by Luna Kay

Created on: January 13, 2008   Last Updated: October 31, 2008

My misdiagnosis gave me 8 years of hell.

When I was 12, I tried to kill myself with my antidepressants. It wasn't a serious attempt, but a cry for help. I was having an extremely rough time at school, and my father had just been laid off and sued for sexual harassment and was in the process of having his own nervous breakdown. Life was difficult then. I never received a diagnosis other than situational depression.

When I was 15 I started having more problems. I'd learned to yank people around at that point, and was diagnosed bipolar. I was in and out of psychiatric hospitals, and was put on a psychotropic cocktail of Prozac, Lithium, Amitryptalene, and some other random drug for depression and anxiety. I tried to kill myself with those also. This time it was serious. I didn't tell anyone, and by the time my mom found me I was already well on my way to the Other Side. I was in the coma for a week. When I came out, they took me off all medication, to prevent any further mishaps. It didn't work.

I was a cutter. I cut my arms, wrists, legs, anything that would get attention (and make me feel better). I cut all the way up until I was 18 years old. Then I met my husband and had my daughter.

They helped me deal with life in a way I'd never been able to before, and showed me that I didn't need to be a promiscuous emo girl to gain acceptance. I didn't have to be depressed all the time to get the attention I craved. And then my husband left for his 6 month cruise (he was in the Navy). Our daughter and I came back home to live with family, and him being gone was one of the most difficult periods of my life. I was 20.

I got depressed again, nearly suicidal. I started drinking every day. I left my daughter in the care of family and ran around with the "wrong crowd" so to speak. I started hearing voices in random mechanical equipment, like the vacuum cleaner and air conditioner. There was something WRONG with me.

I went and saw another doctor and was admitted into another psychiatric hospital while they did a full evaluation. This time I stopped yanking my doctors around, and got a real diagnosis. Chronic Depression, Seasonal Affective Disorder, Dissociative Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and Mood Affective Disorder. All of these fit rather nicely under the label of BPD - Borderline Personality Disorder. I was put on Depacote for the Dissociative and Mood Affective disorders, but I turned out to have a bad reaction to it and declined other medication to compensate. Now that I knew what was wrong with me, I had a better chance of controlling it without pharmaceutical assistance.

It's now been 8 years since I was properly diagnosed, and while I definitely have my ups and downs, life has been a lot easier to handle. I've learned new coping skills that don't involve self harm or liquor, and even though I probably should have medication for my MAD and GAD, I don't actually NEED them. My daughter understands that momma has some emotional problems, and she copes with it better than any 9 year old could ever be expected to.

When you receive a wrong diagnosis, it does more than affect you. It affects those around you. Attempting to cope with the wrong illness only makes the actual illness worse and worse, until you're too far gone to deal with life effectively. Always get a second opinion. Make sure your doctor knows what they're talking about. This is your life.

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