Having a mental illness is not the same as having a diagnosis.

[miss_invisible]

I've been living with my anxiety/depression cocktail for a long time. If I had to estimate, I'd say, to be conservative, it's been at least eight years. The beginning, as I've said before, is hard to pinpoint. I knew something was wrong, of course– how could I not have? Yet I resisted seeking medical help for years. In my freshman year of college I had some sessions with one of the campus health center's counselors, a masters student. She was kind, and I liked her, but she wasn't a professional. We talked a lot about "managing stress." That same year, I talked to my GP about my attendant physical symptoms– she ran my blood and proclaimed me perfectly healthy.

I was relieved. I knew what was wrong with me, I'm sure we all did, but no one said those words aloud. Diagnosis was scary, diagnosis made it real, diagnosis meant facing up to my own inability to cope (that was how I framed it in my head then, as a personal failure, and it's a thought I have yet to entirely shake), and diagnosis meant dealing with my fears of psych meds. I was, essentially, at the point of seeing a psychiatrist voluntarily or waiting for my inevitable and fast-approaching breaking point to force me to one whether I wanted it or not. Hardly an enviable position, but I had the sense to cut my losses and take control of the matter. It was a little less scary if I could convince myself that this was my choice. Rationally, I knew it was what I needed, but I was still terrified. Anxiety, after all, is based upon fear (a frequent refrain of my therapist).

Now, roughly four months later, I'm diagnosed. I see a therapist weekly; I'm currently taking psych meds numbers three and four and hoping that maybe this time the accursed things will actually work properly. From an objective standpoint, this is all that has changed– but I'm so very conscious of it now. It weighs on my mind, and my medicine is a constant reminder. I don't go a day without thinking about it, without being aware of this thing in my brain that drags me back, makes everything hard, makes me feel weak and exhausted and helpless so often. So far, the treatment hasn't undone that damage. Sometimes I wonder if it really was the right thing; these past months have been difficult for me in an entirely new way, not worse than my depths of illness but different, and I'm not yet equipped to handle it.

All this, of course, is to say nothing of the attendant stigma. Before I was just moody and high-stress. Now I'm mentally ill. Now there is something wrong with me.

It's hard to brush off accusations of being crazy when you need daily psych pills to hope to function.


This was written as part of the First Blog Carnival of Mental Health, hosted by Astrid.

Comments

[mercredigirl]

Thank you for this post.

All this, of course, is to say nothing of the attendant stigma.
I'll probably never get a diagnosis, but that's partly out of worry for the future, when practically every form in this country requires you to state diagnosed mental health conditions. I know many others in the same boat. Still.

[miss_invisible]

Having to disclose mental health conditions isn't necessary here in my experience (actually I think it's illegal, but I'm not 100% sure on that). It sounds terrible, ugh! Surely a violation of privacy, as well as a prime way to engender more ableism.

[mercredigirl]

I don't know what the legislation is specifically, where I am (I'm not USAmerican), but it's on many forms, including government ones, so I assume it's required disclosure. :(

[miss_invisible]

Yeah, I saw on your info you weren't– had to check, since I was like, "wait, what, since when?"

Hm. I wonder if there are any attempts to get whatever laws require disclosing changed?

[miss_invisible]

That's what the delete button is for.

[mercredigirl]

I think DW encourages spam to be reported, though I don't see how that'd be any use with that sort of anon keysmashing.