago, prior to grade school and the bullying and betrayal that defined it. I was confident; I couldn't care less what the world thought of me. I was far more open to socializing then, only acting quietly when I had nothing to say, but I was never shy--or so I thought. How could I have changed so drastically?
I just couldn't stop thinking about how far I'd fallen, and I was afraid to find out how much further I had before my spirit should shatter at the impact of hitting rock bottom. Naturally, I wanted to put myself out of my misery. I am just grateful that, while I'm still mildly depressed, I have at least lost the desire to take my own life.
So tell me: What's your story? How did you handle the diagnosis? Were you surprised? What were your thoughts?
I remember when I was first diagnosed with SAD about four years ago. It was an incredibly turbulent time in my life; my parents' marriage was falling apart before my eyes and it was an ugly sight to behold at times, but while I was becoming more familiar with life in a broken home, that issue was nothing compared to the utter isolation I'd been suffering at school for over a year on account of my anxiety. After a falling out with my only circle of "friends", I was too shy to find another clique to join, and so I spent my school days alone. This boy I very much liked at the time was talking about me behind my back and meanwhile, ironically, my former best friend was spreading a rumor that I was a lesbian. Besides the excessive pubescent drama, I regularly put up with relatives who spoke to me and treated me as if I were some social leper--a hideous lost cause.
All of this criticism, rejection, and unwelcome solitude had gotten to me and I became dangerously depressed, so my mother forced me into seeing a shrink.
After a number of sessions and personal confessions on my part, my therapist diagnosed me with Social Anxiety Disorder.
My response? I all but lost my temper. I took her diagnosis as being synonymous with mental illness, which to me was dangerously close to being clinically insane. I passionately protested the diagnosis, even going so far as lying to her; I recall asserting that my description of my anxiety came out the wrong way, I exaggerated my feelings, I wasn't that lonely, and so on.
I succeeded in getting her to take back her diagnosis, but this did not make me feel any better as I knew that what I said to change her mind was only a desperate attempt to come off as fairly normal.
But I knew I wasn't normal. I was insulted and more depressed than ever in acknowledging my freefall toward madness, and the revelation of having SAD prompted suicidal thoughts for years afterward.
Maybe I was being melodramatic in my reaction to the news. But I just never imagined that my life would take a turn in this direction. I mean, a phobia of social interaction? A phobia of something so basic as speaking can be as crippling as a phobia of sunlight or air. Socializing is an inevitable part of everyday life, and I could hardly handle it.
All I could focus on was how I could vaguely recall a more blissful time loong ago, prior to grade school and the bullying and betrayal that defined it. I was confident; I couldn't care less what the world thought of me. I was far more open to socializing then, only acting quietly when I had nothing to say, but I was never shy--or so I thought. How could I have changed so drastically?
I just couldn't stop thinking about how far I'd fallen, and I was afraid to find out how much further I had before my spirit should shatter at the impact of hitting rock bottom. Naturally, I wanted to put myself out of my misery. I am just grateful that, while I'm still mildly depressed, I have at least lost the desire to take my own life.
So tell me: What's your story? How did you handle the diagnosis? Were you surprised? What were your thoughts?
