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Acceptance

How I Learned to Stop Being Ashamed of My Mental Illness

By jess ☕ C.Published 6 years ago 4 min read
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I was never quite comfortable in my own skin. When I was younger, I was always too much of something...too loud, too dramatic, too tall, too weird. I went through the same awkward teenage years as everyone else and although I joined drama club and had an amazing, tight-knit group of friends, I struggled to find my place, not only among my family and with my peers but in life. I thought I knew who I was, or had a pretty good idea, anyway, but the truth of the matter was, I tried to fit into the mold of who others saw me as. I was a "good" kid, if not a little mouthy, and I never really entertained the idea of rebelling. This wasn't necessarily a bad thing, but it made me feel as if I was doing what I was supposed to be doing, rather than figuring things out for myself.

The summer I had turned 18, my father died in his sleep. There had been no warning, no way to prepare. Before that, I had been doing okay. I had just graduated high school, going to attend college in the fall, and was planning to enjoy the freedom the impending summer promised. Instead, my entire world was flipped upside down and I was paralyzed by panic, dread, and a deep, dark depression, more brutal and debilitating than I have ever known. Not only had my father's passing torn about my whole world, it had brought back a part of myself I had kept hidden from many people, except my family and closet friends. All at once, the anxiety, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and depression I'd battled quietly for five years was on display for the whole world to see.

I began to fall apart, piece by piece. I took medication but it only was a band-aid for the intense pain I felt. Leaving the house felt like an impossible feat because I knew I would have a panic attack wherever I went. I couldn't work, I couldn't be around friends, I could barely be around family. A new, definitive identity was shaping but it wasn't one I liked. I made bad decisions like jumping into a toxic relationship with someone I barely knew, driving aimlessly for miles during the wee hours of the morning with little gas in the tank, just searching for an escape from the agony I was feeling. When I looked at my reflection, all I could see was how my eyes were devoid of light. I was simultaneously afraid of living and dying. I hated who I was. Who I was becoming.

College saved my life. Theatre saved my life. A new relationship with the right person, for the right reasons saved my life. I began to blossom and gradually, the pain faded into a dull ache. I convinced myself that I was a happy person and hid my mental illness away again, filed into a mental box labeled "a bad time" and attempted to move on with my life.

But depression is sinister. So is anxiety. A calm period tricks you into believing you're okay and that your struggles are over. What I didn't realize is that once you are diagnosed with a mental illness, it is yours for life. You own it. Much like a physical illness, remission is possible, recovery is possible, but it is chronic. It is ugly and mean and takes no prisoners. Sometimes, it can be terminal.

When I would relapse and fall into patterns of destructive thoughts, the self-loathing would rise in me and I would try to fight it, with little to no real success. I would allow panic to take over while my OCD brain worked its hardest to convince me my mother was dead and I had to compulsively check traffic accident reports and text her a dozen times. The relief I felt when I heard from her couldn't compare to the shame that washed over me when I realized how ridiculous my behavior was. I was never religious but I prayed endlessly to be "normal," to allow me to be calm and rational. It never happened. Therapy and medication helped but I still battled these thoughts almost daily, all the while hating the person I was once more.

As I grew older, I realized how many of my friends, people I loved more than anything, were facing battles with their own mental health. My own sister, who I always believed to be much stronger than myself, was in a constant struggle with depression. I realized that while I was there for them with a kind word and open arms, I never allowed that same kindness to myself. What I loved about them and never saw as weakness, I detested in me. And then one day, I asked myself, what would happen if I decided to be open about my battle, instead of putting on a brave face? What if I shared with others that I struggled? How would it feel to let someone know I was having a panic attack or was having intrusive thoughts or just plain sad? I wondered what that would look like, what it would feel like.

I decided that I would do just that.

And then came the sense of identity. Finally, after years of not knowing who I was, after hating who I was, I realized I am completely and beautifully flawed. I am flawed and I am broken and I make mistakes. But I am here. I have beaten the odds. I can break down stigmas and barriers and walls surrounding what someone with a mental illness looks like and sounds like and behaves like. And that means everything.

depression
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About the Creator

jess ☕ C.

I'm a writer/teacher/actor/coffee drinker who lives in the US. In New York City, I've trained at HB Studio, The Actors Connection, and Stella Adler.

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