When I was 16 years old, I was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder.
A year later, Clinical Depression.
Another six months, Insomnia and Social Anxiety.
Now, one year later, I’m a freshman in college trying to keep the anxiety at bay and the depression from swallowing me whole, alongside trying to keep up with classes, a sorority, clubs, and a social life.
Some days, It’s nearly impossible to force myself out of bed and put my feet on the floor. Others, I can barely sit through a 50-minute class without feeling like my heart is going to explode.
I know this may be hard to understand unless you suffer from either of these disorders, and that’s OK. It’s still hard for me to understand sometimes.
And despite having to manage weekly therapy appointments, five daily prescriptions, psychiatry visits, and trying to sleep at night, the hardest part still remains: hiding it from the rest of the world.
So why, along with 40 million other individuals who suffer from some sort of anxiety disorder, do I try to hide it? Why do I bury it?
I’ve asked myself these questions repeatedly for the past three years, and the only answer I can come up with is shame.
I am ashamed. I’m ashamed to admit that sometimes, I can’t take care of myself. I’m ashamed that I sometimes have to miss out on social events because my anxiety won’t let me walk out the door. And I’m ashamed to have to burden anyone else with my emotional instability.
This is why I hide it.
And I know I shouldn’t have to, nor should anyone else, yet I still do. And this is what hurts the most.
It hurts to know that mental illness has yet to receive the attention and the awareness it deserves. It’s a real thing— just like a stomach virus or the flu, it’s a sickness. It might not be tangible, but believe me, it’s there.
And our society needs to recognize it as such.
When it comes to anxiety and depression, minimizing the reality of someone else’s pain becomes very easy because the symptoms aren’t physically manifested—they’re internal.
But would you tell a cancer patient that chemo really isn’t that bad?
No, of course not.
And would you tell someone who just had a heart attack to buy a treadmill and move on?
No, you wouldn’t.
So why would you tell someone who is suffering from clinical depression to “get over it," “pull yourself up by your bootstraps and keep going,” or “just turn it off?"
That’s right, you wouldn’t do that either.
Sometimes saying nothing at all works best. Just being there for a loved one or a friend does the most good. Let them cry, let them yell, and let them process their pain without guilt or shame.
But most importantly, let them know that their darkness will subside, their light will return, and they are unconditionally loved.
