Why I'm Not Ashamed to Talk About My Mental Illness Anymore

When I was 18, I moved out of my mother’s house and into my own apartment. It wasn’t much: a small, one-bedroom, off-campus place, the type of place where rent is cheap and the fixtures are cheaper. I decorated my new pad with things from the “dorm aisle” in Target. I had a set of three nesting tables, two beanbag chairs, a blue card table with four folding chairs, a futon, and one flimsy but oh-so-essential white bookcase.

Sure, it was sparse, but it was mine. This place — this entire space — was mine, and mine alone.

I started college two weeks before and had been holed up in a Hampton Inn four miles from campus since that time, so moving in was the most exciting day — and the most exciting moment — of my short adolescent life. But it was also the most terrifying, because in those two weeks I was already spiraling out of control. In the 14 short days prior, I had gone from being an “overachiever” to a “failure.” I was skipping class — opting to stay in bed in a dark, unclean hotel room. I was eating less and sleeping more.

By the time the keys to C16 were in my hand, I was already deep in the throes of my first ever depressive episode (my first depressive episode on my own, that is).

When you are young and teetering on the edge of adulthood, when you are young and getting ready to face the world alone, pretty much everyone warns you about drinking and drugs. They may warn you about school violence, the risks of unprotected sex, and what will happen if you don’t keep your grades up — but no one warned me about the isolation. No one warned me about the panic, the anxiety, the loneliness and the desperation. No one warned me this event — this major, life-changing moment — would also be a huge stressor. No one talked about the fact that this transition can trigger depression, especially if you have previously been diagnosed with the condition.

And it didn’t take me long to fall into a crippling episode. It didn’t take me long to give up. I withdrew from college in my second semester, though I kept it a secret until the end of my freshman year. I started going out less and drinking more. I hid in my boyfriend’s dorm room most of the week. I would stay in his bed with the covers pulled over my eyes and a pillow lying across my face while he went to class and did what 18-year-olds were “supposed” to do. While he did what everyone probably assumed I — a straight-A student — would do. But I couldn’t do it, or anything for that matter.

I would cry when my boyfriend brought up school and asked me what I planned to do. I would cry when he pointed out my lack of employment and when he suggested I should go home.

Everyone thought my life was out of control, and the truth is, it was. But it wasn’t the result of partying or drug abuse or plain ol’ laziness. It was the direct result of my mental illness. Instead of talking about my depression and asking for help, I shut down out of shame, fear, guilt and remorse.

I tried self-medicating, cutting, pills and overpriced, watered-down booze. I tried anything to make the sh*t stop and to get back to some semblance of my former self, but nothing worked. It wasn’t until I went to therapy that things got better. They weren’t great — hell, they were barely OK — but they were better.

Why? I felt better because I broke the silence, because I took one small but oh-so-significant baby step forward.

It’s taken me 16 years to get comfortable saying I have a mental illness, because let’s be real: Even though I know — and knew then — I should not be ashamed of my illness, I still was. I let shame consume me and taunt me. I let the idea of shame haunt me.

I stayed silent because I was scared. I was terrified I was “crazy” and ever more afraid I wasn’t. I was petrified that perhaps I was a failure who just wasn’t cut out to cope with adult things and my new “adult” life.

I stayed silent, because I was sure no one would understand. How could I possibly explain the sadness, the depth and the breadth of my pain? And, conversely, how could I explain the lack thereof — the sheer loss of love and emotion in my life?

And I stayed silent because I thought nobody cared. Admittedly, there are times when I still believe this. Days and weeks and months when I believe this.

But I was wrong.

You see, it can be embarrassing to talk about a mental illness and the invisible monster lurking under your bed or inside your head. It can be difficult to explain the numbness, the emptiness and the feelings of worthlessness. It can be difficult to explain how you feel alone — completely and utterly alone — in a crowd full of people, in a room full of your closest friends and family.

But I’ve found it can be just as difficult not to, because not talking about it means staying ashamed. Staying ashamed means staying isolated. Staying isolated means staying silent. And I believe staying silent means staying sick. Period.

So I’m done allowing my disease to demean me. I’m no longer letting my disease define me.