Here is a comprehensive list of my diagnoses:
My introduction to the world of mental health was at 13 when I posted on my Xanga about having suicidal ideation, a classmate saw it and narced on me, which landed me in a mental institution.
I’ve been in and out of various therapies since then, and I’m happy to say I’ve at least gotten to the point where I can smell a 5150 coming on and I have a support system in place. I take my medication, I go to therapy, I exercise, I eat right, I stay hydrated. And of course, the grand joke of it all is that none of these practices can prevent the bullshit from still seeping in, but they can help to lessen the impact, and I guess that’s the point of self-care: it’s a lot of work for very little pay-off, but it beats the alternative. I could have ended up a crackhead under a bridge, and given my childhood, I would be well within my rights to do so, but I’ve chosen to be #bossbitch instead, for which I am thankful (at least most days).
At my grown age, I’ve come to find that mental illness is one thing, but the associated guilt, shame, and self-loathing is entirely another. I’ve wasted many years numbing myself out with substances or work or toxic relationships in a desperate attempt to not feel the feelings that will inevitably come up, one way or another. I’ve found that, unfortunately, the sheer amount of alcohol and Oreos required to keep me from feeling have a far greater toll on my life expectancy than I am willing to cede.
For me, the trouble of it all comes down to obsessive, circular thinking. I think OCD, like most mental illness, is grossly misunderstood. For me, it’s less about flipping light switches on and off, and more about being plagued by my thoughts; constant, circuitous, dark. My mind is both the labyrinth and the minotaur, I can escape neither, and before I know it, I’m organizing the dirty dishes in the sink, or rearranging the garbage in the trash can. Imagine being so sick that you feel the need to clean the trash for the small amount of relief it brings.
I have to white-knuckle through the inner monologue, à la my mother, screaming at me to GRIN AND BEAR IT, lest I bring shame on the family. Growing up, a cry for help (such as a suicide attempt at 13), was looked at as a personal indictment, and in a way I guess it was- she was a horrible mother, and allowed her own trauma to spill into me and poison me in ways I’ve yet to reconcile. I was raised to never voice my pain so as to preserve her fragile ego. Even now, the concept of a “safe person” feels like an oxymoron. It is only after years of therapy, that I now have the courage to pick up my phone and tell someone, “I’m suffering, I need help.” And it’s like pulling fucking teeth every time, but I do it anyway, and I can say, reaching out to someone you trust, whether it’s a therapist or a close friend, has a 100% effectiveness rate. The tragedy of going through life closed off to the joys of simple human connection has warped my heart and my mind in ways that I think will always be apparent. But the fact of the matter is that humans are social creatures, pack animals, and where we go in sickness to isolate is where we go to die.