It’s May, and winter has started to subside in Baltimore. As I write this, the sun is shining bright, reflecting through the window of my office. Between the opening, a warm breeze enters and moves along my skin, over and over, an ebb and flow, much like the oceans along the coast; the sound of water crashing upon water and washing over sand, dragging remnants of the beach with it.
The sensation of excitement for the coming days and the joy felt for the beauty of the present bloom within me, swelling slowly. I embrace the feeling. Inhale the smells of cut grass, charcoal and smoke. It’s a volatile combination, each smell cutting through the other, but I savor it. Each moment of living today is a gift.
Along with the warmer days, May is also Mental Health Awareness Month or “Mental Health Month.” And as someone who, for years, suffered silently through bouts of depression and suicidal thoughts, I think it’s important to be aware of it and to speak about it.
Each individual may have their own coping mechanisms to deal with their anxiety and depression. Some, however, do not or are reluctant to admit that there might be anything afflicting them. Individuals with mental health issues are often seen as damaged, dysfunctional, or lesser. We become untouchables, in a way. So, we hide it from us and deal with it as we can. Sometimes, that isn’t enough. And, sometimes, it slowly decays the person we’re meant to be.
For years I’d been the type of person who will go out of their way to avoid telling another that I’m going through a difficult time. When I had a mental breakdown while attending Salisbury, which culminated to a point where, after having visions of myself hanging from rafters, jumping from buildings, and hearing this terrible screech inside my head, I locked myself in my room and drank myself into a stupor, I never reached out to anyone. I remained quietly afflicted by a heavy, oppressive darkness.
Eventually, I transferred from Salisbury to Towson University, where my mental state slowed in its deterioration. After another move, one which landed me in a shared space with my sister, I continued to hide away in my room, or at bars, avoiding what was growing restless within me. When my waves of depression would peak, I’d remain in bed, drink myself to sleep when insomnia accompanied it, in an effort to sleep while muting the night terrors.
And it’s a roller coaster that repeats itself time and again.
Not just for me, but for others, too. When I’d been weakened by the immense weight of my depression, whittled down by insomnia and night terrors, I cracked. My mouth parted, and I told my mother, in tears, that I was not well. It was the first time I’d admitted this to her, or myself.
There are times when we will find ourselves alone. It will happen, and there is no preventing it. Our thoughts, our insecurities, depression, anxiety, the whole mass of human emotion will be felt, placed upon our shoulders for us alone to carry. During these times, there may seem to be no escape from the affliction.
Yet, there is.
More often than not, when I tried to step away from the bottle as a form a self-prescribed medication, I would write. Poetry, short stories, journal entries, or even just nonsense. The act of writing gave me a placed to put down the weight I carried, even if only temporarily. In my bag, my black notebook stayed.
At times when the world seemed too bleak, too much, or I had thoughts of my own nonexistence, I would write. It became a place to hone my thoughts, sharpen my resolve, be introspective and learn about who I am, why life seems the way it does, and where the light resides. It became a lifeline.
When writing felt like too much of an effort (and at times it will), I turned to reading. But not reading just any book by any author. I was reading literature produced by those who were experiencing the same mental illness as myself. I found solace in the words of Olivia Liang’s The Lonely City, in Darkness Visible, William Styron’s poignant and moving memoir about his struggle with mental illness, in Raymond Carver’s stories, in Mark Strand’s poetry; I found solace in the literature that dealt with mental illness. It allowed me to feel a sense of connectivity and togetherness that, often, goes missing in life.
The reason for sharing is simple: We all must be aware of mental illness.
None are immune to it. Some may be born with mental illness, while others suffer from it later down the road due to the nature of life.
There are ways to cope with it, ways to battle against it. Through reading about others who’ve faced similar circumstances, or writing out the thoughts that barrage your brain. Though using your voice and speaking out about what is afflicting you, and connecting with others through that sound that is uniquely yours.
Know that you are not alone.
And remember, there is always a choice in life. No doors are ahead are permanently sealed.
