Mental health. There’s a stigma around those two words. When you tell someone you suffer from a psychiatric condition their first words typically aren’t, “Are you okay? Do you need anything?” It’s probably an internal judgement. No one seems to pass those judgments about someone with a broken arm. They’re all so quick to sign the cast and be by their side. I’ve seen people romanticize a disease that’s taken lives of millions of people. I have watched people diagnose themselves with a condition because their sadness lasts a week. I’ve watched myself spiral out of control and throw my education out the window. I believe it’s time we start taking mental health as seriously as physical health.

I’ve dealt with this stigma for a decade. I was ten years old when I had my first label thrown on me. “Manic depression. Mood disorder: N.O.S.” A child doesn’t know what this means. I remember waking up and taking medicine became part of my morning routine. My dad had the pills laid out on the counter right next to my breakfast. The pills put me through hell. My weight fluctuated. I suffered from the long list of side effects. Every medication put me through the ringer. It seemed like once one started working another medication in the concoction decided they didn’t want to work anymore. It was frustrating. I wasn’t able to regulate my emotions. I didn’t know how to express that one of the six medications made me feel like a zombie. Trying to identify which medication was causing what was like finding a needle in a hay stack.

Now that I’m older I’ve chosen not to medicate myself. There are certainly days where I wish I was on something. Then I find myself reminded of all the negative reactions I had. Personally I believe my body has suffered due to the pharmacy I was on for five years. The constant changes in dosages and the never ending adjustments probably had my body in a tizzy. I’m not against medicating. I know that it helps for some people. If I could find something that worked I would gladly accept it.

It’s a never ending battle. There are days when I don’t want to leave my room. I’ve gone weeks without leaving the house because of my depression. The phone rings and it’s an unfamiliar number- my anxiety spikes. If someone leaves a voicemail I don’t ever listen to it. It causes me a great deal of anxiety. Ordering from Dunkin Donuts can stir up my anxiety. There are days when things are a lot worse than others. That’s life. Over the years I’ve learned to cope with the anxiety, the frustration, the sadness. It takes time. I can’t snap my fingers and make this pain go away.

People are quick to self diagnose. You’ve been sad for a week because the cute boy you hung out with once didn’t text you back, oh looks like you’re clinically depressed. You’re worried about a big exam. I guess you’re suffering from anxiety! I wish my anxiety turned off an on like these people’s. The smallest task can muster up so much anxiety that it cripples me. I’m not here to play my mental illness is worse than yours, but quit diagnosing yourself.

I remember this day like it was yesterday. It was an October morning of my senior year. I hadn’t been in school for a few days. My depression was making it difficult for my to leave my bedroom. The world was a scary place. My mind was scarier. My mom offered to take me to school and I bursted into tears. I couldn’t bring myself to shower, put on clean clothes and step out into the real world. My room was a safe place. No one was going to trigger my anxiety or make me feel worse about myself. I think I spent maybe fifteen full days at school between the months of September and December. My school didn’t want me to transfer to night school. They told me I didn’t belong there. Nothing was working. My mom attended meeting after meeting. She was my biggest advocate at that time. The district didn’t take her input into consideration. I was tricked into attending an alternative program. There was no room for my regard because I was only a student. I was so persistent. It was going to be impossible for me to graduate if they didn’t accept that I needed a setting that fit my needs. These professionals didn’t seem to understand that my anxiety was keeping me up until five in the morning. They didn’t understand my depression made it impossible for me to get dressed and get out the door. There needed to be a change. My entire senior year was wasted. I didn’t get to go to prom. I didn’t do the senior lock in. I didn’t even get to walk at graduation. However, I did the impossible. I graduated. When I held that diploma in my hand the tears poured from my eyes. I might’ve gone to night school but at least I proved everyone wrong. I took the less traditional route but I still made it.

My heart goes out to everyone who is suffering from a mental illness. To those who have lost their lives, you fought one hell of a battle. It’s time to make a change. Take care of yourself. Make sure you’re taking your medicine. Call and make a therapy appointment. Reach out to a friend who might be suffering. It’s time to end the stigma.