My Mental Health Struggles

It’s taken me months to write this post. I’ve gone back and forth, writing, editing, scrapping the whole thing, rewriting the whole thing, and spending my time worrying about what people would think after reading this.

I’ll cut to it… I’ve struggled with mental illnesses for as long as I can remember. Generalized Anxiety, Social Anxiety, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and Major Depressive Disorder. **Sidenote: Wow, this is the most nerve-wracking sentence I’ve ever written**

If you read that, and are wondering why I’ve never talked about it before either on the blog or in person, I’ll tell you now. It’s not something that’s easy to talk about, no matter how old you get and how long you’ve been dealing with mental illnesses. It’s a challenge to talk about something thats difficult to describe, and very difficult for people to understand unless they’ve dealt with it first-hand. Often to the point where I choose not to talk about it at all. So how exactly does one end up with mental illnesses? Some say genetics and chemicals in the brain, but a lot of it is based on your environment–like people, places, words, actions, etc.

For me, it’s partially genetic, but a majority of my mental illnesses come from my environment. As a child, I had a great life at home. My family was always supportive and loving. I had a great time playing with my dolls, reading books, and watching cartoons. But my life in school, was a completely different story. I didn’t exactly fit in from the get-go. I was brown skinned in a school of majority caucasians. I was also a very concentrated individual when it came to art, reading, and writing. I could spend hours working on a piece of art. I could write short stories that felt real. I could read chapter books by age 5. I could use my imagination to play with my imaginary friends. I had a main imaginary friend to play with, and then a group of others that I would sometimes play with too. Looking back on things, there’s probably a reason my imaginary friends stuck around for a few years. At school, I barely made friends.

If you’ve ever heard someone ask a kid “why is your skin (insert colour here)?”, you’ll know that as a kid, you don’t have an answer other than, “it just is”. But in my school, being brown skinned, made me a bit of an outcast. Pair that with my focus on art, reading, writing, and perfecting every fine detail, kids weren’t exactly friendly. I didnt have the same skin colour. In fact, I didnt look the same as anyone. I had thick bushy eyebrows, an underbite, big eyes, and my clothes tended to be hand-me-downs from my sister, who was a late 80’s baby. I didn’t look the same, my interests weren’t the same, and my mannerisms weren’t the same as other kids’ either.

I was “weird”. And kids took advantage of my differences. To the point that I gained myself a bully or two. I’ll never forget those girls, and they did a lot of damage to my self-esteem. Damage, that Im still working through 15+ years later. And whenever I hear their names, a lot of old, angry feelings come rushing back.

My parents and I didn’t realize it, but as a child, I did show a lot of signs of anxiety. I came home many days with headaches or stomach aches that I couldn’t explain. Or I’d be nervous to go to birthday parties (well, those that the entire class was invited to). I’d be nervous to wear certain clothes because I didn’t want to be made fun of for matching every detail. I’d be nervous to give presentations. I’d be nervous to make a bully angry for simply having a different opinion. Despite the nerves, I remained somewhat outgoing. I always wanted to be an actress, so I thought I’d try to be the lead in class plays (never successfully). I even joined sports teams because it was something new to do.

No matter what, I was still pushed off to the side, or I was picked on, verbally harassed and often left out.

And it didn’t stop in school. In fact, girls would call me at home just to make fun of me, or make me feel uncomfortable about how I was doing academically  in school–which was really none of their business. I was desperate to fit in. And so I entertained the phonecalls, until it made me scared to answer the phone.

To the point that I copied everything my #1 bully used to do. If she was wearing a certain hat, I made sure to buy it. If she was reading a book, I would read the same.  It was some twisted “friendship”, which I let her rule. She decided everything. She tore me to shreds if she felt like it. She ignored me if she felt like it. She turned all the other girls against me if she felt like it. She even tried to get me to bully other people, so she didn’t have to (which wasn’t very successful).

My mom used to tell me, “Why are you hanging out with a girl who will bully you? Walk away!”. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. The bully would just be right there, waiting for my next “mistake”. The worst part is, teachers and the principal did nothing to address the situation no matter how many times my mom came in to complain. She was an angel to them, but she was actually a wolf in sheep clothing.

Being her minion was a rollercoaster ride, without any indication of what would happen next. It made me sick for years.

From Grade 1 to Grade 8, I did not enjoy school for the most part. I liked aspects of it, but honestly, I would have preferred to stay at home to learn. I managed to make a few friends, but overall, people weren’t kind, and a lot of my memories are negative ones.

