Upon entering the stark-white halls that lead to my ward at the institution, I couldn't help but become overwhelmed by the people I saw. Before I ever considered pursuing psychology, mentally ill was not a phrase that sat well with me. These patients lay sodden in their rooms, quaint living quarters that served as nice in-between homes, praying for their day of freedom.
Except most of them would never leave that room.
I counted the times that I got in my car and drove home after a long day and would remind myself how lucky I am. Lucky to have the capability to live on my own. Lucky to drive a nice car, have a social life, and leave that place that lives on long after I'm gone. Lucky to not be mentally ill.
I remember assisting those that could not speak. I remember a woman flipping the table in the break room because she was denied soda. I remember realizing that the mentally ill are not viewed as people. It was rare for someone to strike a conversation with them or ask how their day was. In training, we were taught that they simply cannot 'comprehend' sarcasm. Being so afraid to cause a disturbance, I never spoke at all to those I watched over. The institute became another reality to me; a world that constantly wreaked of cleaners and creaked in tune with the sigh of its guests. The dreams I had of enriching their lives turned to heartache as they spent their nights alone.
I thought, This is just how it is. People that are ill don't have the skills to live on their own.
This was until May of 2015, when I was diagnosed with General Anxiety Disorder. For years, I struggled with insomnia, tension headaches, anxiety attacks, fogginess, and almost gave up hope entirely because getting into a car made my chest tighten.
And I'm still here.
The misconception lies within the information. Everything I listed above are things that millions of people experience every day. I used to hide my symptoms away, afraid to even tell my boyfriend what really went on in my head. The world felt like a bitter place when I told myself I was alone.
As my final report for a class last semester, I drew a picture of anxiety. How it makes me feel when an attack comes on. I sputtered out the words through anxiety-ridden tears as i felt the bricks falling and the wall around me sank to pieces. In the back, I saw people crying. They talked to me for hours, all like-minded peers, and I couldn't help but smile when I realized how strong the mentally ill really are.
