My Name Is Jim. I Have Mental Illness.

Just look at that nutjob.

Did we just pass another Mental Illness Week?  It seems like we go through four or five of those a year. It went without much fanfare, which is not surprising.  Mental illness is still something that is kept behind closed doors.  It is something that elicits shame to those who have it or confusion and dismissal to those who do not understand it.  It is a little like being gay.  We all know that every gay person has this moment in their lives where they have to “come out” to the world around them.  It is a challenging and special day to anyone who has to go through it.  Being a straight male white guy, I don’t have a corresponding experience.  But I should.  Although it is merely on my little blog that almost no one reads, it still can count. I want to come out as person with mental illness.  My name is Jim.  I have mental illness.

I have known there was something amiss with my brain since I was a teenager.  I was way too anxious to engage in life, and so many things that made other people happy made me sad.  I never thought I was crazy, whatever that is.  I knew I was broken. I never got any help.  I never really asked for help.  When I mentioned it to family and friends, the answer was always “You don’t need therapy.” As I got older and the weight of adult and parental responsibilities weighed me down, the anxiety was right there all along.  Depression kept me from growing as a person and feeling the joy of accomplishment or confidence, and by the time I hit 38 or so, I could not feel joy at all.

            Was the world around me making me this way?  No.  My money and job situation sucked, but I was happily married, my kids were healthy and surviving adolescence and I still had some close friendships.  But, you see, my brain was broken.  My ability to understand things like “Everything is okay” and “There are people in the Sudan who have it much worse than you” did not work correctly.  Every problem was a disaster.  Every problem had to be worried about.  I could not enjoy the weekend because I hated my job.  I hated my job because I couldn’t afford to do things on the weekend. I could not relax.  Everyone was just being nice, they didn’t value my company or companionship.  I was a failure.  There was no capacity to let things go, or acknowledge that sometimes I was just having a bad day.

            I went to the doctor in 2010.  Regular doctor.  Guess what?  High blood pressure.  High cholesterol. You must understand, anxiety can give you those things.  Those things do not necessarily give you anxiety.

 I immediately dropped caffeine.  Caffeine to a person with anxiety is like giving a Zippo to a pyromaniac.  I stepped up my walking; my one true exercise.  It was not enough.  I went to therapy.  And you know what?  I didn’t need much.  My entire life and I needed a dozen sessions or so.  Just a tune up, because I spent so much time thinking about my problems.  Oh, yeah, when you are thinking about your problems all the time, you aren’t living.  You are stewing.

            I am mentally ill.  I have a little depression, and acute anxiety with the added bonus of panic attacks.  My panic attacks are like heart attacks.  Tightening of the chest.  Numb left arm.  The cherry on top is the actual act of the panic attack gives you a more intense panic attack.  It feeds itself.  That is not the proper function of the human brain.  Panic is in there to keep us away from attacking wolves and guys with sharp sticks coming after our shit.  Not because a cop pulled you over for a speeding ticket or a late power bill.

            Now I take Zoloft and I am better.  I have no shame.  I thought about it for three years before I jumped in.  It literally saved my life.  I did not want to exist if I couldn’t feel joy.  Now, everything is better.  I’m still broke, we have our problems around here,  but I am okay with it.  Medication doesn’t make you loopy.  It allows you to feel the way you want without the dark clouds rolling in.  I still feel crappy sometimes.  But when I’m in a good mood, I’m in a good mood.  That is not too much to ask.

            Now I see it in my kids.  They have their own struggles and one of them needs some medication.  I have made it as easy as I can around him to accept that this is a problem that has to be dealt with.  It could be just a temporary scrape, or a permanent scar.  We don’t know yet. But, it has to be addressed.  I am so proud that he wants to take care of himself and not run from the problem.  It won’t rule over him like my anxiety ruled over me.

For the love of all you consider holy, do not think you are crazy because you are struggling.  You may not need medication like me.  You might need a professional to talk to for a while.  Maybe longer, who knows?  You might need more exercise or a change in diet.  I don’t know, I have a degree in history.  But mental illness has to be next on the table of things we need to be vocal about.  There is no shame in cancer; there should be no shame in mental illness.  I would not feel shame if I broke my arm and it needed a cast.  Why should anyone feel embarrassed about talking through your issues with a professional? We all get colds, we all get bumps and bruises.  Some of us deal with more complicated problems.  It is okay. 

I assume the struggle with gay life in society will reach a milestone is when it is no longer a big deal. (Hey, Bob’s gay.  Yeah, who cares?) That has to be the same for mental illness.  Announcing you need help for your brain should be about the same as saying you need to see the doctor for a checkup and to see about that mole on your butt.  It is just one of those things that your fellow man has to deal with.  Arguments against psychiatry and drug over-prescription are for cable news.  If you have a problem, this is your life.  If you have someone close to you that you think needs help, I think it is okay to bring it up, but remember they have to want to go.  If you have addiction, well, most people around you are waiting for you to get help, anyway.  Be a hero for taking care of yourself.

Maybe that is the point of coming out as a Mentally Ill Person.  There is nothing wrong with taking care of yourself.  Don’t let opinions and traditions and all that intangible crap get in the way of you enjoying life.  Just come out with the rest of us. Step up and get the help you need.