Mental Health Awareness

Mental Health Awareness

A few years ago, perhaps 3 or 4, I was invited to a small backyard party. The host had a fire pit in his backyard that he was going to fire up. I brought graham crackers, marshmallows and chocolate. A few of my friends were also invited to this party and one of them burned several marshmallows for me over the fire pit as we all sat around it drinking, eating smores and chatting. One of the host’s friends, whom I had just met, was sitting to my right about 4 or 5 feet away. He asked me if I was afraid of fire and before I could answer, he interjected that he wasn’t trying to make me feel bad and started sharing about how he had been house-bound for 2 years due to severe anxiety. He had met the host through video games and had slowly been coaxed out of the house and was now sitting at this party having this conversation with me. He had sought help and was placed on some medications that were helping him. He now works for Google.

This interaction served to be one of the most important interactions of my life. I had already been diagnosed with depression years prior. I had learned to live with this. I had been in and out of counseling and on and off medications, but I did not want this to be my life sentence. I balked at the very notion that I would be on medication for the rest of my life for depression. I still do not take medication for my depression. I protested even more so when a doctor suggested that I had anxiety. Why? I don’t know. In retrospect it seems so silly and stupidly obvious and it was downright transparent to this party guest who had just met me a few hours before.

My father, whom I have talked about in previous blog entries (this one and my other blog “When Parents Grow Old and Get Crazy”) used to shame my mother and I for our mental illness. He was adamant about it being kept secret from everyone else, except that my mom’s on and off bouts with schizophrenia were a little hard to keep secret. My depression is a lot easier to keep under wraps. Anxiety for that matter is easy to keep under wraps and for years, not only was I successful at doing this, so was my father. He now has deeper mental issues than mere Post Traumatic Stress Disorder; issues so blatantly transparent that keeping it a secret is absolutely impossible. My mother died from Alzheimer’s at the age of 74.

People notice when your friend is burning your marshmallows for you instead of you doing it yourself. They notice when you avoid freeways at all costs. They smell your fear of clowns and plaster images of them all over Facebook for shits and giggles. The point is, you can keep these issues to yourself to some extent, but to some extent, they still remain visible. Trying to bottle them all up and pretend they don’t exist doesn’t help anyone. Others don’t understand you and can’t learn to help you and you just end up speeding your way toward the grave that much faster. It isn’t worth it. You deserve better and so do your loved ones.

I sought help after this interaction with this party guest. I have been seeing a therapist for a few years now and have a prescription for Xanax. Sometimes I see my therapist 2 or 3 times per month, other times only once a month. I take the Xanax as needed. I also practice deep breathing, meditation, walking and music therapy. I burn my own marshmallows. I still haven’t seen It, but someday I will and at the end of this month, I am going to Knott’s Scary Farm for the first time ever.

Don’t be ashamed of your mental illness; own it. It’s not going away, so learn to live with it as comfortably as possible. Communicate with your friends and family. Let them know what they can do to help you. Seek counseling and/or medication if needed. Do what you need to do. You and your loved ones deserve the best possible version of you available.