Screw stigma. I’m coming out.
I’ve kept it to myself for years, but now I believe the only way to fight the stigma of mental illness is to talk about my own.
I remember sitting in my psychologist’s office in a Miami high rise a few years ago, gazing out the window at the sunny, South Florida sky—from inside, it was serene—and perfectly quiet.
It was early on a Saturday morning. I’d chosen my therapist in part because she offered weekend appointments, and I always grabbed the first-of-the-day appointment on Saturdays, when I could almost always walk through the lobby, ride in the elevator, and sit in the waiting room without seeing another person. There wasn’t even a receptionist in the office on weekends.
I was a television reporter, working at the top-rated ABC affiliate, and I really, really worried about someone rushing up to me—hey, you’re the guy from the news! Oh my God, are you crazy?—which led me to act like some kind of movie star, wearing a baseball cap and avoiding eye contact. It wasn’t ego, it was fear.
What I was willing to do—after years of flirting with therapy—was to talk about…
