High school is difficult for most people, but for me, it was Hell. I wasn't bullied or cast out, but my personal life was invaded by mental illness.
When most people hear the words "mental illness," a certain image pops into their head. It isn't pleasant, or accurate, but they have an idea of the type of person they're dealing with. As much as I tried to break these stereotypes, especially to my friends and family, most of what was going on with me didn't come across clearly. Granted, I couldn't understand most of it myself.
I was diagnosed with major depression and anxiety disorder at the age of thirteen. By the time I graduated high school, I had been to behavioral hospitals a total of six times.
Of course, people thought I was crazy. To be honest, I didn't see myself as a sane person, either. I was taking a cocktail of medications and going to therapy every week. I didn't know anyone else my age that did those things until I was surrounded by them in group therapy and in the adolescent units of hospitals. There, I realized that there were many people like me and many people who seemingly had it worse. Even though it felt that way, therapists had instilled in me that my problems mattered, too, no matter how much I thought they didn't.
Despite spending a significant amount of high school in hospitals, I will never forget the experience I had in group therapy. I can happily say that it changed me for the better and was a significant part of my progress in dealing with my illnesses. Much of what I learned from group therapy, the experience, and friends I made still stay with me as some of my happiest memories as a teenager. Now that I think about it, it sounds kind of sad that those are a teenager's happiest memories.
However much fun I had there, I still had to deal with the real problems in my life. I had to learn how to "get better." For this, I have one person to thank: my group therapist. I can still remember her and everything she said to me. I refer to her as the best therapist I have ever had. I even asked her to be my personal therapist after I graduated from group therapy. Sadly, I have not seen or spoken to her in years, but she, along with the others, will remain in my heart as well.
It feels good, now, to tell my experiences as they were, without fear of misunderstanding or ridicule. I know the person I used to be is no longer here because that person has grown so much and so quickly and understands that to "get better," I have to want to get better. I'll never be completely okay and I know mental illness doesn't just go away, but I am mastering the art of management.