My Mental Health Journey

For the end of Mental Health Month, I thought it was only fair for me to share some of my own struggles with mental illness to help #CureStigma. It’s long and maybe not that interesting, but if my story can help anyone else who struggles like me get help, it’s worth it. Here it goes…

When I was a child, I was mostly carefree (if I remember correctly). If my parents woke me up in the morning for a surprise day trip, I just got in the car and didn’t worry about where I would end up. I was a healthy, happy kid who was always up for an adventure. My little sister, who showed signs of depression early on, always seemed sad and hesitant. She wouldn’t smile in photographs and was afraid to speak to waiters or other strangers directly. In comparison to her, I was doing just fine. Sure, I would fake sick some days if I forgot my homework or had to do something uncomfortable, but that’s just what kids do, right?

The first real indication that I had anxiety was probably the summer before I went to middle school. It was my first big change in life, and I didn’t handle it well. My summer was plagued with chronic stomachaches, cancelled plans, and a lot of unnecessary worry, but once I started school and made new friends, I did ok.

My transition to high school was stressful because only two of my middle school friends went to the same school (school redistricting). Still, I gave myself some internal pep talks, drawing from my experience transitioning to middle school, and toughed it out. My first couple years, I mostly went through the motions. I hung out with elementary school friends who I wasn’t very close with during the day and then spent the evenings and weekends immersed in the safe world of television. It wasn’t a particularly exciting phase of my life.

Around this time, my sister was formally diagnosed with depression and prescribed antidepressants. She became a different person—confident, talkative, and happy. Unlike me, she was popular in school and always had friends around her. But for some reason, I didn’t want to acknowledge that mental illness was real. Part of it was the stigma surrounding mental illness and how little I knew about it. Part of it was because my dad struggled with depression and refused to address it with medication or therapy. He was stubborn, but from my limited point of view, he seemed to managing fine so I assumed that no one really needed medication to be happy. Taking medication was a sign of weakness.

In my junior and senior year, I decided to make some changes. I was no longer content sitting on a couch all day while my siblings ran through the house with friends. Instead of looking inward and acknowledging my own mental health, I took my dad’s approach of willing yourself into happiness. I collected all the courage I had and created a very busy schedule for myself. I made new friends in my classes and planned to see them every weekend. I got a job after school, joined clubs, went to the gym, and took hard classes with plenty of homework. From the outside, I was doing really well.

Looking back, I remember a few times when plans got cancelled or work was slow, and I realize now that my mental health wasn’t great. I’d obsess about what other people thought about me and hold onto every relationship—toxic or not—for dear life. If a friend bailed on me, I’d spend the rest of the day depressed, wondering what was wrong with me and why no one loved me. But those moments were fleeting and overshadowed by the other days of constant activity so I powered through. By the time I graduated, I had a few solid friends, I was thinner than I’d ever been, I had begun my relationship with traveling, and I was heading to a good college in the fall.

The summer before college was packed with activities. I went to Spain with classmates and Florida with the family and spent my time at home cleaning out my room, working, exercising, and enjoying every free minute I had with friends. I didn’t have time to think about this big change in my life and how I felt about it. I was fine.

When I started school, I employed the same tactics I had in high school. I made “friends” with anyone and everyone and clung to them for dear life. I found people from my high school who I vaguely knew and made plans with them to grab dinner in the evenings or try to find a party on the weekends. The problem was that I now had a lot of free time. Without a job and clubs and a set schedule, I spent a lot more time alone with my thoughts. And my thoughts weren’t healthy. One day, I called my mom sobbing. I had made the wrong choice! I didn’t have friends like my high school friends did at their colleges. The school was too big and overwhelming. I was miserable, and I wanted to go home.

Luckily, my mom talked me through my meltdown and suggested some tangible steps I could take to survive. Things got a little better, and when I went home for winter break, I went to see my doctor. He asked me some questions and diagnosed me with dysthymia, or mild persistent depression. He put me on antidepressants like my sister, and I began to come to terms with the fact that sheer willpower wouldn’t fix my problems.

The next two and a half years went pretty well. I joined a sorority and made some good friends. I got involved with some activities on campus and began to discover what I was good at and what I might want to do with my life. I would still get nervous before a social event, stress about schoolwork, and have days when I felt alone and unloved, but I was developing coping tools and slowly becoming the person I am today.

