Once upon a time, I denied that I was mentally ill. It was very early on in my life, before I could really comprehend or accept my mental illness. I feel that now, over a decade later, it’s important to acknowledge and share my denial with anyone willing to read about. Why have I decided to share this? Because every day someone tries to deny or hide their mental illness due to fear of being shamed or rejected, misunderstood, bullied, and numerous other reasons. Denial seems to be a part of the mental health journey that I haven’t seen too many other people talk about. So here I am, ripping back the curtain and letting people see what’s behind it. Here’s my story.
I’ve been battling depression and anxiety since I was 12, but it got worse when I hit the age of 14. At these ages, I knew nothing about depression or anxiety, so I thought that all my emotions, unhappy thoughts, and the situations I went through were just normal teenage angst. Looking back, the situations I experienced and some of my emotions were normal, but most of the thoughts and other emotions I had weren’t normal teenage angst at all, and they caused me to act irrationally- which is probably why I lost a lot of people along the way, because they didn’t know how to deal with me any better than I knew how to deal with myself.
My depression and anxiety worsened as I got older, especially when I hit 16 and in a short period of time, three traumatic events happened that were life-altering. Even now, twelve years later, thinking about them or talking about them isn’t something I like to do. I was so depressed and heartbroken during my 16th year of life that I honestly don’t remember my junior year of high school unless I read through the diary I kept at that time… and that is one diary I always seem to skip whenever I reread through all the diaries I’ve kept over the years. Maybe one day I’ll be brave enough to read it again, but that’s an obstacle to tackle another day.
I always thought once time had passed and those events didn’t hurt as bad that my depression would go away and I would feel “normal”. I use the word normal very loosely as it’s hard to say what normal is at any age, especially as a teenager. But I was wrong about my depression and around 2009-2010, I started therapy to help me deal with everything I was feeling. From old hurts to new ones, nothing was held back… and the only thing the therapist had to tell me is that I needed medication to get better. That’s right- Pretty much for the get go she told me medication was the only way to fix my depression because I was chemically imbalanced… And she made this diagnosis without ever once testing to see if that was true. I think it goes without saying that she was no help and eventually I stopped my sessions with her because I didn’t want medication shoved down my throat. I was in denial that medication would help me and years later, I was proven right.
It took me years to even consider going back to therapy again and when I did, I had an awesome therapist named Wanda who wanted to get to know me as a person first and then use my strengths to help me work through my feelings. She would have me do little writing assignments and I enjoyed them. Sharing them with her made me feel good and seeing her reaction and then talking over them with her made me feel like she understood me. She never once mentioned medication and told me she would only bring it up if I ever wanted to give them a try, and she kept her word.
But sadly, she wasn’t my therapist for long. A better job opportunity came up and she took it, leaving me with my next therapist Pat. Honestly, I don’t think I can say too much to her therapist abilities as we didn’t last very long either. Her health issues made her cancel appointments often and weeks would go by before I saw her again. It was only after my terrible experience with Zooloft that I fired her and the doctor who prescribed it to me. It took me a bit to want another therapist, but the last therapist I had was Chrissy and she was by far the best therapist I’ve ever had. She would rejoice in my triumphs, would ask me thoughtful and none obvious/stupid questions. And sometimes we wouldn’t even talk about my problems, we would talk about Game of Thrones or something else to help ease me into the issue at hand. I really liked her, but due to transportation issues, I wasn’t able to have sessions with her anymore, which really sucked because she was awesome. She really listened to me, especially when I started doing research on my anxiety and learned something no one else had thought of- that a chemical imbalance wasn’t the cause of my anxiety. At last my depression and anxiety had a true name and face to it.
When I was younger, I needed a label as a way to define myself. As I got older, I didn’t want to be labelled anymore. Now at twenty-eight labels don’t bother me. Having those labels give an explanation as to why everything happened the way it did. Those labels made me feel better because the monster within finally had a name, and with that name came the end of denial. With learning more about myself and my past and what was causing me issues came a peace I had never experienced before. No longer was I denying my mental illness, I was embracing it and allowing it not to define me, but to help me approach situations differently than I would have before.
Do I slip up from time to time? Of course. Are there some days where my anxiety and depression control me instead of me controlling them? Yes. But as long as I don’t deny them and try to work through them instead of push them away, I know that I’ll be OK.
And that is my hope for anyone living with anxiety and depression- That one day you’ll be able to say you’re OK and mean it. Have a great week everyone and take care of yourselves because you matter.
Dear Anxiety- We Need To Talk 
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