So Be It Unto Me

Hey everyone!! So sorry I haven't written in a while! To say I've been busy would be more than an understatement! With classes, dance practices, work and pageants, I seem to always have something on my agenda, but to me, all those things help make life just a little bit more fun! But none-the-less, I'm making it a goal to write more because when I don't I feel as if I'm missing out on talking to a friend.

I've decided to jump right in and start by saying I've started to write this post several times. More than several times, actually, I've started to write this post countless times. I've thought about it, I've prayed about it, and finally as if saying "hello? Don't you get it???" God told me to just write. So that's what I'm going to do.

This post will be unlike anything I've ever written and unlike anything of mine you've ever read. While many of my readers know me personally, some only know me for who I present myself as in my writing. Some only know about my life as a colleigate athlete. Some only know me as the girl who seeks adventure from traveling and trying new things. Some know me as the girl who competes in pageants. This is mainly because those are the things I've written publicly about, but today, I'm going public with something else. In February of 2016, I was diagnosed with depression.

As I was typing the last sentence my heart began to race. Sharing such a private detail of my life is, for a lack of better words, a bit terrifying. What will people think? Will my friends talk about me? Will my family call me and ask questions? So many thoughts have flooded my mind when I thought about writing that sentence. But I did it, it's out there, and this is a part of my story.

In the summer of 2015 I moved to Kansas to a small town 20 miles east of Wichita. I had signed an NLOI and was officially a collegiate athlete. I drove my overly packed car by myself as my parents followed behind. I was so excited for this new chapter in my life. About halfway there though, I began to cry. I'm talking big, wet, alligator tears. I didn't want my mom to know I was crying so I quickly made myself stop so my eyes wouldn't be red and puffy when we got there.

We pulled up to what would be my dorm for the next two weeks. They weren't the dorms I'd be staying in during the school year, and thank goodness for that. These were the older dorms, the dorms everybody tried their hardest not to end up with... the dorms with community bathrooms. So you get the idea. However, I was hopeful because I knew I'd have the room to myself for those two weeks.

I got my room key and began to unload my stuff. With every box, bag, or suitcase that was brought in to the room I felt a pain. I became heavier and heavier with every step. Once everything was brought in and unpacked, it was understood that it was time for my parents to leave. I walked with them out to the car and as soon as we got out there I began to cry. They hugged me and told me I would be okay. I thought I would be okay too, but I quickly learned I wouldn't be. Not yet.

That first night I laid in my bed and I cried. I couldn't stop crying, either. I was so scared and felt so alone. My room was cold and humid--quite an uncomfortable combination and it was dark so it felt like I was in a cave. I'm not sure how long I cried... an hour, several hours, I'm not sure. But when I woke up the next morning I couldn't see. I couldn't see because my eyes were swollen shut.

When I finally got my eyes open enough to see, I saw that it wasn't just my eyes that were swollen, but my entire face. I looked as if I had been attacked or beaten, only there were no bruises, scratches, or blood.

I was panicked. Not because I was almost unrecognizably swollen, but because I had to take my ID picture in an hour.

I sent pictures to my mom and called her asking what I should do. She gave me the list of home remedies to try--you know, the list of things that only mom's could know and the rest of just wonder "how did she think of that?" I tried them all and while I tried to convince myself I looked better, I knew I didn't. But, I didn't care. I took the picture anyways. And here it is:

So that's where it started. That's what's weird about my depression. I know exactly when it started. I know when I woke up with it which is something many people with depression don't know. But then, I had no idea. I was just sad. There was no way I was depressed. Not me. I had a lot of friends, I came from a large high school, I was on the pom and track teams, I was homecoming queen, I was strong and independent, I knew depression was real, but depression didn't happen to someone like that; someone like me.

Overtime I realized I was more than just sad, but I carried on, never once telling anyone how I felt. In the past I looked at each new day as a fresh start; I looked at it as an opportunity to have "a great day". But as I made my way through my freshman year of college I woke up numb to the excitement that a new day holds. I woke up out of routine, not out of eagerness to spend my day in class with friends or at practice with my teammates. I woke up because I had to. 

