I am mentally ill.
I say it that openly, and that bluntly, for a reason: mental illness still has a significant and entirely undeserved stigma in our society, a stigma shared by virtually no other group of illnesses. I've never heard of someone ashamed to say they have bronchitis, high blood pressure, arthritis, heart disease, or cancer. While no one would question the gravity of any of those or the impact on the patients and their families, none of those carry the same sense of shame -- the underlying feeling that somehow, it requires an apology, that it's the sufferer's fault for "not trying hard enough."
"Suck it up and deal." "Just focus on the good things." "Let go of the negatives." All, perhaps, well meant, and all entirely useless. Whatever the underlying cause of the anxiety and depression I've battled my entire life -- whether they're from a neurochemical imbalance, a genetic predisposition (there is good evidence that depression, at least, runs in both sides of my family), trauma from the emotional abuse I endured as a child, or all three -- what I experience is just as real as any symptoms coming from a purely physical illness.
I've gone to hell and back trying to find a medication that helps; none of the standard meds made much of a difference, and several gave me horrible side effects. Right now the depression is reasonably well in check from the combination of the compassion and support of my family and friends and a set of coping mechanisms (exercise being top of the list). The anxiety is tougher because it can come on without any warning, and is often triggered by activities that "should be positive" -- getting together with friends, engaging in creative pursuits, even leaving the house.
The reason this comes up is a pair of studies I ran into last week that resonated so strongly with my experience that I found myself saying, "Why didn't the researchers just ask me? I coulda told them that." The first, that appeared in the International Journal of Psychophysiology, investigated fear responses -- specifically, how quickly startle reactions ceased once a person realized something surprising wasn't actually a threat. What they did was show test subjects photographs of two women, then suddenly substituted one with a photograph of a woman showing fear and accompanied it by the sound of a woman screaming at 95 decibels, delivered through headphones. (I'm so sound-sensitive that just reading about this made me anxious.) What was fascinating is that (of course) all the test subjects startled, but the ones without anxiety disorders very quickly learned that it wasn't a threat -- on repeated exposures to the same stimulus, they stopped reacting. The people with anxiety disorders didn't. Every time the photo changed and the scream came, they reacted, even when they knew it was coming.
This is all too familiar to me. I once lamented to a therapist, "Exposure therapy doesn't work on me." I have dreadful social anxiety; I take a long time to open up to people, and when I'm in a large group I tend to shut down completely. I've been at parties where all night long, I've said exactly two sentences: "Hi, how are you this evening?" and "Good night, thanks for inviting me." It doesn't seem to matter how many social gatherings I go to where nothing bad happens; I still get overwrought the next time, and spend the lead-up to the event hoping like hell there'll be a dog there to socialize with.
The second study, that appeared in the journal Behavioural and Cognitive Psychotherapy, looked at the ways that people with social anxiety cope, and found that those same "safety behaviors" -- such as rehearsing ahead of time what they'll say, avoiding eye contact, shying away physically if they feel like they're in the way, and not talking unless spoken to -- cause others to perceive them as less likable, more standoffish, aloof, and superior, and less authentic.
Which, of course, is the most vicious of vicious cycles. I know I do all of those things, not to mention finding an excuse to leave early. I also have a tendency to get tongue-tied when people do speak to me directly, which probably is why in short order they decide that they'd be better off finding someone else to chat with.
Both studies had me saying, "Yeah, exactly." Even so, I'm glad these sorts of papers are appearing in well-respected journals. All of it is a step not only toward finding out what underlies mental illness, but toward reducing the stigma. Sufferers from disorders like depression and social anxiety aren't simply weird, and we're certainly not doing it for attention (something I was accused of pretty much continuously when I was a kid). We're just struggling, in the same way that someone with a physical illness might struggle.
I have some hope that the stigma is diminishing. I've been heartened by the support Senator John Fetterman of Pennsylvania has received following his revelation that he was entering the hospital for treatment for clinical depression. We still have a long way to go -- there are still people who look at Fetterman's actions as evidence of weakness or instability -- but far more are responding with empathy, with an understanding that we sufferers from mental illness are every bit as deserving of compassionate care as someone dealing with any other kind of illness.
And while understanding that won't cure us, it certainly goes a long way to making us feel like we're not so alone.
(IMPORTANT NOTE: if you, or someone you know, are considering self-harm, please call the Suicide Hotline number now. The number is 988, and there are people there who can help you and provide the emotional support you need.)
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