There is definitely a stigma around mental illness, one that makes it difficult for some people to come to terms with the fact that they could need help. I know, because I was one of these people. For years I lived with the belief that the reason I was not OK was because I wanted to get my own way or there was something majorly wrong with me. I've been dealing with anxiety, OCD, and depression since at least sophomore year of high school and was too scared to tell anyone. I let it affect me in hugely negative ways--for example, my grades and my friendships, both I was so low with depression that I didn't have the energy to stay in contact with my friends or do my schoolwork. (Even now I feel like I'm just making excuses for not being good enough or something.).
Depression isn't just being sad. For me, it's intense period of feeling worthless and having no energy whatsoever, what I call crashing. I can be good at hiding it, but sometimes it's just too much. I obsess over the belief that I don't matter to anyone else--that they only put up with me because they can't get rid of me. The energy levels part is hard, because I have to run on little to no energy at times, because stopping going to classes and work to rest isn't an option. There was one day when I had used all my energy for the day (if you know what spoon theory is--and it relates to mental health as well as physical--I had used all my spoons for the day) by nine in the morning, but I still had two more classes. I had to act as if I was okay for that whole day, and I've been doing that for years now. I've learned to fake being OK because it's better than having to admit that I'm not.
There's a stereotype of people with OCD that they're always cleaning and that everything has to be perfectly clean. If that's how you think of OCD and if you know me, you might wonder how I, of all people, could possibly have OCD. The thing is, though, that that isn't at all how OCD works. Sure, there may be people who do clean compulsively (for example, there's a type where the fear is of contamination), but I have the type that can be referred to as "counters and arrangers." I have to count stairs when I go up or down them (the number of stairs doesn't matter; I just need to count them). My dorm this past year had different length walls between rooms and I had to touch the longer ones three times and the shorter ones twice, and these touches had to line up with the steps of my right foot (there would be times when I would walk down the hallways with my hands full and that was the most stressful thing). I had to take two steps on the landings between flights of stairs in my dorm. For those last two, the numbers mattered. I wasn't exactly scared something bad was going to happen if I didn't do it, but not doing it wasn't "right" (I can't explain "not right," but it would shoot my anxiety through the roof). As for the arrangers part, that can be most clearly seen in my bookshelves. At least twice a year I have to go through and reshelf all my books, but it can't just be random. My books have to be within their genres and then alphabetical by author. It takes me at least an hour, usually more. I still haven't figured out a satisfactory system for my nonfiction books short of looking up the Dewey Decimal number for all of them.
The one that has been affecting me most lately is my anxiety. I've been working on getting a summer job--and here's where the making excuses comes back in--and the idea terrifies me. I can't do food--I'm too scared I'll give someone food poisoning, even with something that they couldn't possibly get it from, or, if they did, it wouldn't be my fault. I can't talk on the phone. I can't do retail because I would burst out crying the moment something went wrong. I mean, I can't even walk down to a neighbor's house--a neighbor that I know well--and tell her that she overpaid me, talk to someone at the front desk of a store or service when I need help, or find my own classroom for a class at the gym on the first day. I'm nineteen; I should be able to do this. But there's always that whisper in the back of my mind reminding me that I can't. I'm so scared of messing up, of being laughed at, of not being right, of whatever else you can imagine. This occasionally makes me extremely irritable, mostly when pushed into situations that increase my anxiety, and I'll snap at people without meaning to. On top of this, I occasionally have anxiety attacks brought on by noise and crowds--not necessarily together, but I can't stand a lot of loud noise or being touched. I also have sensory overload issues, mostly with noise, but also with light or touch. There are times when I'll be in a situation, and maybe it's not even that loud, but I feel like the noise is closing in and I can't escape. Every sound is amplified, even my own breathing and footsteps, to the point where I can't stand them. I have also had a few similar instances with light, as well as times when any kind of touch, even fabric on my skin, is too much. This almost exclusively occurs on my arms and is extremely unpleasant.
This is the first time I've been able to admit to anyone else how much all this affects me, and it's nowhere near close to the truth. I don't have the words I need for the truth. I can't explain how bad it is, how little energy I have some days because of the depression, how much dealing with people can take out of me, how little I'm functional at times. I'm sick of it, and I'm sick of the stigma that has made me so scared to reach out for help.