I really fell behind in the personal hygiene category, as well. I was not by any means "smelly" (I showered multiple times a day; I was that roommate that called the shower first, every time) but I'd go for weeks with out combing my hair. As most of you know I usually wear my hair straight, but I didn't even take the time to straighten it anymore. So in the shower I'd run some water and conditioner through it and call it good. Because I wouldn't comb it, when I finally got around to combing it my once voluminous, curly hair would be in dreads. I'd pull the comb through hair, clenching my teeth, as I literally ripped the hair from my head. But at that point, I didn't care. It was all I could do to make it a single day without crying. So I cut out what I thought at the time didn't matter: washing my hair, sleeping, sometimes eating.

One thing I did do, and I'll talk more about it later, is I went to class. Always. I hardly ever missed a class, and I made excellent grades. So I often told myself that maybe I was okay, maybe I wasn't depressed. Because if I was depressed I wouldn't go to class, right? This is me on my first day of classes:

As first semester came to a close I finished with a 3.9 GPA, the most muscular, toned, and defined legs you'd ever seen (thanks Coach Greg and Coach Turner), a couple of dreads in my hair, and a deep feeling of temporary relief followed by an ominous wave because I knew I'd have to come back. I spent most of my Christmas break working. Everyday, all day, as many hours out of the day that I could, I worked. It felt so good to be back somewhere that I was familiar with. Somewhere that I associated with a happier time in life; somewhere I had been before depression.

While I was home, my mom asked me, as she did frequently, "Ashley, is everything okay?" I would answer "yes" or a long, drawn out "yeah". But one time she asked, my answer was a little different.

I told her I didn't know what to do anymore. I didn't want to be sad, but I didn't know what else to do. She comforted me and even though she suggested it was time for help, I refused it. It's not that I didn't want help, but I didn't know how to ask. I didn't know how to tell someone that I was so empty and hollow inside. I didn't think anyone would believe me, understand, or care. So when the break was over, I headed back to Kansas.

I remember when I got there it was dark. (Anytime I went home I stayed as long as I could, so I always arrived back at school when it was already dark or when it was late at night). I carried a bag or two into the dorm and to my room where I was greeted by my roommate who hopped off her bed and gave me a hug. It was a moment where I felt like maybe, just maybe, I would make it.

My roommate, a friend, and I lugged all my stuff back inside. I remember asking them if they thought this semester would go by fast or slow. We agreed it would go by quickly. I think they may have agreed with me only because I was really selling to them that I thought it would go by quickly because that's what I wanted them to say; that's what I needed them to say.

As second semester kicked off, I was worse than ever. I cried every night and I never slept. I would lay in my bed for hours without ever shutting my eyes. And when I did finally sleep, anytime I would roll over I would wake up. This is common for a lot of people, but when I woke up, I was wide awake as if I hadn't just been sleeping and as if I wasn't tired at all. I was awake and fully alert, it was beyond frustrating.

Shortly after the start of second semester, I had found the time to come home and visit with my mom. We were standing in front of the washer and dryer folding laundry and I knew I couldn't hold it in any longer. I stopped what I was doing and I hugged my mom. She asked, again, if I was okay. I hugged her as tight as I could and she hugged me back as I began to cry. I told her I was just too sad. I couldn't stand being that sad any longer. 

I had finally faced the music. I wasn't going to let this break me while it attempted to wither me away. I told my mom I needed to go to the doctor, and she agreed.

The first step was seeing someone who could diagnose me. So I sought out someone, who for privacy purposes I will call Dr. A.

I sat on the couch in Dr. A's office (no, I didn't lay down, that's only in the movies) and started to tell her everything. I'm not sure how long I talked but when I was done, she sat down her pencil and notepad and gave it to me straight. "We usually classify depression as being sad for an extended period of time, while also losing the desire to perform everyday functions. Depression isn't just a mental disorder that affects the brain, it affects the entire body. With how long you've been feeling like this, you have depression."

To say I was angry would be an understatement. I was so mad that Dr. A had the nerve to tell me I had a mental disorder! It still pains me to think about it now. Saying I had a mental disorder made me sound crazy. I wasn't crazy, I was just like everybody else. All I could do was put my face in my hands and cry. I now know her telling me that wasn't out of malice, but it was out of genuine care and it was just what I needed to hear.

