Getting a mental health diagnosis in your 30s
Chapter 1
(Not really a chapter, but doesn’t that sound official and dramatic?).
Through my early 20’s a series of really great (*terrible) life events taught me that I’m prone to depression and anxiety. Looking back, I most likely had this my whole life (as if teenage years aren’t hard enough, add that to the mix, fuck my poor friends no wonder I only have a few).
So I bumbled along with my life, dealing with week/month long periods of depression and living with high anxiety most days. Panic attacks interspersed periodically every couple of months or so. It was really great. When the depressive episodes got too much to handle holistically I’d jump onto meds, coming off them (with drs guidance) when I felt like I could try to cope again. “Cope” is a strong word, more like “cope with all the feelings and pray I don’t fall off.”
Then I hit 30, and I fell off completely.
In the period of a year, a business dream of mine (that I’d worked towards for ten or so years) fell over. I’d finally set up my own ECE company and due to some fucktards hitting us with legal action, we ran out of funds to continue proving our innocence. So despite the legal action being irrelevant, the company went ass over tits. Fucking fucktards (wee bit of anger there still). That was problem #1.
Problem #2 involved some relationship issues that I won’t delve into, sorry to spoil the juicy gossip. I know you love it. All is fine now but you know what? It really sucked at the time.
Problem #3 – as a result of business going under I stupidly took on a lesser paid, no experience needed job at a large corporate firm. A nothing job. An in-between job. A job I thought would be low stress and would give me time to catch my breathe.
Turns out my soul literally starts to die when I’m in a crappy job. Not figuratively. Literally. Experience undervalued, no creativity, no room to breathe, meetings about meetings, bunch of weird corporate people wearing blazers and complaining all day about their job. You know it! Maybe some people can stomach it, but I couldn’t.
Then I turned 30. And it sounds BPD crazy, but that’s when shit really started going down. After crying for half of my birthday I came to the realisation:
- Yes, I now had both wrinkles and pimples (things people don’t tell you).
- Yes, I wee’d a little bit when I jumped on the tramp (thanks childbirth).
- Yes, I no longer knew what the kids slang meant (Lit? Lit a fire????).
But I could handle those thing. I didn’t care about being lit. Turning 30 in that respect was fine. It was lit. The problem was more, here I was, career in turmoil, relationship doing weird relationship things, working in the shittiest job I could imagine.
It wasn’t where I’d pictured myself being when I hit 30. Cue a breakdown. A literal breakdown.
One day, I stood up from my desk at my shitty-ass-eating job. I was in the throes of a panic attack and a huge depressive episode. I headed home sick, around lunchtime. And I never went back.
The next few days were a mess. I had hit a breaking point and I needed urgent medical, mental and emotional help.
I quit my job. Well, technically my husband wrote the email because I couldn’t move from the couch.
I sent my daughter to her Dad’s for a little holiday for a week.
My husband took time off work to look after me. Cooking, cleaning, making tea.
I started intense therapy. More intense than ever before. I was already seeing a psychiatrist and in the mental health system, but this was serious now.
They played with my medication. This or that. One then another. Red pill or blue pill Neo.
They gave me two therapists (whoooo), dealing in both Dialectical Behaviour Therapy (DBT) and psychodynamic psychotherapy.
They gave me regular appointments with a registrar.
Finally. Finally. A team of dedicated professionals figured out what was happening. Why the years of on again off again medication and psychology wasn’t working. Why this was my second breakdown in the last 7 years. Why I couldn’t take off in my career, despite having the drive, passion and education. Why I couldn’t stomach a shitty job. Why anxiety ruled my life and why depression came and went like a wave.
A new diagnosis.
After constantly treating anxiety and depression, I was now being treated for Borderline Personality Disorder. At 30 years old. The time when you were “meant” to have your shit in order, your ducks aligned.
What fun!
Stay tuned for more great chapters, such as “How I Dealt With a Mental Breakdown!” and “I Really Do Wet My Pants Sometimes When I Jump Up and Down!” and “How Do My Husband/Friends Stand Me?”
Next post will not be serious I promise. But I have BPD so who knows what I’ll do. Lolz.
Namaste x
Rachel Rennie Blogs 