Counseling Class Autobiography

Had to write an autobiography for one of my counseling classes this week, so that we could use counseling theories to apply to a person problem...most people were like which one? ha. Well, here it is. For now.


At 25, I am doing my best to make the most of myself and the resources provided to me by pursuing a graduate degree in school psychology at Auburn University. Though at first I felt as though I was becoming career-oriented fairly early in life, I now feel almost as though I am behind compared to my 22 and 23-year-old colleagues. I know, there really isn’t much difference in age when it comes to the grand scheme of things, but you’d be surprised how different from them I feel. I feel out of the social bubble often, particularly when it comes to bars and the college nightlife. I feel too old for this. Maybe I’m just an old soul, I think to myself, maybe it has nothing to do with my age. But I want to do everything I can to feel like I fit in.
At a young age, I discovered meta cognition- well, not the word itself, but perhaps just really thinking about my life. I found it hard to dream of the future, like the fairytale weddings that little girls supposedly dream of. I did, on the other hand, always wanted to be some sort of hero to others, particularly to my family. When I was 8 or 9 years old, my mother’s father attempted suicide in his home in Mississippi. Within a few days, my dad drove my brother and me to the hospital there, where we met up with my mom and the rest of her family to visit my grandpa. Very little was ever discussed about this incident. All I know is that there had been an argument with my grandma and my uncle was there, during which, my grandpa got one of his shotguns and attempted to shoot himself in the chest. Fortunately, he missed and instead just wounded his stomach region.
A perfectionist, I survived a studious young athlete and musician. I busied myself with softball and soccer and basketball, piano lessons and creative projects. But occasionally, I stopped to think and I found myself overwhelmed with unexplained anxiety and wondered if I’d make it to the next day. A 9 and 10, I would lie on the couch rubbing my face with a moist washcloth (my mom’s attempt at helping to relieve the nausea), thinking about how long I could really survive this life. Meanwhile, my mom spent sleepless nights worrying and wondering about what else she could possibly do to avoid these long and difficult nights with her only daughter. At this time, I took up a lot more of my parents’ time than my brother, but he always seemed to sit quietly on the back burner. Though I knew it would sadden her, one day I came home from my fifth grade class overwhelmed yet again by nausea and anxiety, and I told my mom that I sometimes wanted to jump in our backyard pool and drown, so that I could just go on to heaven now. Heartbroken, she replied something like, “Oh, Marianne, we’ve got to get you some help- this can be fixed.” ‘Fixed’ is something I’ve always wanted. But it is something I now know is not exactly real nor obtainable.
Throughout my middle childhood, I focused my time more intensely on school and softball, putting a lot of pressure of myself for perfection and achievement. As an adolescent, I somehow ran myself from 5:30am to after midnight sometimes, having little time to stop and think. When I did, however, my thoughts always scared me. Slowing down scared me. When I was a senior in high school, I started a long run on antidepressants and anti-anxiety medication. Individual therapy seemed to create more anxiety than resolve for me, despite my efforts at first involuntarily, and then voluntarily later on. Relationships in my life, whether romantic, friendships, or familial, seemed to be the driving force behind my happiness--or unhappiness. When my parents expressed their disappointment in me, I did my best to prove to them that I was the person they wanted me to be. When my friends returned my calls and expressed their interest in me as much as I felt their interest was in anyone else, then I was happy. But the moment when I felt that maybe someone didn‘t care about me as much I did about him or her, I felt slighted and unhappy; insecure.
Following a bittersweet season and-a-half of college softball, I decided I was putting too much pressure on myself and it was time to give it up. After what I thought was just going to be a physical break after many seasons of beating up my body, I never seemed to gain the desire back to stay in shape. Instead, I spent most of my free time sleeping. Within a few years, I hated myself for not being the athlete that I had once been. How could I have played softball for hours in the summer heat and yet now I hated breaking a sweat just walking to my car? Worse, how could I obtain a job for the biggest athletic brand in the world, and now not be anything of the sort?
A couple of years ago, through a work friend, I met a girl who had recently gotten married, had a successful career as a CPA, and was tall and skinny like a model. We hung out with our mutual friend, as we all lived within a block of one another, and we attempted to motivate each other by meeting in the middle for long walks or short jogs, depending on the day. On St. Patrick’s Day, we went to a party, where I was certainly the baby in the group, but I was enjoying being with my two friends. I recognized immediately that A.J. looked unhealthily skinnier, and she was quieter than usual. We talked for a little while and I sensed that something was not okay with her. Ensuring us that she just wasn’t feeling well, she left the party alone and went home. Two days later, A.J. left work early and went to her house, where she killed herself.
Though she wasn’t my best friend, A.J.’s death really moved me. First of all, why didn’t I say something that night? Could I have prevented her death? Secondly, A.J.’s death frightfully reminded me of my own mortality. After all, hadn’t I had many of the same thoughts that must have gone through her mind? What were the differences between what kept me alive and sent her to the grave? And more importantly, what would stop me from doing something very similar in a bleak moment when I, too, reached my breaking point?
A.J.’s death helped me to decide to seek help in order to prevent as best as possible something similar happening to me. Though I am reminded to take care of myself, I seem to be more reminded of my mortality through A.J.’s death. Sometimes I find myself afraid of my own self.
Nearly 2 years later, here I am, still kicking. I am fighting life’s battle, with a few things on my side, including (but not limited to) my Savior and the Ultimate death Defeater, the consistent use of an antidepressant, a couple of close friends, and the grey matter between my ears that leads me to believe that my life is worth living.
Among a few disappointments, lost friends, and broken relationships, there have been good times. I have been blessed to be relatively healthy, to have a relatively healthy family, to have a nearly life-long friend, to have had a job that provided many an opportunity for me, and to have been able to pursue my goal of getting a graduate degree and move towards a fulfilling career. Often times, I ask myself why I could possibly ever feel sorry for myself or think that I don’t have a life worth living. I think about so many others who are so much less fortunate than me.