High school was a bit of a change. I ended up with breathing room, and a chance to escape my bully. But my new problem was making friends. I didn’t really know how to make friends. I was very used to being dictated. So I was an awkward little “niner”, who talked to anyone I sat near in classes. I ended up with a few friends (some of which I still have), but I really was just trying my best to seem normal. And thankfully, my grade school bully wasn’t in any of my classes! I even managed to make a group of friends who I’d hang out with at our lockers.

As I was midway through Grade 10, I just remember starting to feel sick all the time. I’d wake up with stomach aches. Midday, I’d have a headache. I remember being in a class, where I started to lose all concentration on the subject, and all I could think about, was what other people were thinking about me. To the point where it made me feel so uncomfortable to be in a classroom. I recall that the class was first thing in the morning, and required a lot of participation. The teacher would call on random students, and expect answers.

I was a very studious teenager. I was an overachiever, and so the teacher liked to pick on me to answer, and then debate my point. The problem was, because I was so focused on what everyone else thought of me, I dreaded having to talk. I started to worry about fidgeting around in class. I worried about people noticing my fidgetiness with my hands. I was worried people would notice my legs shaking. I was worried about making eye contact, so I was often moving my head and changing my gaze every few seconds.

As the term progressed, my worries got worse. I couldnt even make it through “O Canada”, without feeling nervous. It got overwhelming. I thought I’d pass out or pee my pants on a daily basis. Every day, I asked to leave for the bathroom. And my teacher said yes until my bathroom trips became 15min. excursions, and more than once a class.

My teacher got annoyed, but didnt make an effort to see if there was anything wrong.

Then my worries got to the point where I would set foot into a hallway in school, and immediately want to leave. As I made it into class one last time, I remember feeling my heart race fast. I was sweating profusely. The world went numb. Accompanied by another student (who was very nice to me, thankfully), I was taken to the office and I had to call my mom to get me to take me to get my heart tested.

Everyone thought I was having a heart attack.

So my mom and I went to a clinic, where the nurse ran an EKG test on my heart. At this point, I was crying, not knowing what was going on. Then the nurse said, “No heart attack! But I think you’ve had a panic attack!”.

Panic attack? What? I dont know what that means!?!

The nurse had to explain that it was my body’s reaction to an anxiety inducing event. The sad part is, I didn’t even know what “anxiety” really was until that day.

All I knew, is that I had these feelings which made me feel very sick and very out of body, all the time.

After that, my parents kept me home from school. They weren’t okay with me leaving classes every few minutes, and they didnt want to pick me up every time I wasn’t feeling well, which, by that time, was quite often. I don’t blame them. After all, it’s a lot of added stress in the day–not knowing if your child will make it through the school day without calling home. I should probably note, I didn’t return to school that year, although I did manage to finish all my classes and coursework while I was away, so I did end up finishing the year.
But panic attacks…That was new. So my dad took a very moody teenage Vanessa to the family doctor.

I can still remember that car ride. I slouched down in my seat, and really hoped that the world didn’t know that I had something wrong with me.

At the doctor’s, I was diagnosed General Anxiety Disorder , Social Anxiety Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and she also had a feeling that I was struggling with Major Depressive Disorder. After a few months of trying a daily low dose of medication to help the anxiety, I had an appointment with the adolescent psychologist, who confirmed every diagnosis. I can remember the day I was diagnosed pretty clearly…

I was so angry at the world, and ashamed of myself. I didn’t ask for a bunch of mental illnesses. I was so upset and embarrassed that I couldn’t be “normal” like every other person who could go to school and make it through the day. I didn’t know why I felt so unenthusiastic about things I used to love. I don’t know why I wanted to be by myself all the time. I was scared that everyone would find out that I had things wrong in my brain. I was scared to tell even my closest friends that I had problems. I was so scared to be alive because I didn’t know how I would make it through. 

As I mentioned, I didn’t go back to school for that year. It wasn’t until the fall of Grade 11, that I returned. Within the gap of time, I was going to therapy on a regular basis. I was upped to the maximum dose of my medication to help balance the chemicals in my brain. I was also taking medication to help me with my insomnia, which honestly, didn’t go away for a couple of years, and sometimes still happens in cycles.  It was in that time that I had to address a slew of issues. As you can guess, many of the issues stemmed from my time in grade school, but there was also a few things in high school.

