World Mental Health Day

Monday the 10th of October was world mental health day. In the spirit of the day it's time that I confess I have a mental illness.

Most of my life I've suffered from anxiety and depression and I have a mild case of OCD that mostly presents itself in an obsessions with routine. None of the three are particularly debilitating in that I can function with the normals even mid depression or anxiety episode, and my OCD doesn't really present in a way that would impact my work.

Nonetheless, all three conditions do effect me greatly. Mostly in ways that hurt me, and the people I love the most.

When mid episode, particularly depression, I take my lack of...sense of self...out on the people closest to me. I react in ways that could only be described as ridiculous to the simplest of discussions. A mildly different tone in a reply and I'll scream for awhile and then end up sobbing til I vomit on the bathroom floor. The bathroom floor being the hard cold refuge that I seek during episodes, as I've done my whole life. I don't understand the comfort of cold bathroom tiles, but that's the only place that makes sense when I'm really losing my shit.

It's something that, right now, I understand and can see objectively. I understand when outside the moment, and even sometimes when I'm in the moment, that I'm unstable. I know that I need to pull myself back and be reasonable, but I can't find the coherent part of my mind and bring it to the forefront. It is a heartbreakingly painful place to hear the concern, hurt, and uncertainty in the voice of the love of your life as he tries to find the right words to make you come back from the bad place and start making sense again.

And I don't have any advice for him when I'm in a good mental place to help him find his way through the minefield of my mental illness.

I don't even understand my mental illness, for all that I've had it my whole life.

I recently found the strength to admit I need help, thanks to a podcast I listen to called Sex and Other Human Activities (many thanks to Sara Benincasa and Marcus Parks) where they talk quite regularly about their struggles with mental health and medication and such topics. It was, after listening for a couple of episodes, that I realised that many of my day to day experiences were making me so anxious I couldn't sleep at night. Simple things like reading my email would make me cry, and sometimes I'd sit in my car at lunch afraid to go back to work. I finally did the smart thing, after a month of total exhaustion and go medicated for anxiety.

It was a tough decision for me because I have a family history, not only of mental illness, but of serious addiction. My sister is addicted to both valium and codeine, and it's done irreparable damage to her kidneys, not to mention her relationships with her family and friends. My father also had an addictive personality, which made the idea of taking anything very confronting for me. Despite all that, I talked to my doctor about it, and she found me a very mild anxiety pill that's primary purpose was a sleeping pill.

And it's helped me. I sleep at night. And that alone helps me get through a lot of the things I couldn't do before. But I still struggle. I'm still having days where nothing makes sense. I'm still overly emotional to the point that I sobbed like a child in my managers office last week because I couldn't cope with my work.

And I hate it. I hate the lack of clarity in my mind. I hate the emotions I'm feeling around my own confidence and self worth, which are both far lower than they've been in years. I can't look at myself in the mirror because I'm struggling so hard with my anxiety that I can't see my own value.

It's been very confronting for me to be this off kilter.

But I'm coping. I've become a gym junkie, after a fashion, simply because it's the only time I can get out of my head. Sweating, for whatever reason, allows me to stop thinking and let my day go. I suppose the added bonus to that is that I'm far fitter now as well. Two thumbs up for endorphins.

And I've come to the realisation that I probably need to get myself to some sort of therapy, because I know I'm not coping. And that's not a failure. That was the hardest bit, realising that asking for help is not a failure. I am not a failure simply because I can't do this on my own.

The other thing I've realised is that just because I'm unhappy with where I am mentally, doesn't mean I need to take that out on other people. Sometimes I can't help it, but I can't learn to try and control it, because I don't need to drag other people down here with me. That doesn't, however, mean I push away everyone I love simply because I've been ashamed of feeling this bad.

Mental illness is nothing to be ashamed of, and it's about time I really started to learn that.