As spring break neared, I was happy to have the chance to spend some time at home again. During second semester my time at home was limited due to my track schedule; we were often traveling to other places for the weekend for meets. I spent most of my spring break either out and about, running in to old hometown friends, pretending everything was fine, or at home, dreading the day I had to go back. That day was obviously inevitable, and when it came, I woke up and told my mom I wasn't going. I stayed in bed most of that day. The second day came and again I told her I wasn't going. I couldn't bear the thought of even getting out of bed, let alone driving 2 and 1/2 hours back to my dorm by myself. Most of my car rides back were spent in tears, and I was tired of that. I was just tired. So I stayed in bed for as long as I could.

I saw Dr. A several more times, I really enjoyed my sessions with her. She became someone I saw as a friend. I remember sitting on that same couch as I smiled and told her, "Dr. A, I feel so much better. I think I'm better." She told me she thought I was, too. But I wasn't ready for what she said next. "I don't think you'll be needing anymore sessions with me." WHAT?! No, no, no, no. I didn't want to stop seeing Dr. A! What if I needed someone to talk to? What if I started to feel sad again? What was I supposed to do? My heart raced as I shakily said, "Okay...". But as I walked out of her office for the last time, I squinted my eyes. It wasn't a super sunny day, but I remember my breath almost being taken away because the world literally looked brighter. It was like I was seeing life through a new pair of eyes and I was hopeful. I was so hopeful for all of the good things to come.

Shortly after my last session with Dr. A, my year at Butler came to a close. I had already broke the news to my coaches that my track career had reached it's end. I had peaked in college--I was the fastest I had ever been, and I was satisfied with that. There was still one more matter of business: to run in a National Championship meet. 

So I did just that. This is a picture of me and my coach, Coach Greg, at the National Championships where I practiced my starts as the lead leg for the women's 4x1:

Now let's go back in time a bit... after I had packed up most of my room and had taken my things home for the summer, I came back to move the rest of my stuff to an apartment across campus where we (the track team) would stay before we left for nationals. As I cleared out the last of my stuff, I was hit with a flood of emotions. Suddenly, I was really sad again. You could see it on my face. This was the last picture taken in my dorm room just minutes before I walked out for the last time:

I should've been happy! I should've been rejoicing that I, someone who once struggled through something so heavy, had beaten it; I had conquered it! But I felt none of those things. I was sad for two reasons. One: My mind mentally shifted to the same mentality I had while I lived in that room, and that was shut everything out and just survive as best I could. I immediately went into survivor mode, numbing myself in preparation for any blow of sadness that tried to strike me.  Two: (and still to this day I don't understand this one) I was sad to be leaving that room. My dorm had become my home. It held so many memories and it also held so many secrets. Not secrets as in things that weren't supposed to be, but secrets as in all the emotions I had felt in that room that no one else knew I was feeling. In that room I cried, in that room I was angry, in that room I was scared, in that room I was vulnerable, but one thing never changed, the room itself. The key had always opened the door and allowed me to walk in and to feel; feel all the things I hid when I wasn't in that room. And feeling, while sometimes hurt, was a relief. So I knew I was going to miss it. And for along time I did, and still every once in a while, I do.

This is that room, often referred to as Palace 126. This is what my room looked like second semester:

And now, here I am. Almost two years since the beginning; the beginning of what has now become my mission. In a few weeks I'll be celebrating one year since I fully recovered from depression--I'm so excited! And I'm ready. I'm ready to be that person for someone. That person who starts the conversation. That person who asks someone how they're doing in genuine search of an answer. It's my turn to help; my suffering was not in vain. I know God has a got a plan, He always does.

So that's a chapter in my story; a small glimpse of what I went through in certain time of my life. Of course there are things I haven't written about, but maybe one day I'll be speaking and I'll share those things. Maybe one day I'll write those things down and turn it in to a book. Maybe one day, with my story, I'll change the world.

If I had to struggle through the dark to be someone else's light... so be it unto me.

Ashley