I’ve mentioned the topic of mental disorders ranging from anxiety to anorexia and beyond in a few of my other articles. It goes without further saying that it’s something very close to my heart and very personal. So personal, in fact, that when I decided to go to treatment for anxiety recently, I kept it quiet. A few close friends knew along with my family but I wasn’t interested in the world knowing. Maybe it was pride, or pretending that if I didn’t admit it, it wasn’t happening.
How people deal with the privacy of their issues is 150 percent their decision, and everyone is different. Some are more comfortable maintaining an airtight privacy. Others choose to cope by sharing their experiences. Both are fine; both are just different. If you have read my other articles, you may know that I’m quite the open book. If you haven’t read my other articles, read them and you’ll quickly learn that I don’t mind discussing personal experiences, struggles and opinions; it’s how I cope.
For this particular stage in my life, I made the rare decision to remain quiet. I felt like this time I just needed to deal silently, to handle these problems on my own without others insights. I was a bit embarrassed this time around. I hadn’t dealt with anxiety since I was in high school. College was supposed to be different, right? We’ve found ourselves by now. We’ve conquered those insecurities by now. Right? I thought I had already defeated this demon, and yet, here it was once again.
I had been going to treatment for a few weeks before I finally felt comfortable to talk about it with those other than my closest friends and family. I’m not sure if I was necessarily better or any further along in kicking anxiety’s *ss, but I had come to accept my fate of shaky hands and a pounding heart. I was finally ready to open up.
Something clicked when I starting talking to my friends about anxiety. I found that many of my friends around me, especially women, were also plagued by the inexplicable disorder. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so alone working through my struggle. Within a few days of conversing with fellow fighters, my anxiety began to lighten. I wasn’t as jittery, my heart didn’t pound so hard as often, I was finally able to sleep and, ultimately, I just didn’t feel crazy. I shared my obsessive thoughts that spun in my head and tried my best to explain what I was going through, and they got it.
I realized that I’m not alone dealing with this. It doesn’t make me weaker, it doesn’t make me crazy and it doesn’t make me alone. Even myself, the one who is exercising her mental health, got caught up in the stigma of mental health, that it isn’t my fault and it doesn’t separate me. I’m part of the millions of people in the United States that struggle with mental health. The last thing I am is alone.
