
The stigma of mental illness.
Last week while in the bookstore, I noticed her because of the loud, awkward laugh she’d let out from behind the counter while talking to another customer. I was waiting in line to checkout, and she’d made quite an inappropriate joke, especially for a book store employee. When it was my turn to come up she seemed nervous and talked a lot, but she was sweet and helpful.
So, I am a proud, “live and let live” kind of person. As long as you aren’t hurting anyone, it’s all good with me. As far as I’m concerned, you can look, dress, worship, love… anyway you see fit. Who am I to judge? I don’t judge.
As she was ringing up my books, my eyes were quickly drawn to her inner arms. I gazed down to see the telltale scars, up and down her arms, clearly made by cutting. “Mental illness,” I thought. “How sad.” A tinge of guilt washed over me.
I finished paying for my books, we said some final pleasantries, and I left.
Remember, I don’t judge. But I did. Unbeknownst to her, she immediately gained both my empathy and sympathy. At the same time, I judged her when I saw the self harm scars. I identified with her, and with the stigma of mental illness.
I am a mom with an adoring husband, two pretty terrific kids and a rescued street dog. But I had a life before this one, as each of us does. We all have a past. I often marvel at, and am eternally grateful for, the path my life has taken.
I don’t usually share my own struggles with mental illness and self harm. Only those closest to me know about my past with eating disorders, depression, anxiety and my near fatal suicide attempt 26 years ago. I have the “hesitation marks” where I slit my wrists. And then I have a big scar, the deep cut that was down to the bone. The one which almost ended my life. It seems impossible that it was that long ago, though my own scars are my reminder.
I don’t tell people or even talk about my own suicide attempt. I don’t talk about all the medicine I have taken everyday since, and will continue to take everyday for the rest of my life, so it doesn’t happen again. Because at this point, I don’t want to be associated with the stigma of mental illness. It’s for that reason that I’m not comfortable sharing my own struggles.
Fortunately, my story is one of hope and success and could probably help others who are suffering. Yet I still don’t share because I don’t want to be judged, even by people like me, who don’t judge.
Just like I did to the clerk at the bookstore.

