I was recently at a dinner with two friends, when we began discussing mental illness and mental health treatment.

All three of us have openly had periods of struggle with both depression and anxiety, but we all had very different takes on treatment, particularly in regards to antidepressants.

“I wouldn’t go on them,” said the first friend.

“I would go on them, but just until I feel better,” said the second.

My take was the opposite: I have been taking antidepressants on and off my entire life, and since deciding to take them consistently nearly three years ago, my life has turned around. I plan to be on them forever.

Conversations like this are not uncommon. When it comes to mental health issues, opinions are often polarized and strongly held.

I understand that antidepressants are not for everyone; many people are fortunate in not suffering from mental illness, and even many of those who do would prefer to have medication be their last resort.

For me, medication is a part of a more comprehensive treatment plan to avoid falling back into the throes of the major depression that I know always lingers beneath the surface of my delicately balanced equilibrium.

I remember what it feels like to be unwell.

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June 3, 2014

Thank you for your interest in my recovery story. I have been in mental health treatment for the past thirty-three years. It began at age eight when I was sexually molested by a close relative. I did not tell anyone out of shame and guilt for ten years. I became anorexic immediately following the assault, which turned into bulimia, severe depression and anxiety through my teenage years. My parents would not allow hospitalization or medication because of their ignorance and the stigma involved. Suicide was constantly on my mind. My parents did allow for weekly psychotherapy treatments.

At seventeen, I suffered a major mental breakdown and was limited in my high school attendance. I disclosed facts about the abuse during therapy, but no charges were filed, once again due to the perceived stigma. At eighteen, I took myself to the psychiatrist and received my first prescription for an anti-depressant. Lack of effectiveness and side effects caused me to spend the next fifteen years trying different medicine combinations.

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Hello, I have always thought that sharing my story with the mental health community is important to bring hope to others that are just like me.

I’m a 37 year old divorced mother of two boys. I have been in therapy of some kind or another since I was 7 years old. Mental illness runs in my family as well as substance abuse addiction. I believe I was born with my many disorders that progressed and worsened as I got older, abused illegal drugs, prescribed medication and had my children. In my early childhood I showed all the many signs of OCD. I also grew up in an extremely chaotic family where my mother suffered terribly with her own mental illness that was never acknowledged or treated and an emotionally absent father. My two older siblings coped with this by using and abusing drugs and my older sister was put into rehab when I was seven. My older brother simply moved away and is still an addict today covering up his own mental health issues. My younger sister was extremely emotionally disturbed and would act out violently towards my parents but especially towards me. She would later become a drug addict for many years and thankfully entered recovery 4 ½ years ago.

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Hello.  We all can live a great, purposeful life managing Bipolar Condition or any mental health situations. 

The social stigma of mental illness used to bother me to no end…and contribute to my problems!  I’m over that now, but I prefer to call it Bipolar Condition vs. “Disorder”.  I also prefer to discuss Mental Health vs. “Illness”.

My story in general: 

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I just want to talk to people about my mental health struggles throughout my life and how I’ve overcome each and everyone of these hurdles and how I could be inspiration to others. Through the power of open and honest communication and never giving up on oneself I’ll be honored to talk about my struggles but also my hope that I can give people that are struggling today day with things that they cannot control in the midst of the coronavirus

Sometimes the trauma we experience is not definable in terms of scientific research or assessments. Sometimes depression, anxiety, and other mental health issues are never actually diagnosed but somehow those of us who experience these issues deal with them on a daily basis and find inspiration and hope in our communities and inside ourselves.  

I, like many others, have experienced multiple traumas in my life including rape, abandonment, intimate partner violence, a diagnosis of a “terminal” disease, homelessness, and drug addiction.  Yet, somehow, I have made it through these experiences and found help along the way.  Not from the system of care (as many of us know, the system of care is not really designed to “care”), I found help in the support and love from others who have also experienced similar things.  It is their courage and compassion that gave me the strength to keep moving forward.  It is their determination and insight that helped me work through the pain and fear.  

I am forever grateful for those who guided me along the way.  Your support will never be forgotten.  Your support helped me to not only find a new way to live but to follow my passion and help others.  Even though I have been dragged through the mud, I know my worth and value has not changed.  Today, I am working on a PhD. and hope that the work I do, the community bridges from research and academia to the real world I build, can help inspire others.  May you find love and peace in your hearts

My name is Brittany, and my mental health story is quite the roller coaster, but I am deeply hoping that someone somewhere will read this and find hope in it. 

I’m not sure I could tell you exactly when I knew I had a mental illness, everything for me started at such a young age. I knew something was wrong, I just didn’t know it was out of the ordinary. I was raised in a cult or a sect called branhamism. It took me a long time to utter those words, I was always taught that it was just church. I thought that this was what church meant. I won’t delve too deeply but to paint a clear picture it was a church that believed women should wear ankle long skirts, shouldn’t cut their hair, and should live at home and serve their husbands. There was no worldy music allowed, no makeup, tattoos or peircings, no nail polish, no birth control, the list goes on and on. The church greatly preached the end times over and over, drilling it into your head three times a week. I was raised in this church, this was all I knew.

So, from a very young age I began to develop severe anxiety. The first panic attack I can remember was when I was about 5 years old, possibly 4. I over heard my mother in the kitchen speaking with my older sister. I cannot remember the exact conversation except the words of my mother that still ring clearly in my ears. She said to my sister, ‘Brianna, in order to make something right that you have done wrong, you have to tell the person you have done wrong against.’ This may seem like simple advice, but to a five year old, it was the most terrifying information in the world. I immediately went to my room to think things out. Now, there was no one I had truly done wrong against at 5 years old but things seem a little different when you’re that young and don’t truly know right from wrong yet. My wrongs were not the wrongs of others. This is because my entire perception is skewed, but we will get to that soon. My wrongs looked more like bad thoughts. For instance, sometimes I would wonder if Jesus had private parts (which sounds very silly now but at 5 this seemed like a valid thought). However, because my church was very against sex as a whole (it was taught as a necessary evil once you were married) anything in relation to it sent me into a terrible panic. I would stay up all night, panting, crying, cold sweats, just staring at the ceiling for hours in absolute fear at 5 years old.

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TO ANYONE WITH ANY MENTAL ILLNESS OF ANY AGE:

(you don’t have to be in middle school)

Middle School’s known to be some of the hardest years of our lives, between hormones and homework it’s tough enough to make it through without mental health and the stigma it so often carries. As it’s impossible to make it through a class without someone making a joke about a mental illness either a friend of mine or I have, I’ve come to a certain conclusion. Teenagers will be teenagers, it shouldn’t be that way, it shouldn’t be an excuse to kidding about things that people truly struggle with on a daily basis, but it is. Sometimes things in life are just stupid, but we can’t let that get to us.

I’m a 13 (almost 14) year old in the ignorant year of 8th grade, towards the end of last year a few things in life went really, really wrong, and it resulted in a series of unfortunate events (no pun intended). Basically, by the time 8th grade started, I had not only experienced my fair share of panic attacks, gone to a therapist several times, but I had also been diagnosed with depression and an anxiety disorder. I had basically hidden from my entire grade during the summer, so as school started up again and I was struck by a mass of indirect insults towards my mental illnesses, let’s just say there was a lot of tears at the beginning of the year.

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