A journey from the pits of anxiety and depression to the front desk of a mental healthcare practice
It should have been a beautiful morning; the sun was shining brightly into my bedroom. I could hear birds chirping outside my window and the pleasant hum of folks making their way to their brunches, their picnics, and their beach days. Why wasn’t I out there with them?
“Oh, I’m just tired,” I told myself, but it was the fourth time that week that I slept for more than 14 hours. From there, I fell into spirals of negative self talk. I felt lazy. Ungrateful. Unworthy. Disappointed in myself. On and on it went until I found myself pacing around the living room, watching my initial feelings of anxiety snowball into a formless, powerful force that had me panicked and uneasy. I knew where that road would lead: questioning whether my life was worth it and scolding myself for even having that thought. This had, over many years, become my “normal.”
Growing up in a home with a suicidal parent who routinely self-medicated and who had violent verbal and physical explosions colored my attitude toward mental health. Mental illness was a mark of shame in my family. There were no doctors, no therapists and no medication.
The panic attacks would go away, I would tell myself. If I just prayed harder, or if I just worked harder, if I just strived to be better, I believed at the time it would all pass, but the problem only seemed to get worse.
The stigmas around mental health create a barrier between people and the mental health services that can save lives. It was this same stigma that led me to refuse countless suggestions that I try therapy, that perhaps antidepressants could help with those feelings of self-worth.
“No, no,” I would say. “I don’t need any of that. I’m doing fine.”
Boy, was I mistaken. Thanks to the persistence of a particular friend, I found my way into therapy and I found a psychiatrist as well. I was, I admit, not okay, but thankfully I found weekly therapy and Lexapro, which has helped me feel the most fulfilled I’ve ever felt. In some miraculous turn of fate, I now sit at the front desk of a mental health practice and am proud to share my story with you. Why? Because there is no shame in admitting that things are NOT okay.
For me, this admission was the first step in an ongoing journey to attain a quality of life that I didn’t even know was possible. If a past version of myself were to walk up to my desk today, I think they wouldn’t believe their eyes.
Who is that Front Desk Diva slaying phone calls and sporting gorgeous eye makeup? How can they smile so much? How have they made it this far into their high-intensity job without being crippled by fear? How can I be more like them?
I’d grab that terrified, meek, identity-crisis-addled past version of myself and remind them that better days are just around the corner, and those days are worth fighting like hell for.
Whether you need to hear it today or not: you are loved, you are worth it, and if the time comes to admit that things are no longer okay, leave that shame at the door and know there are caring mental health professionals who are eager to affirm your right and ability to live a happy life. All it takes is that first scary step of admission. But let me tell you, you won’t regret it.
