How I Self-Medicated Without Drugs and Alcohol
I was once asked if I self-medicated after the onset of my mental illness. The answer? Yes, but not with drugs or alcohol. It wasn’t my clarity or control over my mind that bothered me the most when schizoaffective disorder hit me like a bus. I wasn’t ready to deal with those yet. What I mourned the most was the loss of the ease of academics, the ability to eat anything but stay skinny, and some level of innate athletic ability – the things that others could see. I felt robbed. It felt like I was worth less without those things. And since then, they’ve held roles as both ways to self-medicate and compensate.
I lost part of my identity
I was always considered a smart, athletic person, but suddenly I was dropping calculus because I was failing. In track season, I pushed myself, but still gained weight, slowing me down and throwing off my balance. My coaches had expected to make it to the state championships, but at that point it was just a dream. I felt like I had let everyone down. I hadn’t realized it, but these were parts of my identity. And just like that they were gone. The cognitive deficits associated with schizoaffective disorder and the metabolic side effects of my medication ripped them from my grasp. I was bitter and angry and in despair. In my first year of college, I just kept waiting for them to magically come back while watching my grades hit the floor and my scholarship dissolve only a year into college.
After my freshman year, I felt like I had my feet under me a bit better. I had come up with some extensive study skills and was receiving accommodations from the school’s disability office. But while grappling with anxiety and depression, I found a way to self-medicate. It wasn’t with drinking or drugs; I self-medicated with success. To counter my feelings of inadequacy, I needed high grades, honors, compliments, and achievement in the two club sports in which I was involved. Deep down I knew it didn’t make sense, but a part of me felt like, if I could get my GPA and slim build back, then my life would go back to making sense. If I could just be the best at everything, then maybe I could forget the pain and shame. But it never worked.
Nothing was ever enough, including my weight.
By my senior year, I thought that I had tried everything I could to lose weight. I ate better, ran, worked out, but with very little success. In the clutch of severe depression and anxiety, I began restricting my daily calorie intake to a frighteningly low amount. It was a dangerous way to self-medicate. I lived for weighing myself, often doing so six or seven times a day. I would stand on the scale, desperate for the rush I felt every time the number ticked downward.
Ultimately, I swapped restricting for an unhealthy diet and, with the help of the medication side effects, quickly became overweight. With the help of a trainer, I was able to get back on track, but I still fiercely cared about things like my jeans size and physique. I wouldn’t say I dressed provocatively, but I cared a great deal more about showing off my body than I ever had before. Every compliment was a win for me. But my efforts to combat shame with attention never helped beyond that moment.
The underlying issue is that I’m still learning to be comfortable with myself with this diagnosis.
To this day, the glow of praise fades with the sunlight. I catch myself consoling myself with my exam scores when I make a mistake at work. The number on the tag of my jeans still matters to me more than it should. I’m not going to lie, it took some restraint not to list all the accomplishments to which I haven’t entirely let go. And with each idea for graduate school, be it master’s, Ph.D, or JD, I’ve had to think very hard about why I want to go. Is it to advance my career or to self-medicate and feed my ego? That line is often a bit fuzzy. But my past accomplishments are a bandaid, they don’t resolve anything.
Mental illness creates a ripple effect that can seep into every corner of your mind. It goes so much farther than symptoms. And even if you don’t define yourself by your illness, it can still have a powerful impact on your identity. It preys on insecurity and breeds shame, creating a situation that can beg for self-medication in one form or another. But whether it’s alcohol or ruthless overachievement, it will never solve the problem.
At this point, I’ve accepted schizoaffective disorder, but I’m still getting comfortable with who I am with it. I hated who I was when I had to be right and had to be the best. I don’t want to be that girl anymore. But with time and therapy, I’m figuring out who I am and who I want to be. As we peel back the old layers of denial, shame, and anger, I’m finding answers in vulnerability. I’m a work in progress, and I’m mostly okay with that.
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