Then during junior year, things took a turn. Maybe it was the stress of school and sorority politics. Maybe it was the realization that my time at college was ending soon and that I had nothing solid planned for my future. Maybe it was just time for my mental illness to come forward, but whatever it was, my underlying anxiety decided to take center stage, and it wasn’t pretty.

In the middle of my spring semester, I began to slowly fall apart. Being so anxious and not knowing the reason led me to develop physical health symptoms. I was constantly nauseous, had burning in my throat if I ate or drank anything, had horrible headaches from grinding my teeth at night, and couldn’t even lie down without feeling like I was going to be sick. I had no idea what was happening and tried to place the blame on something tangible: a gluten allergy, lactose intolerance, an ulcer, diabetes, or cancer—anything that would explain why I felt like I was dying every single day.

Over the summer, I tried to find ways to solve my problem. I missed days of work to see specialists and undergo medical tests that all came back clean. It seemed that there was no reason for my physical symptoms.

As the summer went on, and nothing medical seemed to be wrong with me, I began to realize that my underlying problem might be mental. I spent up to three times a week in my psychiatrist’s office trying to figure out what it meant to have anxiety on top of my depression, what my medication options were, and where to go to therapy.

Once I had a diagnosis, I was glad to know that I wasn’t actually dying, but I still didn’t know how to control the physical and mental pain caused by my anxiety. I never left home without a bag of Pepto-Bismol, Tums, Zantac, Dramamine, Advil, ginger ale, water, Gatorade, anxiety medication, and ginger candies. I had panic attacks about things that never worried me before. I was frustrated that any progress I’d made on my mental health was disappearing, and I felt defeated as I let my symptoms control what I could do in my life.

As I went through the rollercoaster of changing medications, things got dark. One medication would make me feel sluggish and suicidal for weeks until it all left my system. The next kept me up at night as my mind raced with worst-case scenarios. Throughout the exhausting process, I thought I’d never get better. This was my life now.

With the help of my family, my therapist, and my faith in God, I kept going forward. I prayed when I felt a panic attack coming on. I wrote down every worry in my head to share with my therapist later so she could talk me through them rationally. I trusted that my family wouldn’t let me fall apart completely. I worked really hard to understand my mental illness and find ways to take control of it. I didn’t want anyone to think that I was too nervous to do things. I didn’t want people to stop inviting me out or for future employers to hire someone else just because I suffered from anxiety. I could do this.

Eventually things got better. First, I was able to rely more on ginger ale and deep breathing and less on anxiety medication. Next, I found techniques to help control my thoughts and took acid reflux medicine so I could eat more than just bread and yogurt. Finally, I began to accept my new condition and only had to carry one Pepto-Bismol tablet with me instead of the whole pharmacy just in case my mind spiraled out of control.

After years of practice, I feel at peace (mostly) with my mental illnesses. I’ve found ways to get through the tough times, tools to keep the illness at bay, a strong support system to rely on, and the right dose of antidepressants for me to live a productive and happy life.

I still have moments where I have to lie down on the metro floor and catch my breath because the idea of riding home overwhelms me. There are moments (almost daily) when I feel jittery and get a stomachache before I go out with friends, family, or coworkers. There are days when I come home and lie on the floor to feel supported because my mind has been telling me all day that I’m in the wrong profession and I’ve made all the wrong decisions and there is no point to life.

But I also have moments when friends confide in me about their mental health, and I can give them tools to help. Moments when someone shares my Facebook post on mental illness because they can relate, and the world gets a little closer to accepting people like me. Days when I get to explore a new city with my loving boyfriend. Times when I am able to sit alone with my thoughts instead of distracting myself with mindless tasks.

I have to work every single day to be myself and to fight for my dreams, but it helps to write about my journey and to know that I’m not alone. I hope that my story, or one of the other stories out there about mental illness, help people going through the pain of living with an illness that we still know so little about. These stories would have been helpful as I struggled with dark thoughts, unexplained physical pain, and overwhelming feelings of loneliness. I encourage everyone out there like me to share your story. It’s surprisingly freeing and could maybe save a life.