definition // verb
to provide evidence or information for (as a claim or idea)
merrriam-webster
when i was younger and got diagnosed with depression and anxiety, i was positively defiant. how dare they label me?? i was free and without labels and, frankly speaking, going through puberty so i was mad anyway.
as i got older, the diagnoses expanded, more got tacked on and i felt weighed down emotionally. How was i supposed to manage all of this? could i be “cured”? life was hard as is and i was tired of jumping from hospital to hospital, residential to residential treatment.
it wasn’t until now, and yes i’m only 24 but life feels longer when you’ve dealt with tons of bullshit, that i have finally understood and felt the validation of getting diagnosed.
when i got diagnosed with anorexia, my mom looked me in the face and told me that ‘no, actually you don’t have that.’ i can’t remember the last time i felt so squashed by her. i knew that i was struggling, i was miserable all the time, and she takes one look at me and made up her mind.
when i got diagnosed with OCD, my dad said ‘oh.. huh.’ nothing more, nothing less. just a passing comment, no recognition.
my point is.. in my opinion, people don’t take you seriously unless you have the “stamp of approval” from a doc.
this is something i’ve been thinking about considerably since i got diagnosed with anorexia years ago, and the feeling has only gotten stronger since i got diagnosed with OCD.
can i just explain to you how relieved i was with the OCD diagnosis? i wasn’t crazy!!!!! i wasn’t losing my mind, and my thoughts and behaviors were completely understandable when looked through that lens. without this diagnosis, i didn’t even realize there was a problem. i thought this was normal for me, and that was that.
but now i can actually get help for it? after i’m done with virtual eating disorder treatment i’ll be doing a virtual OCD treatment and yea maybe it’s weird to say i’m excited but i am!
would i have gotten this help without the diagnosis? no, probably not. i’d continue washing my hands over and over and over until my knuckles bleed, and crying in the shower because i can’t get clean no matter how much soap i use or how much i scrub. i’d continue cleaning the shit out of my apartment for 4 hours straight, and jiggling the door handle over and over at midnight because i don’t know if it’s locked or not.
i’m so tired. i want to not be worried all the time, and now i have hope. i have hope because a doctor finally looked at me pointedly and said “yes. you do have a problem, and we will get you help.”
this is really emotional to write honestly, and maybe that’s kind of lame to say, but i needed to get it out. the days are so long, despite being in the last stretch of winter, because every moment has been dominated by either “i hate my body” or really distressing intrusive thoughts.
all anybody ever really wants is help, ya know? we want support, we want to know that when we fall there’s a fluffy pink cloud below us, ready to cushion our fall.
i suppose i just find it interesting, and somewhat baffling, that i came to this realization at this point of my life after everything that’s happened. i’m not entirely sure what to make of it but i know there’s still a lot more to figure out.
*p.s. did any of this make sense?? it was a trip to write out.
let me know what you think?? how did you react to your diagnosis??
burrowing. 
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