Did you know that May has officially been “Mental Health Awareness Month” in the United States since 1949? Yeah, me either. I find that both terribly sad and wildly exciting. Sad because something so important took 70+ years to gain attention, and exciting because finally, mental health awareness is getting the spotlight and voice it deserves. Mental health is so critical and so close to my heart that trying to pinpoint the correct words and tone is difficult. So, I’m going to write this article under the lens of being something I wish I could have read when I was 20 years old and thought I was losing my mind. This is My Story: The newly coined term “Sunday Scaries” resonates to my core. I remember as a child I would cry, meltdown, even make myself sick because I couldn’t handle the anxiety of going to school on Monday. I’d get so angry with my parents for their lack of understanding and convince myself that it was all their fault, but I would always go and it would always be fine. I can remember passing notes to my best friend in Junior High and asking her on a daily basis if I was still her best friend. She would get so annoyed by being asked the same question repeatedly, and honestly, I can’t blame her. I recall lying awake at night in my childhood twin size bed with quiet tears streaming down my face as I contemplated my parent’s impending deaths. These are definitely not normal behaviors for a young girl to have, but I didn’t know that. I had always been a stellar student and the majority of the pressure to succeed was put upon myself by myself. Going to University was no different. I studied hard and excelled, but something happened when I was 20 years old that would forever change the shape of my life. I’m not sure if it was a mental break down or a panic attack, but it was for sure alarming. I skipped class (something I’d never done, ever), was crying inconsolably, felt paralyzed with fear, and called my parents to let them know that I just didn’t think I could finish school. I was absolutely overwhelmed and totally losing my grip with reality. The details are hazy now, but I know that I ended up in a doctor’s office. I told her how I felt completely crippled and emotionally out of control, but I couldn’t express why I had these feelings. There was nothing happening to me that was particularly horrible. I was going to school, seeing my friends, living in a sorority house, had a long-term boyfriend – life was good. There was nothing to create this horrible sense of dread. She then explained to me how NORMAL this was, especially for people my age…Normal…Something I’d never felt farther from, but so calmed by the reassurance. She gave me some stats that I can’t remember now and ultimately told me that I was suffering from Generalized Anxiety Disorder and prescribed me medication. It changed my life. Finally, FINALLY, I started to feel relief from emotions and sensations I had never pinpointed because I had no idea I had practically been in a permanent state of Fight or Flight. I was happier, I could handle stress and deadlines with so much more finesse, and I could focus! It was truly a miracle. Fast-forward about 5 years to when I decided I was cured. I had a very successful career, a beautiful apartment, friends and family who loved me, a new puppy – life was awesome! Clearly (I thought) I had outgrown the need for this “crutch”. I was stronger than a pill! So I took myself off of my miracle medicine (NEVER DO THIS WITHOUT DOCTOR ASSISTANCE). I began to feel “zaps” throughout my body like being momentarily electrocuted, I had blips in my vision, and bouts of dizziness. I chalked this up to being dehydrated or sleep deprived (seriously, Ashley?). Then one day, a couple of months after I stopped the meds, I found myself in such a depressed state that I couldn’t get out of bed or even shower. I called in sick to work. I stayed inside. And I didn’t tell anyone. My mom discovered me this way and marched me back to the doctor where they put me right back on medication. And what do you know, in a few weeks time I was sorted. I really struggled with the realization that I was incapable of helping myself. Here I am a smart, strong, independent woman that can’t function properly without a pill – how embarrassing, how weak, how devastating. HOW WRONG! The Stigma: 20 year old me was embarrassed by my new diagnosis. I didn’t tell a single soul besides my parents that I now required a pill to make me feel “normal”. I didn’t talk about anxiety or depression with anyone. The thought that someone else out there – a friend, a classmate, a stranger – could be suffering just like I was didn’t enter my mind. I didn’t understand that my embarrassment and secrecy was a part of a much bigger problem, The Stigma. To be honest with you, I had to look up the meaning of the word stigma. I thought it meant something like “perception”, but it is so much more than that. Even more shocking is that I’m guilty of its perpetuation, but no more! Stigma – adj. – 1a strong lack of respect for a person or a group of people or a bad opinion of them because they have done something society does not approve of; 2a mark of disgrace associated with a particular circumstance, quality, or person; 3a mark of shame or discredit I would say that I’m personally guilty of the third definition, feeling shame. To this day I still struggle with feelings of inadequacy and questioning why I can’t properly function without the help of a
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