Ending the stigma
If you know me in real life and end up reading this, all I ask is that it not be discussed with either of my grandparents or my mother-in-law. If and when I make the decision to tell them, it will be in person. Over the past few days, the number for the National Suicide Prevention Hotline has been passed around more times than I can count. While that may seem helpful to those suffering from depression, the important thing to realize about depression and mental illness as a whole is that the biggest symptom is silence. Depression, anxiety, and chemical imbalances more often than not, mute the ability to ask for help. A person suffering with these symptoms will often learn to mask them in order to seem “normal” and to keep people from thinking anything is wrong. When a person suffers from moments of panic, the field of vision is narrow. There is no left and no right; it’s only straight in front. Logic is skewed and makes perfect sense to that person, while to others, it leaves them dumbfounded. Especially when the person in question seems to have it all; family, friends, intelligence, and talent. That person is me. A phone number wasn’t going to help me. Reaching out to a loved one wasn’t going to help me. Panic set in, my thought process took over, I made a plan, and I knew what I had to do. It wasn’t logical by any stretch of the word, but it made sense to me. To remove myself from a situation, to not be a burden anymore. To allow my loved ones to live without having to worry about me. Contrary to popular belief, I was thinking about everyone in my life except myself. Regard for myself didn’t factor into my plan in any way shape or form. I wasn’t a teenager. I wasn’t in my early twenties. I was forty-five. It was twelve weeks ago. I panicked. I made my plan. I executed it. Survival wasn’t part of my plan. My plan wasn’t for anyone to find me near death. A moment of panic sent me into my tailspin and a moment of panic brought me out of it. The irony of the situation is not lost on me. The human body is a powerful thing. I never realized the power of the circulatory system until I saw its force firsthand. The body does some pretty gross things when it prepares for death as well. Chest compressions hurt like hell. For weeks after they’re administered. A week in an inpatient psychiatric facility is a sobering and eye opening experience. However, it was a safe place for me to learn a great deal about myself. The six weeks of intensive out patient therapy that followed was an even greater learning experience. Medications to manage the chemical imbalances are a miracle. Continuing one on one therapy is a way to now dig deeper into myself and seek even more ways to cope in a healthy way. Why am I writing this down and sharing it with you? I am doing this to no longer remain silent. If the stigma of mental illness is to end, it needs to be talked about. I can’t be ashamed to share my story for fear of being judged. Sure, I know there are people reading this who will judge me for whatever reasons they choose, and I get that. I accept that. I have had to make my own peace with what I did to myself and to my family. I know there are also people reading this who are thinking, “Why couldn’t she reach out to me? I would have been there for her?” I know you would have. My demons took away my ability to reach out to anyone. Am I scared that those demons could surface like this again one day? Of course I am. The difference now is that I have a better set of coping skills, I know my warning signs (as do those in my immediate space), and no longer feel shame about saying, “Hey, I don’t feel right today.” I’ve also learned to address things I find issue with when they happen as opposed to letting them sit and stew and come out later when I’m ready to blow up. Therapy is amazing. I can’t say enough good things about it. Seriously. Everyone should be in therapy. We all can use someone impartial to talk to. #endthestigma
