*Trigger Warning: tough conversations and hard truths of experience with abuse, suicidal ideation and trauma
May is mental health awareness month. What does that even mean? What is mental health awareness? Who needs to be made aware? Do we all not see and/or experience mental health every day?
The most positive part I see this month, is how it gives people permission to share their truths and their struggles. It hurts me to see that so many people struggle but I love that they feel validated and empowered. On the flip side, it hurts me even more that it takes a month with a made up purpose to give people the courage and space to share. I wish we lived in a world that allowed these truths all of the time. A world that saw these stories as motivators for change. A world that put an emphasis on caring for your emotional self as much as your physical self. I’ll keep dreaming and hoping.
So in honor of this time, I share part of my mental health story…
I cannot pinpoint the exact moment I began to struggle with anxiety or depression but I do know it was happening long before I knew what to call it. I know it was not a specific event but a collection of experiences over time that made my anxiety and depression surface enough for me to decide to get help. I know my anxiety and depression have evolved over time in how they show up in my life. I know I have become extremely proficient (most days) at hiding how I am feeling day to day but when I am alone with my own thoughts (in the shower, hiding for a brief moment in my car or closet, at night before bed) I lose control.
Growing up, in grade school, I specifically remember people constantly saying two things to me: you are always so happy. and you’re life is just so easy. I am going to take a moment to unpack both of these.
I very much was NOT always so happy. I very much acted as if I was happy. For awhile I didn’t even know that’s what I was doing, I just thought that whatever I was feeling was normal and you are supposed to ignore it, deal with it, not let it show. As time went on, I realized it wasn’t necessarily “normal” but in the small town where I grew up, you didn’t dare speak of it. If you did, you might as well be prepared for the entire town to not only find out, but judge you every step of the way.
For anyone who didn’t grow up in a small town, it’s not far off from the movies and tv shows of nothing but gossip, stares and whispers at the grocery store. This became the reason I suffered in silence. Until I studied abroad in college, I didn’t truly understand that a world outside my small town existed that was very different from my own. Parts of that world were kinder and parts were not, but it was there and I knew I wanted more of it. People in my town saw what I wanted them to see. A cheerleader with a bubbly personality that would try to make everyone smile, because she knew inside what it felt like not to.
My life was easy in many ways. I was blessed and privileged in many ways. My mom had a good paying job and was willing to go with out to help me with what I wanted/needed. I never felt I had to worry about being hungry or homeless. Others saw this to mean “you have nothing to complain or be sad about. be grateful and if you’re not, you’re a spoiled brat.”
I have grown to hate dichotomies. I cannot understand why people think everything exists in only two options. Yes, I was privileged in many ways AND my life was still difficult. Yes, I know others had different, and arguably more difficult struggles, AND my struggles were still hard and still matter.
Comparative suffering serves no one (A concept I learned from Brenè Brown that I bring up a lot so maybe a whole blog post on that is to come). My point is just because someone’s struggles are different doesn’t mean anyone’s life has been easy. Being told this over and over again, made me feel invalidated, unimportant and like the things I had experienced didn’t qualify as trauma or worthy of complaint. As a result, I again, suffer in silence.
My life continued to come with struggles that I kept a secret. My father has been in my life in a very limited way. While I do believe he loves me as his daughter, he does not understand what being a father meant. He would see me only as a way to talk to my mother. He would not show up when he said he would because he overslept. He would badger me with questions about my mom and her dating life whenever I saw him. As I got older, he would flaunt money and materialistic things, seemingly to impress me, but instead it made me angry because I know how little he monetarily helped my mother raise me (not that she needed his money, it’s just the principle of it). I felt very unloved, unwanted and unimportant. These ‘daddy issues’ lead to me choosing relationships that weren’t in my best interest because I saw little value in myself.
As a teenager, I was in a relationship with a boy whom physically abused me. I can count on one hand the number of people who know this. I adamantly try to avoid celebrating valentine’s day because it’s a trigger for this memory and experience. The belief in my town, or at least the judgment that was spread about others, was that if you were being abused you should “man up and leave or quit complaining.” I was young and didn’t even understand fully what was going on until much later, I just knew I wasn’t “manning up” enough to complain.
In college, I was sexually assaulted by someone I barely knew. I convinced myself, as culture would have it, that it was my fault and not worth ruining his life over. So again, I suffered in silence.
Every time I continued to hear these two statements about my personality and my life, it stung. It physically pained my chest, weakened me, and made my heart race. I wanted to scream IF YOU REALLY THINK THIS YOU HAVEN’T BEEN PAYING ATTENTION. Instead, I smiled an awkward smile and changed the subject. To give others the benefit of the doubt, I often did not share anything that I was experiencing so maybe there was nothing to pay attention to. However, I could go around in circles about whether I didn’t share because they wouldn’t listen or they wouldn’t listen because I didn’t share.
These experiences, and more, changed me. They made me someone I have a difficult time being proud of (still working on this daily). The fact that I could hide it all became what I was proud of but that also became the most unhealthy and evil part. This entire part of me that was hidden was destroying me from the inside out. I would sneak out of my room at night and hold a knife in my hand, shaking and crying, and then throw it back in the drawer and try to go to bed. I would cry silently in the pillow asking myself why? why me? why am I not good enough? why can’t I be different? As an adult that ventured outside of a small town mindset, I learned words to describe all of what I went through and the lasting effects. The “simple” words are trauma, anxiety and depression. They work against each other to make life that much harder.
My depression tells me life isn’t worth living and that the world and those I love are better off without me. My anxiety tells me I don’t have the nerve to do anything about those thoughts. My depression tells me things will never get better. My anxiety makes me panic about how I will continue on if that is, indeed, true. My depression tells me to go to sleep. My anxiety keeps me awake.
These battles happen more nights than not. I have never been as exhausted as I am after I battle my own mind. I convince myself that I cannot let other people into this version of me, despite the fact that I ask others to reveal this side to me daily. I convince myself that no one will understand because the few times I have let someone in, they did not understand nor respond the way I needed. Then I tell myself that isn’t fair because I don’t really know what I need in those moments. I convince myself that others will assume I am exaggerating or looking for attention because that’s the overall picture in much of society.
I am proud to say, that as an adult and mental health clinician, I have spent many hours working though my own trauma and experiences. I work daily to manage my anxiety and depression and to use it as a check list for change. I remind myself every day what it felt like to suffer in silence and try to be the clinician that can create a space for that to change. I don’t have it all figured out.
I still very much distrust almost everyone. My self worth has good and bad days. My self image has more bad than good (thanks social media for compounding that). There are days that my anxiety and depression take over and functioning is hard. But having said all that, the one thing I KNOW is that I no longer have to suffer in silence.
I have choices. I have people who will listen and hear me. I have people who will support me and love me, not despite all of these things, but because of all of these things. I am so grateful for the tribe I have established and the love I feel from them.
So in closing, this long story of my life and thoughts, is to let people know that you do not have to suffer in silence no matter what your environment or society wants you to believe. If it takes a mental health awareness month to help you feel comfortable with expressing your very valid feelings and experiences, then consider every month mental health awareness month. Being vulnerable is hard and scary and also ‘brutiful.’ (A Glennon Doyle term meaning beautiful and brutal). Give yourself permission to feel, to validate, to express, to forgive, to love, and whatever else you need to heal. This is your journey and it will take us all to make sure that everyone’s journey matters.
This was a tough one and I thank you if you have continued to read this far. All I can hope, is t vulnerability gives you permission to do whatever it takes to start your healing process. You deserve it.
Let’s Get Honest 