What Does “Mental Illness” Mean to Me?

I’ve never been ashamed of my struggle with depression. I’ve never felt bad about my need for therapy. If we’re friends or even acquaintances, it’s most likely you already know this about me.

But I don’t go into the details very often because depression is, well, depressing. But this illness that I’ve struggled with — and conquered — for over ten years is something I’ll be dealing with for the rest of my life.

I understand it. I can tell you if it’s coming. I know what triggers it. Sometimes I can handle it swiftly. Sometimes it takes a while. Sometimes I use food and alcohol as crutches. I give in to the sadness consciously, knowingly. Until it’s time for me to break free again. I try not to beat myself up about it. It’s as much a part of me as any other characteristic.

It wasn’t always that way though. I wasn’t always this aware of my emotional ups and downs. In fact, it took my mom giving me an ultimatum about therapy that forced me to make the call that would save my life. That might sound dramatic, but if I was left to drown in the emotional storm I was in, I can’t say with certainty that I would have made it through.

I spent a lot of time crying for no particular reason. I was filled with a rage I could barely control. I remember one time I was on the subway coming home from work and I was systematically punching the door window. Not hard enough to call attention to myself (it was very crowded) but enough that my knuckles were sore by the time I got off. I wanted the pain. What I really wanted was to put my hand through the window, but I wasn’t far enough gone to do it.

I didn’t want to go out. I didn’t want to wake up in the morning. Nothing I loved doing “before” was fun anymore. I was treating myself and the people around me terribly. I didn’t even realize I was doing it. I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t know what. Which made it even worse.

Then my mom stepped in and said if I didn’t call a therapist, she would. She said I was going no matter what because I needed help. She was absolutely right.

There was no overnight cure, but there was slow healing. It took two years of therapy before I had enough emotional awareness to tell my therapist I still wasn’t happy. That while what we were doing was helping, I couldn’t shake the sadness. That’s when I decided to try anti-depressants.

A week into taking the pills and I could feel the difference. A month in and I felt like I had finally started to find myself again. It was a revelation — feeling happy. Especially when I was doing the things that made me happy before. I had forgotten what it felt like.

I stayed on the pills for about two years, then when I felt like I was in a good place, weaned myself off them (with the guidance of my therapist and psychiatrist of course). I haven’t had to take them since and I’ve never fallen into that deep of depression again.

I wouldn’t have been able to do any of that without help; without my parents' understanding and acceptance. The acknowledgment that therapy is necessary for some people, and not something to be ashamed of. My friends never wavered either. I’m really lucky.

But there are a lot of people that aren’t as lucky as I was/am. Mental illness still has a stigma attached to it. People still think it’s something that should be secreted away. Like it’s contagious. To deny, or worse ignore, the need for help and understanding because of this is ignorant and dangerous. To judge someone for admitting to suffering from mental illness is the reflection of your own self-doubt and fear.

The narrative around mental illness has to change. In my case, you might never have experienced, or known someone who has experienced, clinical depression. But I’m sure there’ve been days where you’ve felt really down. Just that gives you the basic understanding, if not the ability to fully empathize, with where I’m coming from.

Wecould all benefit from a little more understanding and empathy. Towards self, as well as towards those who are different from us. Therapy has helped me do that. It’s helped me get to know myself for who I really am. And that knowledge has helped me become a better person. It’s also given me the tools to look for the similarities in others instead of the differences.

Even though it’s a struggle sometimes, for the above and a whole lot more, I’m thankful for my experience with mental illness and I’m thankful to all the people that helped me through.