An Ocean in My Mind

I have struggled with my mental health for as long as I can remember; one of my earliest memories is of my mom reading me a children’s book about dealing with anxiety. I have no idea what it’s like to live without the constant worries, constant pressure in my mind. But the fact of the matter is that I wasn’t ashamed of my anxiety until I started school, started interacting with a larger number of people. I know now that my mental illness isn’t actually a sin, but it certainly feels like it at times. I see the way my family has had to deal with it, the way people view me differently when they learn. 

My family is open about their struggles with mental health. I’ve known for a long time that my mom and my grandfather deal with anxiety as well; it’s always been normalized among our small little circle. In school, though, I quickly realized that not everyone thought like I did. They didn’t spend days obsessing over an upcoming test or a single point off of an assignment, they didn’t break down over a teacher’s correction. Why did it matter so much to me? It didn’t make any sense.

This idea occupied my mind for an incredibly long time- years rather than months. No one said anything to me, but I knew that my mom emailed my teachers and my school’s guidance counselor. All of the adults in my life were aware of my constant anxiety, and instead of being grateful for my support system, all I felt was guilt. Guilt over the fact that everyone was going out of their way to make sure I was okay, that I was treated differently from the other kids in my grade.

In fifth grade, I had my first panic attack. My teacher had forgotten to mention that we had a giant standardized test that morning, and a million different thoughts entered my mind all at once- none of them positive. I felt like I was going to vomit or pass out, and I had the worst headache I’ve ever gotten. My teacher sent me to the nurse, but when my mom came to pick me up she took one look and knew. We had a long conversation about my mental health that night, but the idea occupying my mind had nothing to do with my well-being. My mom had taken time out of her day to come get me, just to find out that nothing was actually wrong with me- or at least that’s what my fifth-grade self thought. The next day at school, everyone stared at me. They asked me what had happened, and I didn’t know how to answer. So I didn’t.

A few weeks later, I went to my first appointment with my therapist. It changed my life. Up until the moment I walked into that room, though, I obsessed over the idea that therapy made me weak. No one had said anything to me about it, but the word still had negative connotations in my mind- society had told me that therapy was something to be ashamed of, to be hidden away from the world, and I believed it. It’s been almost six years since that first meeting, and those thoughts have long been gone from my mind. It’s still challenging at times, though. One of my cousins has recently started considering therapy and shared the idea with me, unaware of my experiences. She expressed her doubts, her feelings that seeing a therapist was equivalent to giving up. When I shared my own story, this was quickly followed by a hasty statement of, “Oh, I didn’t mean that about anyone else, just myself! I’m not trying to shame you at all!” I understand the stigma- I’ve had to overcome it myself- but that still hurt.

Anxiety has been a constant in my life for almost seventeen years. I’ve fought to develop coping mechanisms and an acceptance of myself and my mental illness. It’s taken an extremely long time, and I still struggle with my guilt and shame at times, but I am a stronger person because of these experiences. I know my mind better than ever before, and feel more confident and in-control of my emotions. I would not have gotten to this point without the challenges of years past. 

I’ve always thought of my anxiety as an ocean- I think visualizing it as a physical thing helps me recognize that I’m a person outside of my mental illness, I have interests and a personality. As much as anxiety has defined the challenges I’ve gone through, it’s not the whole picture. Coping with my mental health is like swimming; sometimes the water is rough and I have to fight just to stay afloat. Even when the water is calm, though, I still have to put in the effort, still have to keep my head above water. This is a challenge I’ll have to face my entire life, and I accepted that a long time ago; but that doesn’t make it any easier.