Why I Won't Stop Talking About My Mental Illness

I talk about it a lot. Not as much as I think about it, but definitely more than anything else. Not a day goes by where I don't think about it, where I don't have to deal with it. Every morning I fight the thoughts in my head telling me not to bother waking up today. I have to fight off the instinct to jump ship when things get too hard. I have to talk myself into talking to people. Each day, I have to tell myself that people are worth it. I have to take a deep breath and focus on everything going on around me so that I don't get lost in my head. When my friends ask to go out, I have to fight the urge to run away. I talk about my illness because my life revolves around me fighting it off.

I hear the words coming out of my mouth, but I can't stop them. Considering the fact that 90% of my thoughts are about my illness or telling myself off for listening to the self-deprecating thought patterns bouncing around inside my brain, it's pretty good that I can hold a conversation about anything else. My depression has taken hold of my life and isn't letting go anytime soon. My life was turned upside down so violently and suddenly that I can't even remember who I was before it all.

Trust me, I wish I could have even a short respite. I'm tired of it, too. I wish that there was something I could talk about besides everything. The problem is that I have to keep talking about it. If I don't keep talking about my past, it won't stay in my past. It will come back. If I ignore it and pretend that nothing happened, I would be putting something so huge into a tiny box. There is no box spacious enough to confine the complexity of where my depression has taken me. If I try to move forward, the darkness will begin to creep back in. Slowly at first and then all at once. It will take control of me again and I will have to dig myself out all over again.

I watch my friends' faces when it comes back up. They force a smile and sit there listening. They know how to play the part, but it's getting old. I once had a friend ask me why I still talk about it. I just looked at her dumb-founded. It feels like it was forever ago, but it was only two years ago since I tried to kill myself. It's not like it was decades ago. Two years ago I didn't want anything to do with this life and I'm supposed to just get over it. It's not something that just heals right away. But to everyone else, two years feels like a pretty long time. It feels like I should be moved on. Most people just don't really care about it anymore.

Most people don't just check into a psych ward once. It's like rehab. A person who has checked in once is more likely to check in again. Checking in created this huge dichotomy in my life-- while I was in the hospital I wanted nothing more to get out, but the second I left, I would have done anything to go back inside. You're safe inside the psych ward and although it's hard, you don't have to put in quite as much hard work as you do afterwards. I thought the hardest part would be the actual hospitalization. In reality, it's been the readjustment and learning how to cope that has been the hardest. If I hadn't spent the last two years talking through the crazy thoughts, I would have been one of those psych ward returners. If people hadn't continued to pick up the phone (cough cough, Allison) or listen to my ramblings, I wouldn't have made the progress I've made. I wouldn't be where I am today.

My life didn't turn out the way I'd planned. I certainly didn't expect mental illness to play such a leading role. But I can't go back and change it, nor would I want to. It's what has made me me.  I won't apologize for talking about the bravest, most life-altering experience of my existence. I won't apologize for the thing that has shaped me into me. I'm proud of how far I've come and who I've started to become. There's still so much more growing in store for me, but I'm proud of where this part of my story has brought me.

I Graduated

Just over two years ago, I sat at a long table in the psych ward dining hall. For group that day, we discussed goals and how they help us have a purpose in our lives. We talked about setting measurable and attainable goals. We also talked about the importance of goals in our recoveries. After discussing goals to death, we were asked to write down just one goal for our post-psych ward lives. Everyone around me quickly scribbled down something as I sat at the dirty table with nothing on my paper and no ideas in my head. As my fellow psych wardians finished their goals, they trickled out of the dining hall for free time. Soon, I was the only one left with a blank sheet. With my empty page in hand, I tried to sneak out of the lunchroom. It didn't work. After what seemed like forever (but was probably about 10 minutes), I remembered my motto: We do hard things. At the top of the paper, I wrote down my goal: I want to do hard things.

Proud of myself, I walked up to my social worker expecting praise and admission into free time. I was unfortunately denied free time because my goal was "too vague" or some other sort of BS. I sat back down more frustrated than I have ever been. Looking at the nearly-blank page was discouraging. It felt like one of my tedious homework assignments for Allison that are daunting as Hell. Close to tears, I tried to think of something more specific; I was at a loss. After another eternity, I found myself pulling at my hair. I thought about what I would be doing in this exact moment if I didn't have my long hair to fidget with. That would be hard for me. So I wrote it down: chop off hair.

What else was hard? running. Okay, I'll run a 5k. But that would be too easy. I was aiming to write down unrealistic and extremely difficult things. If I was going to do this, my sass was going to shine through like never before. "I want to run a marathon". Bam, another goal.

Finally, I tried to think of something really hard. Instantly I thought of going back to school. Just thinking about it made me nauseous. There was no way I was ever going back to Provo, let alone classes on campus. I couldn't face the prospect of failing again. So, my last item on the list just said: school. I scratched that out and rephrased to to be more specific: graduate from college. There, that's a goal. It'll never happen, but it's a goal. I kind of smirked to myself as I walked up to get it approved. For some reason, my doctors didn't think my list was funny; instead, they thought it was something good for me to work towards or whatever.

