A Collection of Thoughts

World Mental Health Day 2018

I have Major Depressive Disorder (clinical depression), Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and Seasonal Affective Disorder. I have also been previously diagnosed with an unspecified “mood disorder”—most likely a symptom of my other three disorders.

Today is World Mental Health Day, and I’m writing because even though transparency and mental health have come a long way during my lifetime, it’s important to constantly remain open and supportive about mental health problems.

It’s okay not to be okay. It’s okay to seek help. You are not weak. You are enough.

My mental health journey finally began in January 2013, the spring semester of my junior year in college. It should have started several years before, when I was in high school, but my disorders remained latent enough that I could essentially ignore them or let them “resolve” on their own. To this day, I still don’t know exactly what triggered the coalescence of my disorders, but as the spring semester of my junior year at Mary Washington began, everything fell apart. I fell into a horrible, deep, hopeless depression, and it was accompanied by an utterly crippling anxiety. I couldn’t eat more than half of a snack bar or sandwich because of the knots in my stomach and tightness in my chest, and that half-bar or half-sandwich was what sustained me throughout an entire day. There were several days where if I ate more, I vomited because there was simply “too much” for my anxiety-riddled intestines to handle. I had horrible insomnia—so much so that I slept only about 20 minutes each night for at least a month. With endless depression and crippling anxiety, sleeping was all I really wanted to do, but even sleep was no longer a respite for me. Sleep, my “safe place,” became an object of severe anxiety for me.

A deep, helpless depression, crippling anxiety, and unending insomnia turned me into a completely different person. I wanted to drop out of Mary Washington. I couldn’t function at a basic day-to-day level, so I couldn’t even see how I would make it through a week or month, let alone a semester, and a semester filled with challenging, upper-level coursework. If I wasn’t going through the day as a zombie, I was constantly sobbing and wishing that my condition would end. I remember walking downtown several times to meet friends for coffee, and I remember thinking how easy it would be to just step off the sidewalk into the path of an oncoming car. I remember looking at my bottle of ibuprofen, after days and days of no sleep, and wondering how many pills I would need to take before I would die. I remember burning myself on the stove in our kitchen and burning myself on a curling iron because I wanted to feel something—anything—other than despair and hopelessness. I knew that these actions of self-harm and suicidal ideation weren’t healthy, but they also seemed like the only way out for me. I truly felt that my anxiety and depression were so crippling, so unmanageable and so incurable, that suicide was the only way to truly end how I was feeling and bring me peace.

I remember my parents coming to pick me up two weeks after the semester started—a dark, cold, Friday evening in early January—because I couldn’t function. I remember my mom feeding me at home, lifting forks full of food to my mouth as I sat listless at our kitchen table. I remember her giving me baths at home because I was incapable of doing so myself. I remember feeling so ashamed about all of this, but also feeling utterly powerless and incapable of changing it. I remember sobbing on the phone to several of my close friends, calling them every two hours every day as my brain failed to escape its depressive and anxious cycles. I said the same things over and over again to them because my brain couldn’t process the solutions that we’d talked about two hours before. I remember Taylor, my roommate, getting in the tiny twin bed with me on multiple nights, coaching me in deep breathing and snuggling me as I struggled to fight anxiety and insomnia to get just a couple hours of sleep. I remember her stroking my back as I sobbed each night because I was so exhausted but still couldn’t sleep.

I remember my dear friend Jenny telling me, as I finally revealed my suicidal ideations to her, that “Suicide doesn’t really end your pain. It just gives your pain to somebody else.” And I remember the profound effect her statement had upon me. As much as I was struggling, and as much as I felt that suicide was the only way to solve my problem, I couldn’t imagine all of the pain and suffering from my mental health disorders being put upon someone else because of something that I had done. If I couldn’t handle what was being thrown at me by life and mental health, how on earth could I force that upon someone else? Or upon multiple people?

So I kept going. It was never enthusiastic, but it was the next best option for me, and it was the option that would spare all of my loved ones from suffering. My mom took me to the doctor, and the doctor prescribed me an anti-depressant (a generic of Zoloft). I started going to the counseling center at Mary Washington, and I requested a graduate student because that was the only way I could see someone as frequently (every 2 weeks) as I needed to. I talked with all of my professors about how much I was struggling, and most (if not all) of them seemed shocked to find out that their friendly, bright, capable student was struggling to just live.