It was during that time that I realized just how worthless I felt, and how much of my mindset and self-esteem would have to be rebuilt. 

I dreaded going back to school in the fall. Although I did return, the transition wasn’t easy. Depression and anxiety take a lot of energy to deal with. I tried to keep a low profile, but of course, there were rumours about why I was gone for the previous part of the year. Some people guessed pregnancy, some people thought I moved away. But no one, guessed it was related to mental illness. Actually, mental illnesses were barely addressed in high school. Even the staff members that were helping me to readjust, had little to no experience in helping teenagers with mental illnesses. Thankfully, a guidance councillor and a couple of teachers, took the time to talk to me and figure out how they could help.

I’d like to say the rest of high school was okay, but it was always an uphill battle. I never felt fully comfortable even after I had settled back into the routine. I struggled more and more with the social side of things. Again, I did have my little group of friends, but I never felt as though I was present when I was with them. My head was always off in another space, thinking about what other people thought of me, and if I was being judged.

It got to the point where I felt so isolated and alone and I truly I didn’t want to be alive. 

Closer to the end of high school, I hit rock bottom. Every day was overwhelming. Every day I wanted to be dead so I wouldn’t have to deal with people at school. Even though I was still going to therapy, and I was still taking medication, I had hit a low.  And this time, the low sent me to a psychiatric unit to be monitored.

I don’t want to go into detail about the unit, but I will say that my sister played a very big role in making sure I was getting the help I needed, especially when she knew I was serious about not wanting to live. I was admitted into the unit, and was given extra therapy amongst other things. After a few days, I was discharged, with a commitment to finishing off my school year and graduating. Among my qualities, diligence and determination (which I was awarded for back in Grade school), rank pretty highly, and I knew that I didn’t want to be stuck in a unit while I could be finishing high school. This is ironic, because at one point, I told my parents that I wanted to drop out completely because I couldn’t face it.

That summer, I had to work very hard on myself. I was going to therapy–albeit, a new therapist because I was turning 18 that year and the adolescent psychologist recommended I get a new one. I was still taking medication. But this time, I felt as though I had a fresh start. I was done high school, and I had actually sent through my University acceptance. I didn’t actually want to go to University, but it was something that my parents really wanted me to do. They told me try it out, and if I couldn’t handle it, then I could leave it. Thankfully, my sister had applied to Universities for me earlier in the school year. At the time, I was so angry at her, but looking back on it now, I’m glad she did it for me despite how much I screamed at her.

And so, in the Fall, I started my new adventure in University. It was a terrifying thing to try. And I’m still not sure how I stuck to it. I think it’s probably my determination to finish things that kept me going. Although many days in University were filled with anxiety, depression, insomnia, crying, screaming, and a lot of self-doubt, there were some days where I was proud of everything I had accomplished since being diagnosed.

It takes a lot to deal with mental illness on a daily basis. Unlike other illnesses, you can’t take a pill, or have a surgery, and expect it to go away. It’s a thing you constantly need to work on from both a medical standpoint and an emotional standpoint. The sad part is, many people are very ignorant and rude when it comes to mental illnesses. I’ve even had family members (who at the time, didn’t know about my mental illnesses) make fun of other people who had mental illnesses, or didn’t try to understand their circumstances. But I’ve learned that talking about it to people whom you can trust, like friends, family, doctors, therapists, etc. can truly help. Mental illnesses aren’t something you need to go through by yourself, and having a support team (as I like to call it) will help you go through the dark times when you can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. I’ve been in that position many times, and it helps to have people there to support you and pick you up when you can’t pick yourself up. My days are still up and down. I have highs and lows. But you have to be able to talk about it, or be able to talk yourself through it–which is much easier said than done.

I hope that my post has opened up the conversation about mental illnesses for anyone reading. I truly hope that you can take a moment to listen to anyone who might need someone to be there for them, or even read up about mental illnesses so you’re better informed. And with this year’s #BellLetsTalk day, I really do want to help end the stigma, and I hope that by opening up and sharing my experience, it might help.

I know that many people will judge. I know that this will change some people’s opinion of me. But it doesn’t do any good to keep silent when I know that somewhere out there, a person may need to read this to know that you CAN have a mental illness, and you CAN learn to live with it.

If you’ve read this and would like me to continue a mental health series or a wellness series, please let me know below in the comments. I’ve probably skipped some details along the way, but I would love to help readers know how to approach mental illnesses. Perhaps an ongoing series each month! Let me know!

Thanks for reading

Vanessa