by Jessi Robinson
In 1994, I was a high school freshman. My arms and wrists were covered in scratches and small cuts. I was convinced the world would be better off without me. I just wanted to go away, be alone, and not bother or be bothered by other people.
And then one day I was called out of class to be confronted by the adjustment counselor and my parents, who whisked me off to my mom’s therapist to get some meds and therapy. My friends had noticed my behavior, arms, and the things I was saying. I was lucky.
…
Just over two months ago, I went into my doctor’s office and asked to be put on Paxil. I was growing increasingly snappy at my colleagues and wife, only did the bare minimum of housework, and grew ever more withdrawn. I spent hours refreshing Facebook or playing games on my phone–none of which gave me joy, but kept me distracted. I just didn’t care much; my energy was low, food wasn’t interesting, TV was only moderately keeping my attention. My wife, a licensed clinical social worker, prompted me to think about how my quality of life was and agreed that I needed to re-boot.
My life with anxiety and depression has encompassed the entirety of the intervening 21 years. I’ve been on and off medication, and in and out of therapy too many times to count. Now that I have some insight, and the ability to be objective, I recognize a clear pattern: change. Every time I’ve experienced significant change – leaving my town school for a regional tech; leaving for, and returning from, college; finishing my master’s degree and taking care of my dying mother–I’ve gone back on medication, and usually therapy. But it’s not just those clear changes that anyone can pinpoint which trigger my spirals. Sometimes it’s a slow build. Over the last two years, I took on a board role with Massachusetts College Personnel Association, bought a house which needs work, changed jobs (assuming more responsibility), got a puppy, and dealt with the worst Boston winter in 35 years. Any one, or two, or even three of these stressors might have been no issue. But each weight piled up until I was just as buried mentally as Boston was with snow.
Taking that objective eye, I can look back even further than fourteen. I remember a moment in the fourth grade when I thought that I didn’t belong in this world; that I should be somewhere else. I also remember comments from my parents, joking that I always knew when someone had been in my room because I KNEW if anything had been touched. I was quiet and shy, preferring to sit reading alone than play with friends. Anxiety made me nervous, reclusive and sad because life couldn’t be perfectly sorted and placed where it made the most sense.
I wish there was a cure. I wish my insides didn’t roil with fear every time I met new people or had to speak in front of others. I wish I could walk by my desk or bed or counter without giving a tug or push to ensure that everything is perfectly lined up/even/matched. Years can go by, I can almost forget that my levels of anxiety and depression are outside of “normal” ranges. But my anxiety always comes back though, spiraling me out of control, leaving me incapable of doing more than basic daily living tasks.
It took years of therapy, learning about mental illness, and learning about myself to get to a point where I can recognize my symptoms and address them with meds and/or therapy. Even when not actively taking meds or in therapy, I practice cognitive behavioral therapy to keep myself “in control” through understanding how my thoughts and feelings influence my behaviors. This helps to reduce the frequency of meds and therapy, which cost time and money.
I still get it wrong though. But when I do, I know that there are options, and people to get me out of the maelstrom.
Originally posted at the Student Affairs Collective on May 5, 2015.