Last Sunday, my bookshelf broke, and I ran out of my apartment and sobbed in the stairwell of a parking structure for half an hour.
It’s not a joke. It’s not hyperbole. It was me at my breaking point.
This is going to be my last article for the Vanguard. My editor let me decide what I should write—science? legislation? women’s rights?—and I eventually decided that my last submission should be more than that.
So I give you this, a cautionary tale about the stigmas of mental health.
I’ve never been very good at managing my mental and emotional health. I am a very logical person. I proceed with the most efficient plan regardless of factors like stress and grief. So, after two deaths in my family and a rash of illnesses and horrific diagnoses among those closest to me, I tried to return to my daily life without any time to cope, grieve or process the things that had happened.
Within a number of weeks, my journal—which I’d started keeping as a New Year’s resolution—became darker and darker. Looking at it now, there are some alarming excerpts:
A letter to my younger self ends with “I’m sorry I failed you, little Jenna. I never wanted to be such a fuck-up.”
An entry about other resolutions dissolves into “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
One page just reads, “If you ignore the crushing wave of inadequacy, maybe it will go away.”
Another page says, “I want to run away and start over, but it won’t undo the last eight years.”
And it culminates with a one-line entry on March 24: “I think I’m depressed.”
That was the day I realized I couldn’t keep ignoring my negative thoughts and emotions in the hope that they’d go away. And I couldn’t move forward in my life, especially with the trials my friends and family were facing, if I didn’t address them.
Even writing this down for publication scares me a little. I worry that someone will see this someday and decide I’m not worth employing or exploring a relationship with.
I don’t want to be seen as mentally ill.
The thing is, that’s why I let it get so bad. I struggled so much with the stigma associated with those words. “Mental illness” is something suffered by those people. The unstable ones. The people on the bus or train who shout about the world ending. The ones who are unsafe to be around. The other people. Not me.
Mental illness doesn’t happen to normal people, right? And I wanted desperately to be normal. But that stigma causes so much more harm than any other I’ve seen. There should be no shame in saying, “I think I’m unwell, and I need help to get better.”
In fact, if we treated physical illness like we do mental illness, it’d be laughably absurd. “I think she’s faking her amputation for attention,” or “You don’t really have diabetes. Everyone has low energy sometimes. You don’t need to medicate that.”
I don’t know if I am clinically depressed. I’ve yet to see a doctor or a counselor (though I have made appointments to do so). But I do know that I’m not well. I haven’t been for some time.
Admitting this to my family and friends has been difficult. A few people have reacted poorly, and I have distanced myself from them for my own sake. In just a few days, I’ve been called some truly nasty things.
But most of the people I have told have encouraged me to get help. And I will.
Whether through lifestyle changes, therapy or medication, I will get better. I have to remind myself that there’s no shame in taking the time to become well again.
What I want readers to take away from this is that it’s OK to get help. It’s OK to ask for it.
There is nothing wrong with admitting that you may be unwell. And if you’re unwell, it’s only rational to get treatment.
Scary as it is, I’m going to face it. I’ve seen people I love deny that they were unwell until they couldn’t live with it anymore. I’ve seen people die because of this stigma. I will not be one of them.
So long, readers. Next time I’m published, I hope it’s as a healthy, well-adjusted person.