I fell into the first category. I went to Japan with visions of gaijin fame, delicious food, strong drink, and, basically, the time of my life. And for the first few months, that’s exactly what I got. Each day was a whirlwind of new faces, new places, and drunkenly stumbling from the bar to the subway station.

As the parties and celebrations tapered, so did my social life. Admittedly, I could have put forth more effort to make more friends, expand my social circle a little…but as a person with social anxiety, finding the courage to call even a close friend is excruciating. And finally, a falling-out with my sole friend in Japan rendered me essentially isolated. So here I was, in a foreign country–experiencing intense culture shock–alone. There was a solid two weeks where I didn’t leave my apartment for anything but groceries; no get-togethers with friends, no phone calls, no trips to the mall (which I’d often take just to be around people in the hopes that my innate longing for human connection would be satiated merely by walking around a busy shopping center). Those two weeks really did a number on me.

For the final three months in Japan, things progressed a little from that rock-bottom state, but my feelings of depression and isolation remained constant. The Japanese medication for my depression had no positive effect on me; I gained 15 pounds and was just as depressed as before, if not more so due to the rapid weight gain. My dreams became vivid, violent Tarantino-esque visions of brutal murders and suicides that haunted me for days.

So I decided it was time for me to leave. Isolation from friends and family and familiarity is just not an option when tackling such issues as depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts, insomnia, and possible BPD and PTSD.

I’m home now, and  slowly adjusting to American culture and lifestyle again. I finally have a therapist–something I’ve needed for years but was never able to afford. Things are steadily looking up.

To begin, I suppose I should explain that I’m in the middle of an exceptionally deep episode of depression. There are two major contributing factors: a recent ten pound weight gain and the revelation that I have heart issues.

I can’t remember a time in my life during which I wasn’t obsessed with my appearance, especially when it came to my weight. As soon as I hit middle school, the frequent thoughts and comparisons running through my head became incessant. Every time I come across a beautiful, thin, fit woman–whether she enjoys fame and fortune or attends classes at the local college–I instantly compare my body to hers. I wonder how different my life would be if I looked like her, had the same gorgeous body, and so on. I observe her interactions with others and note how nice she’s treated, the way others look at her, and the instant respect she receives. Again, I cannot emphasize enough the degree to which these thoughts haunt me. It’s exhausting. Though I know my recent weight gain is no one’s fault but my own, I can’t seem to rid myself of the hopelessness my never-ending struggle with weight and appearance. By May of 2009, I had lost 30 pounds. I went from 165 pounds at the height of 5’4 to 135 over the course of four months.

However, my weight loss did not stop or even diminish the self-deprecating thoughts I experienced. If anything, losing the weight increased them. The only thing I’ve found that somewhat remedies this is taking my anti-depressants. I’d like to think I’m strong enough to avoid any reliance on pills, but I am not.

About three weeks ago, I found out I have heart conditions. Mitral valve prolapse, mitral valve regurgitation, an irregular heartbeat, and tachycardia are the issues I have been diagnosed with so far, though there is a chance I may have hypertension and a hole in my heart. I’ve been placed on medication to slow my heartbeat and take pressure off my malfunctioning valve. The cardiologist told me I will likely struggle for the rest of my life with activities such as exercise, hiking, basically anything that raises my heart rate. Looking back, I understand why, over all these years, working out, hiking in Zion, and general running around made me so exhausted and light-headed. From a ten second sprint, my heart rate jumps from about 100bpm to 180bpm. Most people take about five minutes of running to get their heart rate that high. Knowing that I’ll have to take about ten times the breaks that normal people do when hiking or jogging is so humiliating and upsetting.

I want to be happy and I want to be healthy. Just when can see, up on tip-toes of course, the Disneyland of happiness and health over the security gate, something whisks me back to where I began, a million miles away.

The past several years in my life can be described as dreadfully predictable and drab. Not to say that I’ve been unhappy (necessarily). The things I’ve experienced are primarily colored in soft pastels with indefinite line structure, whereas I want fluorescents, hues preceded by the word “shocking,” and hard lines to paint my past. I don’t yearn for creature comforts any longer, and the phrase “settling down” is crossed off my to-do list. Taking the safe route, be it my trepidation to move beyond the bubble of virtue and morality that is St. George or even my paranoia of posting the “F” word on my public blog, once enticed me. But no longer. I am moving out of the states to the land of the rising sun, the home of Nintendo, and the culture which possesses a dichotomous embrace/suppression of sexuality.

Ever since my trip to Japan last year I have been courting the thought of moving there. For several months after I returned home I experienced crippling homesickness to a degree I didn’t know possible. That, and the practical celebrity a white girl with blond locks receives, and Chu Hi (eight percent!), persuaded me to find a way back to Japan. For a time the route was unclear. I considered the JET Programme (ugh), dolphin hunting, and prostitution (which in Japan is more like escorting, but, alas, Japanese visas are not approved for such occupations). However, through some convenient social connections and irresistible writing skills, I was able to escape the life of harlotry before a single toe was submerged.

So the time of my departure is approaching ever so quickly, yet all I can think about is what a waste turning 21 in a week is considering in Japan I could drink a year ago. I suppose I’m gonna miss my family and friends. If anyone asks, I’m living on the streets for the duration of my final month in the states. But really, I’ll be living at home, bunking with my World of Warcraft-obsessed, decade-old sister whose bed is made up more of stuffed animals than mattress. Then again, I guess I can’t complain seeing as how my parents prepare orgasmic food (which can make a typical family dinner a mecca of embarrassment and awkwardness).

Leaving my hometown is gonna be harder than I’d like to acknowledge. I’m doing my best to bring as much “home” with me as I possibly can. However, I have already packed my three-pound Costco jar of super crunchy peanut butter and American tampons, so I think that somehow, someway, I’ll get by.

December 9 Article: My Experience with Depression

The revelation that I needed help with my depression came to me during a recent psychology class. It’s difficult to recognize your own deviance compared to the rest of the population, especially when it comes to cognition. On a standard self-esteem assessment completed in class, I scored a 26. Possible scores range from 1 to 50, but “secure”/healthy self-esteem (where the majority of people fall) is between 35-45. Anything 25 or below is considered very low, and a fairly reliable indicator that you would benefit from intervention. I was never under any illusion that my self-esteem was anything enviable, but I had no idea how low it truly ranked.

I’ve known I’ve suffered from depression for years. The condition first emerged during my hellish middle school experience. For reasons unknown, my peers forced me to endure varying degrees of torment, humiliation, and rejection on a daily basis. One incident, I remember as though it occurred yesterday, several boys in my English class tossed uncapped permanent markers at me, hitting my clothing, backpack, and skin. I sat complacently in my chair, as if nothing was amiss, feeling entirely alone and worthless. I couldn’t move or retaliate–it would only get worse the next day.

Ironically, my depression intensified in mid-2009 after I lost a significant amount of weight. What once supplemented my depression now affected me to the very core of my being, and I constantly obsessed about my appearance and the number on the scale. These self-detrimental thoughts were constant. Though one can’t be certain, I would say approximately 95% of the thoughts running through my head had some relation to my negative body image. The mental exhaustion and hopelessness that accompanied this thinking wore me down incredibly.

A few months ago, I finally decided it was time to reassess my options, and perhaps try medication (again). I am pleased to report the difference is significant.

Without further ado, here is the link to my article: http://www.thespectrum.com/article/20091209/OPINION/912090302/1014/OPINION/Don+t+hesitate+to+seek+assistance+to+fight+depression