The following stories contains descriptions of sexual assault, suicide, and other topics of similar nature.
One of the hardest things I had to admit to myself was that I needed help. Anyone in a similar situation would more than likely agree that admitting that there is something wrong is one of the worst parts.
Depression was not anything new to me. It was genetic on my mother’s side, as was anxiety. I’d even had a distant great-great-aunt who was schizophrenic.
I had brought up the idea of speaking with a therapist to my parents a few months prior to actually making the appointment. They told me that they would find someone to help me-which they did-and gave me his number so I could schedule it when I was free.
It was my first year into college and I was stressed. I was angry, and I was upset.
I could binge on my anxiety for days on end, and on the days that it wasn’t the center of my focus it was still there in the back of my mind. I couldn’t think about on anything else that was in front of me: I was always thinking seven steps ahead. My emotions were a constant spiral and my mind was all over the map: I had just started my first job alongside balancing a course load of classes, and was dealing with a dwindling circle of friends.
Then, I would be fine.
I would brush it off and start over. Nothing was as bad as I’d made it seem. I was just overreacting. I would even feel guilty for overreacting so much: stressed about my classes? At least I could afford to go to school. I had to be up at 5:00 for my 6:00-2:00 shift? At least I had a job to go to. No matter what problem I had, it always seemed insignificant in comparison to those around me.
I would have my pity party, I would feel remorseful, I would move on. Fast forward two weeks and I was stressed again.
Then I was angry again.
Then I was frustrated.
Then anxious.
Then manic.
The cycle continued, and the phone call was never made.
I finally snapped on day when I was home with my family. The house was loud, crowded, and the timing was just right. I’d made the phone call and scheduled my appointment before I could come to my senses.
When I first stepped into my therapist’s office, I thought I had made a mistake. With my dad-who insisted that he drive me-at my side and an hour away from home, there was really no going back.
I thought that it would be hard. I couldn’t even talk to my own parents, sister, or best friend about my anxiety, yet here I was paying a stranger $60 an hour to basically probe my mind. In reality, the opposite happened. My anxiety had gotten to a point where I could barely function, so much to the point where within five minutes of meeting him that I couldn’t even contain my tears, heaves, and sobs. I had opened the floodgates and couldn’t stop.
I had confided my worst fears in this man, ranging from the accounting class I was failing to stressing over the job that I hated to unresolved family issues at home. Having an unbiased source to give me the advice that I needed at the time in my life is probably what kept me from going off the deep end. By our third session he told me something that I’ll never forget:
“I don't know if anyone has ever told you this, but you are not fucked up. Listen to me: no matter what you feel, or what anyone tells you, you are not fucked up.”
Looking back, I could have used someone like that as early as 12 years old. Back then-not even 10 years ago-the idea of going to a therapist would have been social suicide.
Which is why I decided to reach out now.
It wasn’t until I went to see my therapist that I realized that were wasn’t anything inherently wrong with me, and it wasn’t until I expanded my inner circle of friends that I wasn’t alone in what I was feeling.
The American Psychiatric Association reported that nearly one in five U.S. adults experience some form of mental illness. The problem isn’t the fact that people are suffering from this: it’s that no one wants to acknowledge it. That’s what inspired Anonymous, GA.
In honor of Mental Health Month, I sought out the help of a group of individuals to explore the lives of those around me who have been open with their struggles with mental illness. Each week I'll introduce the stories of said individuals from their own point of view.
Topics like depression, suicide, and mental illness in general make people uncomfortable. It’s almost an unspoken rule: you can have it, but don’t let anyone know that you do. That rule needs to be broken.
