I am exhausted by the idea that mental illnesses are uncommon or that you shouldn't talk about them for fear that others will see you differently or not take them seriously. For those that are genuinely annoyed about the bravery of people willing to speak out about something that impacts every aspect of their life and how it changed them, stop reading because I'm about to go full throttle on my anxiety and depression.

I first started seeing a therapist my senior year of high school. Truth be told, I probably should have started going long before I got to the point that it was a necessity. For me, I started seeing my therapist when things had hit their lowest rather than when I started needing help and while it helped immensely, going sooner probably could've saved me a lot of the trouble that I brought onto myself. My problems started small. An inability to focus sometimes, fidgeting more than I already did. Before long however, I began falling asleep in class- something that I had never done in all of my years of schooling before senior year. I picked the skin around every one of my fingers until they were bleeding more days than not. I didn't sleep at night- there was too much to worry about. I took advantage of parties on the weekends with people I should have never been around in the first place. The ability to put myself in situations like a party with strangers and come home safely the next morning gave me this sense of control that no longer existed in my day to day. I sought out boys to give the validating attention that I needed, manipulating men that I never would have been attracted to if they weren't giving me the feeling of being wanted when I no longer wanted myself. I began putting on weight until I not longer recognized the body I lived in and without being willing or able to admit it, I silently accepted that I had a binge-eating disorder.

My mental illness isn't the result of the poor decisions I made, but rather the reason I made them. I understand that someone who is skeptical about mental health would be able to write it off as the other way around and all I can say to that is I hope that they never have to fight my daily fight to learn otherwise. When people say that mental illness is an excuse or fabricated by a lazy person it hurts me. I love life but some days I can't live it and for someone to tell me that I am doing it to myself is so frustrating. I want to be an active participant in my life and I usually am. Yet, sometimes I leave the house an hour late because I have to plan every aspect of the event I am heading to- events that can be as simple as getting a coffee at a drive through now need so much preparation that they usually don't seem worth it and I go back to bed. The promise of trying again tomorrow but when I let my anxiety creep back in for even a minute, it stays for days. Days which turn into me sobbing as I try to find an outfit before settling back into the same thing I always wear.

Seeking therapy was a big part of my reclaiming my happiness. When it comes to the day to day there are several changes that I made which keep me from succumbing to the always looming anxiety. Self-care has become so much more important to me. On days that I feel myself slipping I take a long hot bath or shower. It's not the hot water or absence of other thoughts that makes me feel better, it's the investment in myself that makes me feel like a whole person. I read books and workout and hug my mom and work on my Odyssey articles.

My point here is that my mental illness isn't the deal breaker on living my life anymore. It makes me value my friends more and cut out people that don't value me. I can't pretend that my mental illness is some great blessing, but it isn't the end of my life.