Hi everyone,

I've been struggling with the idea to write this for a while, and after another sleepless night, I've finally decided that I will write it down, not really sure what to expect, but here goes.  
Since I was 14, I've been diagnosed with depression. I've probably went through episodes of it before as a kid, as my parents divorced at a very young age (3) but I can recall a lot of their fights and bad moments, even though I don't know how that's possible, my parents have both confirmed what I've said to be true. I had to go to a psychologist at the age of 9 because of all the thoughts and not being able to process it, and there it was said that I was highly gifted on the IQ side of things, and highly sensitive.

Fast forward to being 14 year old, for some reason I developed a trust issue when I had my first "serious" girlfriend. During that time, I went from averaging 90%+ in school to below 40. I had to change courses - I was doing Greek&amp;Latin at first - but stayed at the school I was on. Shortly after the next year had started, I just stopped going to school. I didn't have the motivation for it anymore, I didn't want to see people, all I wanted was to stay in my own room with myself. My mom and doctor had then decided that I had to go to a psychiatric hospital to "learn how to go back to school" for 2 weeks, but I ran away there after 2 or 3 days. I went back to school because "nothing was worse than that place", but a few months and a school change later, I quit again.  
I'm not sure what the rules are in the US or other countries, but where I'm from, you are required to go to school until the age of 18. So following my decision to just completely stop, I had to go to court and they offered me the choice of going back to that psychiatric hospital I first went to, which is in comparison to most a pretty chill one, or go to one where I wasn't allowed out at all. I chose the obvious first option.  


Although being there was actually quite nice and refreshing for me, after 2 months it was time to go home. Until...My parents decided I should stay a month more. The hospital itself said I was "clear to go back home", but they decided otherwise. At this point, I was completely broken because of that decision, and barricaded myself in my room at the hospital for several days. I stopped when I made the deal with the hospital that I'd get a few days to chill in my room and that noone would bother me, if in return I ate food whenever I was supposed to and left my room unlocked. I agreed, and after a while I could find myself doing the stuff I was supposed to there again.  
During the time I was there, my grandfather was the one who was there for me the most. Although we had a difficult relationship beforehand, where we'd almost fought at several occasions and threw chairs, he was there for me and called me every day at 6 PM sharp. (We were only allowed phones between 6&amp;7pm). A month or so in, my mom called to tell me he had cancer and there was nothing they could do about it and he would die within a few months. More on that later.

I eventually got out of the hospital, and went to school for a few months until the year had passed. I had shitty grades, but they allowed me to go through the next year because the school "saw the progression in my behaviour". I changed schools after that year, but to this day I still appreciate them a lot for that. My next school I would go to for a 6/7 months on &amp; off and leaving during breaks, but that would eventually also fall through.  
My psychologist, who worked at the hospital, kept following up on me. It was through him that I learned that I could just do exams instead of go to school, and if I were to do school that way, I wouldn't have to go to school and still be following regulations. So that's what I did, and I got my degree 6 months after my 18th birthday. Much lower than I was probably capable of , but I was very happy that I got it.

The same year that I turned 18, in January (3 months prior to me turning 18), my grandfather was going to pass away. We got a call he was dying, went over there, and a day later he passed. I never had much contact with my father, though its been getting better now, and he had taken over that role a little bit in my life. It just felt like someone I could count on for the first time in...forever(?).

During his final words to me, I cried. But after and since he has passed, I've completely lost the ability to cry except on VERY rare occasions, however, I do feel like crying a lot more than I do. 99/100 times I will just sit there and feel so sad, but I just can't get over the "hump" of crying. And I want to , especially when I feel bad, because somehow I remember it as a relief when feeling bad.

The year after, I attempted to go to college, together with a friend. It actually went quite well, until I got sick in the 2nd week after starting. I was home for around 4 days, and never want back after. The barrier in my head had just gotten to big to overcome and go back. 

At this point, we're gonna get more into my current problems, so it's probably a good time to mention that I am (without meaning it braggingly) the light of the party in a room. No matter where I am or go, it's just like a switch in my head that gets turned and I'm all good to go. However, I absolutely HATE and feel so uncomfortable going to parties, events, even stores, gatherings,... I have incredible social anxiety, but somehow seem to hide that incredibly well. I don't know how or why this is, so if anyone has any tips for me of how to deal with this, I'd appreciate it a lot.

