I refused to acknowledge my therapist's diagnosis and her request that I get more help and consider medication when I could have. I held on until I shattered into tiny broken pieces. Dieties and scientific principles bless my husband, he helped my broken self get to the help I desperately needed.
Now I'm back trying to learn how to bring myself back into life without risking another major breakdown. Most days I stay inside and sometimes pop online. Bad days I stay in a room and read. I'm getting slowly better, but the wrong social situation can leave me shaking and emotionally all over the place for a couple days. I still get way too involved trying to help people who may not even want to be helped. I still feel obligated to rush to assist, but I can at least stop and say no now. I can realize when a situation isn't good for me, and I can do so with only minimal guilt.
I don't go out much, but people come by regularly, and that's good. I don't have many bad days, but I don't really have good days much either. It's still probably a two to one ratio, but that's much better than it was. I self medicate with alcohol much less-though I was never very bad for it, but worse than I should have been.
I'm starting to set boundaries now, and that's good. I'm trying to get to the point where I can see my life outside my house. Then the next step will be working towards it. I still can't drive, just getting behind the wheel makes me shake uncontrollably.
One step at a time, I'm trying to put myself back together. It's a long work and I should have listened, but I didn't want to be broken, I didn't want to be on meds and I didn't want that stigma. Now I'm paying for it. At least with that, I know that I won't let that mistake happen again.