Finally going on medication and going to regular therapy changed my life. Sertraline, the generic for Zoloft, is an effective anti-depressant and anti-anxiety medication. It’s a class of medication known as an SSRI, or selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitor. Essentially, it helps your brain take in more serotonin (the “happy” chemical), so it can help correct the chemical imbalance in your brain that is believed to cause depression. When serotonin breaks down, it becomes melatonin, which is a natural part of the sleep cycle, so the medication helped tremendously with my insomnia as well. The transition to being medicated was extremely difficult for me for a couple reasons. First, the side effects were difficult. I had horrible dry-mouth, but even worse, I had the “worsening depression or suicidal thoughts” that every anti-depressant commercial warns about. The 3 days of first taking medication, and then the first 3 days of upping my dosage, were even worse than my “normal” days. But after those 3 days passed, it was like coming out of a thick, dark, hopeless haze and entering into a bright, new future. It wasn’t necessarily going to be easy, but I felt “even,” and I felt like I could finally begin to manage my mental health problems.

The second issue that made medication difficult for me was that I felt like being medicated meant there was something wrong with me—people might think of me differently if they knew. They might judge me. They might not like me. And I might become even more isolated and alone because no one would like me. My therapist at UMW help me overcome these worries and to think of my anti-depressant as more of a vitamin than anything else. To this day, that is still how I think of my anti-depressant, which I still take every day. I stay on a low therapeutic dose of sertraline (50 mg) to keep me at a level where I feel “even” and can then handle the rest of my mental health issues on my own. I’m no longer ashamed of taking an anti-depressant, and I hope that other people seeking treatment can also come to this realization. There is nothing wrong with taking medication that helps treat a disease or disorder that you have.

Along with medication, therapy has been a key component of my treatment and recovery. My therapist at Mary Washington did wonders for me, and I believe therapy is a crucial part of treatment for depression and other mental health disorders. While medication can address the chemical imbalance that causes depression, it can’t effectively address what is causing that chemical imbalance—and, more often than not, it’s our patterns of thinking and other mental activities that cause the imbalance. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) is what all of my therapists have engaged in with me, and it’s a method that of therapy that can help re-track your brain, leading to better mental awareness and healthier patterns of thought, and thus help correct chemical imbalances over time. Since my therapist at UMW, I’ve seen several others. I don’t regularly do therapy because I find that I do well enough on my own, but when something triggers my mental health disorders, I seek out a therapist and go for several months to work through my issues. (This decision is largely a monetary one for me, but I also always get to a point in therapy where it feels like the sessions are no longer productive because we’ve resolved what I wanted to resolve. The unproductive sessions are my sign that it is okay to end a round of therapy.) Though I don’t go to therapy regularly, I cannot stress enough how much of a difference it has made for me over the years. Having someone who is trained to help you recognize your thought patterns and help you correct the unhealthy patterns is beyond helpful. If you are thinking about therapy, go. It can be a huge mental burden at first to find a therapist whose style fits well with your needs, but it is worth the time and effort. Going in with an open mind, in my opinion, is the best way to go. If you think that therapy won’t help you or that therapists are just “shrinks,” you won’t get much out of therapy.

The days of the onset of my depression and anxiety were easily the darkest days of my life. But in that time, with great effort and mountains of help, I was able to find hope. I found wonderful friends, old and new, who answered the phone no matter what time I called, who got in a tiny college bed with me and soothed me to sleep, and who commandeered classrooms with me to watch Battlestar Galactica and distract my brain for a few hours. I found a family who would come and take care of me, even though I was an adult, and do whatever they could to support me. I found professors who truly cared about my well-being and who wanted to be there for me and help me. Most importantly, I found an ability within myself to overcome the toughest of mental hurdles.

I also found many other people suffering from mental health disorders like my own, who I otherwise never would have thought had mental health problems. It may very well be that the people who smile at you most, who are the kindest to you, who give the most, who work the hardest, who seem to be thriving, are the people who are struggling the most. It may also very well be that the people who seem to not work at all or who are not particularly friendly are the people who are struggling the most. Mental health disorders and their symptoms affect people and manifest themselves in different ways in each of us.