The next few years after that first year, I'd pretend to go to school. I've always been pretty good with a computer, and I made fake schedules, fake report cards,.. You name it, I probably faked it. That kept my parents content. But ofcourse, at a certain point, you have to "drop out" because you can't really fake getting a degree.

  
In 2018, I experienced my first panic attack. I was watching sports with a friend , and suddenly started noticing my heartrate speeding up. At this point, I didn't realize any of that was a panic attack, as I'm sure a lot of people don't for their first (few). I thought I was dying, and to this date, it's been the longest panic attack I've ever had. I've never had great relationships with my mom/dad/stepdad, but that night I cried in her arms for hours. It was probably one of the worst nights of my life.

I did not go out of my room and/or bed for days and days after this had happened, panic attacks coming and going, and eventually had to, because my dad had asked me to pick something up for him, and knowing how my dad is, I knew he would never understand, and he still doesn't, how I felt that evening. As I'm writing this, I'm not even sure if I've ever even told him. But either way, that was a good way for me to get going again. I slowly picked up sports again, but I had a holiday that was planned with friends in august that I was not looking forward to at all. I hate being on planes, and since my panic attack to this day, I'm so afraid of dying I won't do most things that can put me in danger. But since my mom had paid for that holiday, I felt obliged to go.

I went, and during that holiday, I met my girlfriend who I am still together with to this day. Although she hasn't had to deal almost at all with any of my problems and mental issues that I've been through herself, she has been a trusty companion and someone I can talk to about it all. However, there comes a certain point where you just feel like they don't understand.   


I will save everyone the next few years, but will summarize them very shortly so I can get up to speed with what I'm actually feeling.  
Me and her do long distance, for someone with trust issues, that's never an incredible situation but we try our best to make it work. We do see each other a lot, but when we're not together, we're in another country, so can't just "pop on over" whenever we please. My brother has been a serious drug addict and has terrorized the household of now my mom, me and him. Beating her repeatedly, smashing windows, throwing food on the ground if "its not good enough". My dad and his family (stepmother etc) still don't understand a single thing what I'm going through and ask repeatedly "when are you going to work" and says at every family meeting "start working or your girlfriend is going to leave you". Sidenote; My dad has also been abusive when I was younger. I've had suicidal thoughts for almost 10 years now, most of my "attempts" coming in those early teenage years, and although I still have suicidal thoughts now, I'm way too scared of death to try and end my life anytime soon. My mom has always preferred my brother and even through this situation, it's still very noticeable, even to my girlfriend, who doesn't understand what my mom often does. We don't have the most money, but I rarely ask my mom for any even though I don't work, because of the situation she's in. Around February 2020, I went to a psychiatrist. He prescribed me pills , and when I went , I was a good looking 21 year old who was in very good shape. I weighed around 78 kilos. A month later, combined with the pills, start of covid and no more sports (which I did 3x a week but I don't wanna name the sport and have my identity leaked - yes im paranoid) I weighed 105. It has now gone down to 98 again after stopping all of those pills (which didn't help me and just got me very addicted to them) in december. Although that might seem like a good thing, my physical shape has completely gone to shit. I can't look in the mirror without hating everything I see. My heartrate goes from 70+/- in rest to around 150 just from walking some stairs in my house. My muscles (arms, legs, abs, chest, back) are completely gone, to the point that I have loose skin around my arms of where the muscles used to be. I hate how I look &amp; am.

The worst part about all of this is; I have the right ideas in my head. I "know" what to do to get beter. I've got to get back into shape, I've got to take care of myself better, I have to go to work. And I **want** to do all of those things. They're in my head. But my body, somehow, refuses to follow those orders and thoughts. At the end of each and every day, I'm still the same sack of shit that hasn't moved from his bed or chair.

I'm tired of feeling like this, and if I wasn't that scared of death, I'd be long gone.

I don't know what more to write, I doubt anyone has read this to the end, but I'm happy to receive any input someone may have. Maybe something that has helped you?

 On a sidenote; Yes I've been to multiple psychiatrists, psychologists, therapists in general, however, after a few sessions it always goes to shit. Somehow, we end up talking more about their life than about mine. I desperately need one that asks questions and doesn't just want me to "talk" about stuff.