***

It would be a little while before I started to see the benefit in making goals. When I was getting ready to get out of the loony bin, I realized I didn't know what I was doing or have any sort of plan. I relied on that list of goals to give me somewhere to aim for. I told my parents that very night that I was going to go back to school. I re-enrolled in some classes and kicked butt to catch myself up. Honestly, that was one of the hardest transitions I've ever been through. I'm so grateful now, but it was long and tedious at the time.

Two months after getting out, I went out with a friend from high school and we talked all about my crazy. We talked about a bunch of things, and somehow started talking about donating our hair. That night we decided we were going to donate our hair. A week later, I chopped off my hair and donated 12 inches of it. That chop was pretty symbolic of my fresh start. Allison always told me that my psych ward check-in would be like a reset button. When I chopped off my hair, I had a physical representation of that reset. During these past two years my hair has been growing, slowly. There were months where I thought "Why did I do that? I want it back." But it has given me an opportunity to practice patience. I looked in the mirror the other day and I didn't recognize myself. I was so excited because it feels like my hair has grown back almost overnight. I looked in the mirror and realized that as much as my hair had grown over the past two years, so had I. My hair is a physical representation of the reset, but also of the change and growth I've had since then.

***

Today I'm writing for another reason. I didn't chop my hair off and I definitely haven't run a marathon yet. But I still did something huge: I graduated from college. It's a big day in anyone's life, let alone mine. When I made my "unrealistic" goals two years ago, I couldn't imagine myself in those long blue robes. I couldn't picture myself walking across the stage to collect my empty, plastic diploma cover. Two years later, I graduated from college and accepted a job for next year. Despite my psychotic break-down two years ago and dropping half of my classes, I did it. I graduated with my best friends in the whole world and am moving on. I overcame every disadvantage and trial thrown my way. Not necessarily tactfully (because what fun is that?), but I did it. I have finally put these four years behind me. I no longer have to live in the shadows and memories of the darkest times of my life. I can move forward and be who I have been working towards becoming.

Although it is sad to leave behind this part of my life and the people I've met here, I am excited to start fresh. Here's to my second fresh start (although I don't need the physical reminder this time, thank you). Here's to starting a new life. Here's to a new me. Here's to accomplishing something hard. Here's to everyone who helped me get through these four years of Hell. I owe you big-time.

Panic

The second plane finally landed in Orange County and as I walked off, I suddenly felt lost. Although it wasn't the first time I'd flown by myself, I stood in the middle of the terminal and looked all around me, unsure of what to do. Hurried people rushed past me and I remained glued to the ground. It felt like the airport was closing in on me and I struggled to catch my breath. This was one of many panic attacks I had to deal with just in that week alone. A woman came up and tapped me on the shoulder as I struggled to fill my lungs. "Miss, are you lost? I know this airport really well. What are you looking for?" I turned towards her and suddenly felt nauseated. Bathroom. I somehow managed to say while gasping for air. She led me to the restroom where I ran and threw up in the stall. Feeling a little better, I cleaned myself up and put in a piece of gum. The kind woman had waited with me and led me in the direction of baggage claim. As we were walking, I kept thinking what if Allison isn't here yet. What if I flew all this way and I need to wait for her. I really just need to see her right now.

After saying goodbye to the woman, I stepped onto the escalator that led to baggage claim. Once I knew I wasn't going to trip on the moving stairs, I looked up. Waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs was Allison; arms crossed, tears in her eyes, and a smile across her face. At that moment, time stood still. All I wanted to do was run down the stairs. Unfortunately, there were people two steps below me and I resisted the urge to plow through them. What seemed like the longest escalator of my life finally ended and I ran towards Allison. I threw my stuff on the ground and we hugged for a good couple of minutes. "You did it. Rachel, I'm so proud of you. You did it!" For the first time since I said goodbye to Janale that morning, I felt like I could actually breathe. Allison wrapped her arm around me and walked me to my carousel as I (once again) sobbed. I tried to calm myself down as we walked, but every time I remembered what was happening, a new round of sobbing began. We stood there staring at the empty carousel when Allison turned and said "Okay, Rachel. It's not all over. You've done great so far, but we've still got a ways to go. You know that, right?" I nodded and tried to soothe my jagged sobbing. "Good. We'll be there in about 45 minutes." The look on my face must have expressed the trapped feeling that overcame my insides because Allison quickly tried to calm me down. "Rach, it's okay. We're getting your bags and we've still got a 45 minute drive. Don't worry, I'm not going to just leave you. I'm going to come in with you and it will be good." I shook my head and started muttering under my breath. Allison reached over to wrap her arm around me, but I yanked myself free. I ran away from her and turned my back so I could full-on cry. An ugly, body-convulsing, snot-choking, face-blotching cry. Before I could finish, she was right beside me with her arm around my shoulders. "Rachel, it's okay to cry. In fact, it's good. You've been holding it all in for a long time now. But, you don't need to be alone anymore. I'm going to be here. It's okay to need someone." I was still pissed. Somehow, I had gotten this idea in my head that we were going to go to her house for the night and get up the next morning to check in. This was not what I had signed up for. My bags finally came and as I reached for them, Allison tried to help me. Shoving her away from my bags, I rudely and willfully told her to stop and that "I had it". For some reason, I really wanted to do this on my own.

