In addition to being Breast Cancer Awareness Month, October is also known as Mental Health Awareness Month. Both are equally important issues. However, I do not have personal experience with Breast Cancer. I do have experience with mental health issues – A life-long battle, in fact.

I have held off on writing about this topic, primarily because it’s something I usually only share when relevant and in one-on-one conversations. Let me be clear: I am NOT Ashamed. This is just not a light conversation… not a “How was your weekend? Oh, suicidal, or anxiety meltdown, or I cried all weekend… How was yours?” kind of thing. Usually, you save those conversations for a close friend, family member, or medical professional.

Also, I really want to focus my blog on healing, moving forward, empowerment. Taking a deep dive into my depression and anxiety experience has seemed counter-intuitive. Then again, maybe not! How can we learn to move forward, overcome obstacles, if we don’t see others going through the process?

Here is my story: I don’t know exactly when I started struggling with Depression and Anxiety, I only know when I was finally diagnosed: at the age of 24. I had probably struggled most of my life with these mental health issues: I grew up under severe stress, dysfunction, and abuse. I had a very unhealthy relationship with my mother. As far back as I can remember, I was her emotional mother, her comforter, her confidant, responsible (I felt) for her emotional well-being. I don’t ever really remember being a child. I was always responsible for someone emotionally or physically: first my mom, then later, my siblings. So I’m guessing I didn’t start out with the best tools to begin with.

Please understand, I don’t blame anyone for where I ended up, these are just facts that surrounded and molded who I was… maybe more to one end of the spectrum than another. I’m sure on some level, the outcome would have been the same regardless. Genetics play their part, and mental health issues run in my family on both sides. Having a chaotic and often abusive upbringing just accentuated what was already genetically possible.

I often remember being told to “pull myself up by my boot-straps and keep going” not sure if that came from my mom (probably) or other authority figures in my life. I just know from an early age, that saying kept me moving forward when I felt like I was drowning.

Then came a time in my life when I couldn’t “pull myself up.” I didn’t see it coming. I was already married and had been in that relationship for six years. I had been sober (Oh, addiction was one way I tried coping with my mental health early on) for six-and-a-half years. I had done 12 steps, been in therapy since I was 12, and had had one Major Mental Melt-down (High School) by the time I hit my Major Depression. It was actually my Sponsor (AA) who recommended I see a psychiatrist after I’d spent several weeks in my pajamas.

My first experience with psychiatry: I was terrified. I did not want to be on medication (recovering from addition!). I really thought they would tell me I was crazy and needed to be locked up. I felt crazy. I felt completely useless. Life was grey. I could feel NOTHING: no joy, no love…. just nothing. I felt like I was nothing. I was Crazy. At least that’s what I thought.

The psychiatrist asked me WHY? Why had it taken so long to seek help? I had no answer for him. Because… I’m supposed to be okay. Because I thought like every other time, I’d pull myself out. Because I didn’t want to admit there was ANOTHER thing I couldn’t control, that I needed HELP fixing and this was more confirmation (in my mind) that I was broken.

The doctor assured me: the medication I was taking was not addictive, that if I didn’t have a chemical imbalance it would not change how I felt. So I reluctant started down the road of medically treating my “illness.”

I put illness in quotes because at that time I had not accepted that what I had was, in fact, an illness. My understanding and acceptance of that fact came later, and at a high cost.

I wish I could say I started down the psychiatry road with relief and gratitude. That was not the case. I DID get better. Within weeks of starting medication I was returning to life, I could see colors, feel life! But that was not the end of my struggle.

A year after I was diagnosed, I decided I was cured and, against medical advice, took myself OFF medication. To say that this was a bad decision is to down-play the agony and despair that followed. I struggled. Even worse than before: I had suicidal thoughts, I woke in the middle of the night with severe panic attacks, I would make it through the week at work only to spend the entire weekend exhausted mentally, emotionally, and physically from the efforts of “holding it together.”

It took me a year and a half of pure misery, during which time I tried exercise (endorphins, right?), changing my diet, throwing myself into recovery program (AA), writing gratitude lists ad nauseam, anything I could think of to cope that did NOT include going back to the doctor.

Back to the doctor… the day came when I was so afraid I would hurt myself, that I called my Mother-in-law to sit with me, and the admittance that my efforts were in vain. I needed outside help if I was going to have any semblance of a life. I went to the doctor.

A different doctor than before, for I had moved to a new state. Same question: Why had I waited so long to seek help? How does one answer this? No rational answer was forthcoming: I thought I could handle it. I didn’t think it could get this bad…. and so on.

The upside of this year plus experiment is that I was finally at the point of acceptance. Like diabetes, high cholesterol, or any other number of illnesses one can acquire via the genetic lottery.. this was mine.

Acceptance was still not an easy road. I still rebelled against the idea that I had an illness at times, and I hated the idea that medication was the answer.

Please, don’t misunderstand: medication was only ONE component of the answer, but it was a necessary and important component. I still have many other things that I do to combat this on-going illness: prayer and meditation, daily gratitude, affirmations, self-care by way of giving myself time alone and also time with people who matter. Investing time in hobbies, using my experience to help others, volunteering in my community. All these play an active part in keeping me Balanced and whole.

Mental health is a daily journey. I fight anxiety every day. I use tools like breathing exercises to calm me down when I’m overwhelmed or overloaded. Depression is still a real part of who I am and I often rely on my closest people, my husband, a few friends, seeing a doctor regularly for checkins to keep me from falling too deep.

I often think of my depression as a wild animal component: when it hits, I want to hide away like a wounded animal licking its wounds. When I start withdrawing from my life: sleeping too much, turning down opportunities to do things with people I love… alarm bells go off. This is my depression flaring up, rearing it’s ugly head, telling me I’m not worth the effort, that I have nothing to contribute. All lies my illness will tell me to keep me in it’s grip.

Today I try to walk a balance: time alone for self-reflection, gratitude and growth. Time committed to work, family and friends, learning knew things and being in the moment. When that starts to skew, my “safety’s” let me know so I don’t slide off into the abyss of anxiety or depression or both.

If you relate to any of this and have not sought help, I URGE YOU to do so now. Your mental health and well-being are important. YOU ARE IMPORTANT. Get the help you need. I can’t guarantee it’s easy, but I can guarantee it’s worth it – YOU are worth it.

#mentalhealthawareness #openandbrave