(*warning--some dark jokes in there that might be triggering--suicide, cancer**)
Italics are me mimicking the voices of other people.
Mental illness is a thing that we don’t talk enough about. The stigma is not as bad as, say, twenty years ago, but there are still a lot of people who shy away from any mention of any irregularity, or are well-meaning but simply do not understand what people with mental illness actually go through.
I’ve had an anxiety disorder for at least eight years now… And I’ve been acknowledging it for about four. For me personally, it was less about denial and more about getting over the mental roadblocks that I’d built. The first step to managing my disorder was going to therapy. Great. Cool. As a freshman in college, I was excited to take advantage of free therapy on campus. Therapy sounds great. We love therapy. There was just one problem: I couldn’t make the goddamn phone call to schedule an appointment.
I’d type the number into my phone. Easy. Then I’d close out the phone app and watch eight episodes of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia to remind myself that while I’ve got some problems, at least I’m not as messed up as those fuckers. Then the next day, I’d type in the phone number again, and watch eight more episodes. The next day, I’d type it in, and actually press the call button… And hang up after the first dial tone. And so on, and so forth, for a solid week, until I could actually get to the part where I hear “University Counseling and Psychological Services on Campus, how may I help you?” And then I realize I have to actually talk to them and I say something stupid like, “yes, I need the therapy, please,” and they’re like, “Great, our next available appointment is five weeks from Thursday.”
Five weeks? Five weeks? I’ve never, ever, ever, ever been suicidal, and thank the good Lord, because I could kill myself so many times in five weeks. You know, shooting Saturday, suffocation Sunday, Tylenol Tuesday… Oh wait, I forgot Monday. Electrocution Monday? That doesn’t have a nice ring to it. I’ll get back to you on that.
After the first week or two, I’d run out of normal ways to kill myself and I’d have to get creative with it. I’ll have to parooze deep into the depths of the internet, where I’ll find suggestions like, “Having Your Long Scarf Get Caught in the Wheel of the car you are riding in, thus breaking your neck” or “Being struck by a flying model lawnmower at a New York Jets halftime show.” I mean, what the fuck, right? This is kind of a lot of planning. To do that first one, I’d have to acquire a vehicle or at the very least, get a ride from someone I wouldn’t mind traumatizing for life. For that second one, I’d need Jets tickets and I do not have a season pass! Thinking up so many ways to kill yourself is backbreaking work… Especially when you’ve got to throw yourself out of a seventeen-story building and shatter your spine to actually get the job done.
And then by this point, I’m like, “Maybe I better not kill myself; this seems like too much effort.” And I put on another episode of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. By now, I’m on Season 13. And then I get a call. It’s the therapist. It is a reminder: my appointment is tomorrow. Finally! Yay! But I’m already cured. I’ve already decided not to kill myself. Thanks for nothing, lady.
Then therapy happens, and there are some great therapists out there, but there are also some suggestions I’ve taken that did not work. Cutting out Diet Coke? Did. Not. Work. Nope. Tried that once and it made no difference, so I never will again. Diet Coke is an important part of my lifestyle and I’d rather be miserable with a Diet Coke than miserable without. People keep saying that the stuff is going to kill me and that I have a problem and that it’s going to be an issue, and to them I say… “Weren’t you doing cocaine last week?” And they’re like, “Yeah, but…” and they trail off trying to convince me that cocaine is not as bad as Diet Coke. Yeah, right. I’m going to go buy another twelve pack but you have fun there at your frat party.
Sorry for the Diet Coke infused tangent. Fast forward three years from my first therapy session. I’m working on my problems today with a combination of therapy and the miracle of modern medicine. A Zoloft a day keeps the doctor away. Those apples, they aren’t cutting it anymore, you know? They don’t make them like they used to.
But healing isn’t linear. It isn’t that simple. There are good months and there are bad months. Last spring, my life was freakin’ beautiful and smooth-sailing. Right now, I’m a hot mess. Okay, okay, fine, a solidly average-looking mess. Like, a six. Seven on a good day. Let me have this, people.
One of the things neurotypical people do not realize about anxiety disorders is that people with them, like myself, can experience the symptoms even if there is nothing rational to worry about. So Aunt Sally will go, “Oh, you need to relax, try not to worry so much.” Wow. Thank you, Aunt Sally. From the bottom of my heart. That had never, ever occurred to me before. I’ve been in therapy since 2016 and I’m on two different antidepressants and every member of my immediate family has a comprehensive history with serious mental illness, but you saying “Try not to worry” has fixed all my problems. Each and every single one. Now instead of lying in bed because I’m too nauseous to face the day or I’m dwelling on the nightmares that have plagued me all evening, my body and my spirits are being lifted by adorable little birds like in Cinderella. And maybe if I just stop worrying about things like you said, I won’t feel the rest of my physical symptoms, either. My entire body–no longer hurting like an old lady with arthritis like it has been, never mind the fact that I’m twenty. If I (makes air quotes) “just stop worrying” about things, maybe my hair will stop falling out like I’m a motherfucking chemotherapy patient. Look guys, when things get bad, my hair falls out in clumps. One day I’m going to be walking down the street, bald and beautiful, and some distant acquaintance I haven’t seen since high school will run into me and ask sadly when I was diagnosed with cancer, and I’ll check my calendar and be like, “Oh… About 8 years from now, give or take six months. Haven’t consumed enough Diet Coke yet, but we’ll get there.”
Thank you, everyone, and goodnight.
