I was probably about 15 when I tried to put a label on what I was feeling. I was about 15 the first time I went to any adults in my life to talk out how disconnected I tend to feel. It didn't make much sense to me the number of weeks I would spend holed up in my room not wanting to shower, not really eating much other than oatmeal and just surviving. What made even less sense to me is that the very next week I could be out with my friends laughing and having a good time and even a little wild. I can't begin to count the number of times I would come home from a resonably okay day at school and cry at the slightest bump in my road (i.e. chores, homework, an argument with one of my thousand siblings or parents or authority figures.)
Of course I tried to speak to my parents about it, most of the time directly following an outburst, because that's when I felt I needed the help the most. I'm afraid, though, that I was met with the kind of reaction most kids are met with when they approach their family with this type of concern.
"You're a teenager."
"You're putting a lot of pressure on yourself."
"You're leading a very advanced life."
"You don't do the same things other girls do to take the load off, of course, it's going to build up."
"I've been there, I was a teenager once, too."
This is why that hurt me.
My parents had a lot on their plate already what with five children to take care of, they didn't have the kind of time or resources to look further into invisible illnesses, and I can recognize that now. What I recognized then, though, is that I was going through what I thought was a serious problem, and my parents seemed to shrug it off as if it were nothing.
I know that I was/am a teenager, and I know that my parents once were teenagers, too. I also know that being a teenager in 2010s means something very different from what being a teenager meant in the 80s and 90s. Being blasted every minute of the day with timelines and newsfeeds of our friends and people we look up to having fun and accomplishing things and winning at life, while motivating us to act in a similar nature, doesn't stress the need for time to take care of ourselves. These timelines don't show us how to react to bad moods and how to combat mental illnesses.
I'm not crazy.
I'm scared. Sirens and action movies in theaters and loud noises in general scare me. Being forced to meet new people without having control over the terms and conditions of the initial meeting (icebreakers and mandated mixers) scare me. Crowded places with a lot of people scare me. Blocked entryways. You name it. If I don't have a clear path between where I stand and where I want to be — figuratively and literally — I freeze up in fear. It took having to escape a family thanksgiving and a family Christmas dinner at my Grandmother's to get me to seek professional help.
I'm anxious.
Being an athlete for all of my adolescent life meant that I was in the doctor's office every now and again for anything you could possibly think of. One of my random visits about some ailment or malady I brought up the way I was feeling with my doctor. She recognized my particular condition as an anxiety disorder, which was fueled by depression, which was fueled by anxiety. She gave me something first for panic attacks and then after a few more visits she prescribed me a daily medication.
There's power in seeking help.
I've never felt stronger than the first time I went to pick up my mental health prescription. I've never felt more together than I have when I took those first few steps toward mental health and taking care of myself.
So the moral of this story is that it's important to ask for help when you know that what you're feeling isn't right, or normal, or isn't you.
