Sometimes I know just what to say. And sometimes I sit down, staring at a blank white square on my screen and a waiting cursor and just say, “How do I do this?” You can probably guess this is one of the latter times. Let’s start where the story starts.
I’ve always been open about my struggles with mental health, because mental illness is still heavily stigmatized in our society, and I strongly believe that the more open and honest that people are about it, the more that mental illness will be understood, accepted, and properly treated. It baffles me that in 2020 I still encounter people who think “depression” means “feeling a little sad sometimes,” or that it’s a symptom of a bad attitude/not getting out of the house enough/cell phones/pick a reason instead of what it is, a neurochemical imbalance.
It’s also been fairly easy for me to be open about it, because I have largely dealt with my shit. I began dealing with my shit twenty years ago, when I was diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder and mild depression. I took Luvox and started cognitive behavioral therapy for the OCD. Ten years later, thanks to the therapy, I was able to wean off the meds and go drug-free — which was a decision, I really really massively need to stress, is a) not something everyone can do, b) not something everyone should do or should even want to do, and c) was a decision made in tandem and with the approval of medical professionals and with continuing support.
Art has always been my sword and shield against depression. I’ve often joked that I’m prolific because I don’t know what the hell to do with myself if I’m not working. The reality is more that I find fulfillment in storytelling; writing is my purpose in this life, it’s what I’m for, and when I’m immersed in my work, the depression can’t find any cracks to worm its way inside of me.
Usually.
April, things started to get bad. I mean, things started to get bad for everybody. My grocery store still doesn’t have toilet paper in stock. But quarantine and uncertainty took a mental toll that crept up on me. I gradually noticed that it was taking me longer and longer to do less and less. That I couldn’t focus, that I could sit down to answer an email and do absolutely nothing for an hour because getting my hands to move across the keys took a Herculean act of focus and willpower. Not being able to fall asleep at midnight, and waking up at 3AM, became a regular occurrence.
I know my body well enough to understand. This is old me, pre-treatment me, and my brain is sick. But I tried to fight through it because…well, I try to fight through everything. But now it’s June, and it’s crystal clear that the heightened stress I hoped would be a fleeting thing two months ago isn’t going to go away any time soon. Even so, I kept pushing against the idea of reaching out for help. Why? Pride, honestly. I worked so hard, in therapy, to wean myself off medication. It was a big achievement and it felt like saying “Hey, I’m not functioning anymore, my neurotransmitters are not neurotransmitting and I need a hand here” was somehow a betrayal of that.
In the immortal words of Marsellus Wallace, “Fuck pride. Pride only hurts, it never helps.” So today I pushed past that slight sting and picked up the phone, and made a doctor’s appointment. I need outside help — not just so I can live a better life, but so I can create the best art I can, and deliver the best books I can — and I’m going to get it.
Why am I writing this? Simple, and it goes back to what I said at the top. The stigma around mental health needs to be shattered, and while my platform is a small one, when I get the chance to use it for something positive, I’d be negligent not to. Also, I suspect at least one of my readers might be in the same boat: you might be feeling like you’re underwater and need a life preserver, but you haven’t made the call. So I’m hoping that by telling you that I’m reaching out, maybe you will too.
You’re worth it.