What you are feeling and experiencing is valid. It is okay not to be okay. It is okay to seek help. Please seek help—do not be ashamed. There is nothing weak about seeking help to better yourself. Do not feel ashamed for taking medication or going to therapy. These are treatments for a medical problem, and there is nothing wrong with treating your problems and bettering yourself. You are enough, and your deserve to be better.

End the stigma.

1 Comment

  1. I remember my first real anxiety attack happened before Christmas when I was in 4th grade. My mom was a single parent and I have always been a capable child, so she left me at home while she went Christmas present shopping for me and my older brother. My older brother was never really “present” so I don’t even remember if he was home – but if he was it didn’t matter. I remember that it had been just a couple hours I was alone when the racing thoughts started. Where was my mom? When was she coming home? Why did these few hours feel like days? She must have gotten into an accident. I know it. (Mind you this was actually a time before cell phones were a thing). She was never coming back. How was I supposed to live without her? What would I do when the police would come knocking on my door telling me that she was dead? Because of course she was and of course the police were going to come. There was no other reason why I would feel this way, right? It was such a crippling series of thoughts that spiraled into a full blown panic attack. It was hard to breathe. I was crying uncontrollably and hysterically. I was so upset with my anxiety that I would vomit. I tried watching TV to take my mind off things but that didn’t help. For what was only a few hours, a lifetime had passed and I was convinced I was going to be orphaned.

    This was the moment that my mom realized I wasn’t just a worrying kid – something else entirely was happening because this was an extreme reaction for a fairly benign circumstance.

    The only common denominator for my “episodes” was me being left alone. So the answer? Send me to a friend’s house after school until my mom got home from work. Put me in a daycare for the summer. After 5th grade I was okay being alone again. But my anxiety and depression was always there under the surface.

    My anxiety resurfaced with triggers periodically when in relationships throughout high school and college. In college I got to a point where one relationship was so toxic enough and unhealthy that I went to a doctor. I was given Lexapro. It never touched my anxiety or depression. It only made me feel numb. Which sometimes was better than feeling the awful and crippling depression and anxiety I felt in the relationship. But I was convinced he was the one and something was just wrong with ME and how I was reacting to things. It didn’t occur to me that HE was the problem since he was the trigger. Eventually I stopped taking the meds.

    I ended that relationship and even though the next one I got into (with the person I would eventually marry) didn’t have the same toxicity to any degree, I still had triggers and I still had anxiety and depression looming under the surface. I had become pretty well at managing the little things. But certain triggers were always there and could always send me spiraling.

    It wasn’t until what seemed like an endless bout of hopeless depression after my fiance and I had adopted our dog that I realized I needed to get this under control. I couldn’t live my life like this. This wasn’t a way to live. I went to who is now my current primary care physician and he prescribed me sertraline. I was only on 25mg at the time. That seemed to help tremendously. Today I’m on 50mg and the medicine has changed my life.

    For a time I did see a therapist and only went to a handful of sessions. Therapy for me, like you, is more of an additional tool I need sometimes to handle larger hurdles than I can myself deal with and wrap my head around. I’m a pretty intuitive person and can, for the most part, figure the root of my problems and try to apply healthy thought techniques to stop the toxic thought patterns that make those hurdles real problems. What I struggle with are the words to describe how I’m feeling to the people I care about so that they can try to better understand even though they done share the same mental issues I do. Therapy isn’t something I routinely do, but I have no issue with making an appointment when needed. Otherwise, I do pretty well managing myself.

    Thank you for sharing your story. I think even though we all have different experiences and triggers and backgrounds, there are some kernels of commonalities that we can all share and relate to that makes us be able to be support for one another.

    Please feel free to come to me to talk if you need to. I also don’t live far away if you need a place to go to have a baby and cat distract you from life for a bit. And I have an empty guest bed you are welcome to if needed.

    You are a strong and capable woman. We all have our Achilles heel, but our mental illness does not have to be what defines us, but just another piece of what makes us who we are and we can overcome.


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