A Big Ask (or, No One Wants to Talk about Mental Health, but Let’s Try It Anyway and See if We Can Remove the Stigma)
I’ve always prided myself on not needing help.
Friends would often come to me for advice, and I’d manage to cobble together some words of comfort, some small kernel of advice. I took this to mean that I must have all the answers — and wasn’t I lucky that I didn’t need to go to others for help!
When I entered my teen years, there would be times when seemingly out of nowhere, I would develop a sense of dread. Something bad was going to happen. I didn’t know what I was scared of, but suddenly a cloud was looming over me, following me around, and I couldn’t relax or fully enjoy my days. If I could get an escape, that brought some relief, but it was just that — an escape.
I chalked it up to hormones and traits people often ascribed to me — sensitive, emotional, dramatic. I was just blowing things out of proportion, and everyone feels sad sometimes. Besides, I had all the answers. I was just in a funk.
During my college years, however, I seemed to constantly be in a “funk.” The feeling of dread would linger longer than it used to, and being in a new self-governed environment away from the comforts of home, my coping methods weren’t exactly healthy, and, in fact, made me feel worse. My self-esteem plummeted and I began to deal with new feelings of shame and self-loathing. It was the first time in my life that I was out on my own, with every opportunity in front of me, and I felt completely immobile. Although I knew I wasn’t happy with my life, I was terrified of making any changes. I’d lost all confidence in myself and my ability to lead my own life. Sometimes I wished someone else could just take over my body and live my life for me. They’d probably do a better job.
I found it increasingly difficult to walk through large crowds of people. I felt as if people were always looking at me and judging me. On campus, it was easier to walk to class if I had a pair of sunglasses. Somehow I felt if I covered my eyes, no one could really see me. I spent many of my childhood and teenage years involved in theater and performance, and in what I can only describe as late-in-life stage fright, I became petrified of speaking in class or drawing attention to myself in any way.
At this point, The Dread had made itself a daily visitor in my life. I thought it must be part of getting older. It was easy to rationalize that people get sadder as they get older. It was harder to rationalize sad being my default emotion. Happy felt like a rare outing, and one that I had to be very careful not to mess up or cut short. Making the situation more difficult was the fact that I was close to graduating, and unsure of what I was going to do next.
I miraculously turned out to be one of those rare English majors who finds work after graduation. Lots of work, actually. At times, I’ve balanced up to four jobs, which is a wonderful method of distracting yourself from the shitstorm in your head. I tried to be as busy as possible, in hopes that I would snap out of whatever it was I was going through.
But once work slowed down, and I had more time to be in my head, that very familiar, gnawing dread crept back in. No, not crept. Full-on burst through a wall like the Kool-Aid Man. “Oh Yeah!” The Dread said. “Oh no,” I gulped. And it didn’t taste like cherry.
One negative thought would lead to another. I’m ugly -> I’m fat -> I’m sad -> I’m sick -> I’m disgusting -> I’m not worth anybody’s time -> I’m a waste -> I’m hopeless. Everybody goes through feeling bad about themselves, but my problem was I couldn’t stop going through it. I was obsessive. If one thought entered my head, I had to leap to the next, then onto another, then another, then another. And repeat. It was like the least fun jungle gym in the world.
Despite how horrible and trapped I felt, I still held on to the notion that I was just in a funk. I’m the one with the answers, so I should be able to get myself out of this. I would get so frustrated with myself for being lazy and unmotivated, for not trying harder. And for changing. I didn’t used to be like this. Why couldn’t I stop being like this?
But after years of avoiding it, I actually thought about just how long I’d been feeling this way — scared for no reason, uncomfortable in my own skin, hopeless and helpless — and I realized this was beyond my control.
I finally started seeing a therapist last summer, after seven years of privately dealing with what I learned is depression and anxiety.
The biggest thing I’ve taken away from therapy is how to actually care for myself, and be a friend to myself — which has taken me a long time to figure out considering how much self-care advice I’ve doled out to friends over the years.
I’ve learned that biking daily (as opposed to, say, drinking a bottle of wine by myself) is a great way to clear my head at the end of the day. I’ve also learned that writing and journaling my thoughts is a huge help to me (who would’ve thought?)
That said, I can still be a real jerk to myself sometimes. If stressful situations start to pile on top of each other, I lean into my old self-defeating thinking patterns. Suddenly, the girl who days ago was gliding down a hill on her bike, feeling the breeze on her face, and calmly thinking, “It’s all going to be ok” is sobbing in her car, flustered and red-faced, thinking, “What the fuck is wrong with me?”
Even now, writing this, I’m being kind of a jerk to myself, thinking, “Who are you to talk about depression and anxiety? Yours isn’t is as bad as other people’s. You can still get out of bed in the morning and go through your day.”
I went back and forth on whether or not I should I write this, because I don’t want to present myself as an authority on mental illness. I can in no way speak to some of the greater struggles faced by people with mental illness, and I wouldn’t dare to.
But I can speak as someone who finally had to ask for help. Someone who felt low in herself and was starting to lose hope in the world around her. And someone whose life has opened up because she got help.
There is obviously a stigma around mental illness that prevents us from getting the treatment we need as a society. Therapy was suggested to me more than once before I started going regularly. I was almost offended by the notion. I’m fine! I don’t need help! One of the most harmful misconceptions about seeking mental health treatment is that it’s an admittance of defeat, a weakness.
Nothing could be further from the truth. One of the most difficult things a person can do is ask for help when they’re at their lowest. It’s a big ask — one that requires a person to shed a little of their pride and have faith in other people and a world they may not trust. It takes a lot of self-awareness, open-mindedness and courage.
Mental illness is unique to everyone who experiences it. It can make you feel utterly alone. But since opening up to friends and people I meet about going to therapy, I’ve learned that mental health issues touch everybody’s lives in one way or another. Everybody has a story to tell. And I would encourage people to tell their stories.
Talking about mental health normalizes it. Throwing it into a conversation, as you would a “like” or “um,” chips away at its status as the elephant in the room.
If I’m telling a story about my day, and therapy happens to be a part of that day, I’ll casually lump it in with the rest of the story. I won’t necessarily go into the hairy details of my experiences, but I find simply saying that I’m in therapy is capable of a lot. I’ve inspired other friends going through similar struggles to seek help. I’ve learned about experiences different from my own. I’ve prompted a lot of questions. And now I really do feel like I have some answers… but I know better than to stop asking for help.
If you need help or you are worried about someone in your life, you can always contact The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline for help.
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