I have spent hours adding up to days, possibly weeks, considering and reconsidering how exactly to explain this word in a comprehendible way. As a writer, not being able to allocate a precise definition to my experience with it drove me insane. Painting its image is a frightening excursion into dark parts of my mind, throwing me into an unsafe, uncomfortable exposure of myself. Prior to therapy, I tried to avoid any offering of limelight to my emotions. I hated discussing them with others, much preferring to listen or to act. So here’s to vulnerability:
In the morning, it looks like:
In the shower, squeezing eyes shut so tightly I can see little white lights popping. I cover my ears and stand under the exploding showerhead so all I can hear is the pounding of water against my face. My temples are throbbing as a result of the incessant internal monologue behind my forehead. Normal people don’t have thought like this. My own voice shoots out, catching me off guard.
On campus, it looks like:
Emails to professors about class absences. I forgot to refill my prescription and now I’m late to Chapter. A meeting with my scholarship director, begging for an extended deadline. I realize I haven’t washed my sheets in weeks.
Doing errands, it looks like:
Forcing an unnatural chuckle as the lady doing my nails comments on the deep bite marks on the inside of my thumb (I absentmindedly chewed my cuticle raw the night before, forcing me to get acrylics). Internal panic as I wonder if the CVS lady judged me for the amount of Tylenol PM I just bought.
Routines look like:
Watching the sun lighten and listening as the birds wake up, because I went another night unable to sleep. My hands are trembling as I order my third venti Americano of the day at 2:00 P.M. I make plans to hang out with the guy I’ve been seeing, then leave early because he fell asleep, but I can’t take a deep breath without my lungs shuddering. I explained later, “It’s just an off week don’t worry! How was Coachella?”
Commuting looks like:
Pulling over as I drive through the canyon to see the sunset and realize how little I am. It’s brilliant and vivid and my breathing finally slows down for the first time all day
Don’t let these examples fool you into thinking I am weak or unhappy. I have an illness that affects my daily life. It happens to be an illness in my brain, but it deserves just as much consideration as any other bodily illness. I could continue with more glimpses into basic routines that become grueling with anxiety. But I want to focus on what it has taught me. A lot of these lessons I had to learn the hard way, but I can only choose to be grateful. If I don’t see each wound as a growing experience, what hope is there?
I’ve never wanted to write about these issues because I saw only two outcomes.
Outcome 1: People treat you differently because they don’t fully understand what you’ve gone through
Outcome 2: People follow the terrible society norm of bashing anyone who is open about their struggles, claiming you only posted for attention.
But a recent conversation with a friend showed me that it’s more than that. By opening up to others about my struggles I hope to encourage others to feel safe discussing their own issues. Anxiety once left me feeling incredibly isolated. No one seemed to understand fully what was happening in my head. Keeping myself as busy and unattached as possible only masked issues, instead of addressing them.
May is National Mental Health Month and I truly hope this 700 word article can begin to shed some light on this serious, personal topic. The stigma surrounding mental health issues has been gradually changing to more accepting, and the supportive community has expanded across the world. If you or anyone you know is going through difficult times please know you are not alone and so many people are here to care for you.
John 14:27- Peace I leave with you, my peace I give you… Do not let your hearts be troubled or afraid.
