I’ve never exactly been shy about the condition of my mental health. In fact, I’m probably so vocal to the point where people have stopped listening; the shock factor that drives people to extend their sympathy is gone. Although the shock factor has been erased through years of therapy and medication and social media posts, the intense personal scrutinization of my current mental state has never ceased.
In November of 2016, I was professionally diagnosed with severe chronic depression and moderate chronic anxiety. Although I’d always felt slightly “off” compared to my peers, I had also assumed it was all in my head and there was nothing seriously wrong with my mental health. The diagnosis felt like a long time coming, but hearing it come from the mouth of a licensed psychologist came as a shock. As someone genetically predisposed to mental disorders, I knew what the next steps were supposed to entail; I would have have the option to receive a prescription for medication designed to stabilize my head, as well as the option to continue attending cognitive behavioral therapy. I had absolutely no idea what to do. I consulted my friends for weeks on end trying to rationalize not taking medication, as I feared it would strip away my very sense of self. However, I knew if I continued any longer untreated, my mental health would only deteriorate, leaving my sense of self completely obliterated.
After a month of deliberation, I made the ultimate decision to let my psychiatrist write me a prescription for 25mg of Lexapro. I took it every morning for three months straight and by April 2017 I felt no change in my mood, but rather it evoked a sense of defeat. Next came a prescription for 25mg of Cymbalta, then 50mg, then 100mg. By that point, I would give anything to have not been affected by my medication; The Cymbalta worsened my depression and I wasn’t the only one to notice. My mom took me to see a new psychologist in November 2017 and he suggested that I do a DNA swab test to determine the factors making me immune to treatment. Two weeks later, the test revealed that Cymbalta was the worst possible drug I could be taking, to the point where it was borderline dangerous. Obviously, he took me off of it and put me on the medication I still take to this day. He also determined that I had severe ADD, a diagnosis he couldn’t believe my last psychiatrist had failed to acknowledge.
Today, my daily medication cocktail has amounted to 50mg of Pristiq, 60mg of Adderall, 20mg of Folic Acid, and 900mg of Gabapentin. The fear of medication stripping away my mental being has now turned into the fear that if I was never chemically stabilized, I probably wouldn’t be alive to recount the journey.
Life is hard. Being a living, breathing, human capable of endless emotions and experiences is hard. Having a brain that doesn’t do it’s job quite right is hard, and I know that. Life is hard when your brain no longer lets you see the beauty in the world around you, and tries to suffocate every ounce of light being let into your mind. It almost makes life feel like it’s not worth staying around for anymore. And I know that. Mental health directly correlates to physical health. It’s everything; it’s the fundamental nature of being alive, so why be shy about it?
