Self Loathing & Camomile Tea

Stuck in a Stigma

One doesn't have to face a mental illness to know there are stigmas attached to them. It doesn't matter which of the endless variations of conditions you may be suffering from, there is a generalized blanket of disgrace and shame attached to any. It is less now, mind you, which is a good thing. But that doesn't erase the fact that many in society would prefer to pretend that such issues do not even exist, leaving those on the battle lines fearing to admit their 'fault'.

When you tell someone you have a mental illness, the immediate reaction is usually thoughts of white straight jackets, mental asylums and something out of a 1970's film. One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest, of a battle between sane and insane, of the extreme to the questionable, all flicker through people's minds.

Granted, that is the stigma immediately attached. As I mentioned before, until recent years, such illnesses were silenced. You didn't admit to them, you didn't talk about them. It didn't matter if it was depression, anxiety, or schizophrenia, you just didn't speak of it. So, of course, the transition to a more open, communicating, accepting society will be slow moving. With initiatives like #talkingaboutit on Twitter, or BELL Lets Talk, Mental health awareness month, and the myriad of other recently publicly promoted efforts to reduce the stigma and silence of those suffering, it is a battle that is moving, albeit slowly.

Even I can admit I fear these stigmas. When still battling against admitting that I had a problem, I would reject the acceptance of having a mental illness. Immediately, I would push the thought away harshly, telling myself that I just needed to be stronger. That I needed to 'get my shit together'. That it would change, it would stop. Eventually.

I didn't want to admit I suffered from anxiety. I am sure it was obvious to anyone who was around me for more than a few minutes when I was at my worst; those few months between my first real breakdown and actually admitting I needed help. I was jittery, nervous, emotional and distracted. I probably looked like a strung out squirrel, always glancing around, anticipating a fall out. But no matter the gentle suggestions and advice from my family and friends, I refused to accept it. I would tell them I was fine, and that I was just having a hard time. It would pass.

I didn't want to admit I suffered from depression. I didn't have the same apprehension about depression as I did anxiety, because to me, depression was just 'sad'. And I was sad. I couldn't always tell you why I felt as I did, or why something as simple as a broke cup would make me cry. I felt this way a lot, usually following a rather intense panic attack. Or, one of the worst, being when I first admitted I needed help, and took a leave from my job.

Even those of us who face these issues are afraid of the stigma. We don't want to admit that we are 'one of them'. That we can't face our own problems, that we need help. Why am I not strong enough? Why can't I deal with this? Other people make life work, why cant I? All these questions that feel ingrained in us to ask, rather than just admitting 'sometimes, you just need a little help'.

There are several stigmas attached with my particular issues, but I am just going to go over the few that I thought myself. As I mentioned, this is my life. All these events, thoughts, feelings are real, and I experienced them. I am not going to talk about things that I have not felt first hand, because not everyone feels the same about every issue. I can only speak from experience; my own experience.

The first issue I was afraid of was the obvious one. That by admitting I had an anxiety disorder, that I suffered severe and debilitating depression, meant that I was crazy. Crazy is a far reaching word, but when you say it, you think straight jackets and Jack Nicholson. But there are the more mild, gentle versions that I feared admitting my place in. That by saying I faced these issues, I would be subjected to therapy sessions; the black couch, laying staring at the ceiling talking about my messed up childhood and how everything was someone else's fault. The twenty different medications I would have to take just to be able to function at a 'normal' persons level. That people would relate to me differently, look at me different, all because I was 'crazy'.