After both my bags were off the carousel, Allison once again tried to help me. And, I once again refused to let her. I threw my duffel bag onto my rolling suitcase and shrugged my purse onto my shoulder. With my free hand, I gripped my quilt and we walked towards the parking garage. Despite my stubborn refusal of help, Allison continued to wrap her arm around my shoulder in case I needed her. I would be curious what thoughts were running through her mind right then. It may have been amusing to watch me be so silly and stubborn. Or, she may have been frustrated to see that despite the months of her desperate attempts to help me, I continued to push her away.

Getting to her car, she tried for a third time to help me. I may or may not have shoved her hand away while she reached for my suitcases. "Allison, I've got this. Seriously." While I lifted my first suitcase, Allison put my second one in (she's stubborn, too!), despite my determination to stop her. She shut the trunk and we walked to our respective sides: she on the driver's side and I on the passenger's. I got to the door and froze. One hand held the handle and the other clutched my quilt. Allison had already slid into her seat and buckled her seatbelt. She looked over her shoulder and saw me standing there and quickly got out of the car. As I looked back and saw her getting out, I doubled over and cried. My face squished into my quilt and and Allison gently rubbed her hand on my back. "Rachel, my friend. It's okay. This is not the end. You've made it so far. You can cry and take the time you need, but it's going to be fine. When you're finished we can talk this through." Many moments later, I sat my head up and choked back the tears. "Rachel. Here's what we're doing. We're going to drive to the hospital. I'm going to be honest, I'm not 100% sure this is where you need to be. But if it is, we will meet with the people and talk it through and then you will check in. I live so close and I will visit you, call you, whatever you need. I'm here for you. You know you need to do this, otherwise you wouldn't have come all this way." The whole time she was talking I was muttering "no no no no no no no. I can't do this." over and over again. She turned to me and said "Okay, are we done crying? Catch your breath and get in the car. You can do it."

With the sassy angst of a teenager (even though I was technically no longer a teen), I slid into the car and continued to slowly cry. I desperately wanted to stop crying because I wanted to be brave. I wanted Allison to see me being brave. However, as soon as I managed to get the tears to subside, a new wave would overcome me and my fear would get the better of me. I thought I was being a baby, but I think when you're about to embark on the hardest thing of your life so far, you're allowed to cry. You're allowed to admit "Okay, this is hard. I am scared. AND I'm doing it anyway."

Plane Ride Kindness

After leaving multiple incoherent voicemails, it was finally time for me to board the plane. I grabbed my purse and blankie and followed the lines of people onto the cramped plane. Somehow, I ended up with a glorious aisle seat and as soon as I sat down, the tears began to flood again. The unknown scared me and I trembled in my seat, knowing that there was so much more to come. With my favorite quilt/ blankie folded on my lap, I shoved my face into it in an attempt to muffle my sobbing. After a few moments, it became harder to breathe and I lifted my head to gain some "fresh" airplane air. This pain and heartache was only the beginning. I looked around me and saw that many people were staring at me. Across the aisle a young mother and her two small girls played with American Girl dolls. The mom reached across and grabbed my hand. She had no idea what was going on in my life at that moment, but that small act of random kindness helped to calm me as we flew. Despite calming down slightly, I continued to bawl the whole flight.

The first flight passed rather slowly. I fell asleep for a portion of it and then spent the rest of the flight trying to read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows for the bajillionth time. Towards the end of the flight, we hit a huge patch of turbulence. I've flown in tiny Guatemalan planes before, so it didn't phase me much. At least until the plane suddenly dropped down and the lights went out for a brief moment. We all held our breath waiting for the plane to recover. Luckily, it was a very short bump in the flight and it did recover. In the middle of the turbulence, I couldn't help but think of the irony. Here I was heading to go save my life so I wouldn't die, and I was scared because I thought the plane would crash. I was scared. I realized that I wasn't ready to die. I thought I was, but I wasn't. I wanted my pain to be over, but I didn't want this life to be over. I just wanted to be free of the heartache. 

Soon after the life-altering turbulence, we landed in Oakland, California. Announcements were made over the intercom, but I wasn't paying enough attention. I heard something about my next flight, but didn't know what they had said. I leaned over to the young mom and asked if she had heard the announcement. She nodded and told me to just stay on the flight as this was the same plane taking me to Orange County. I sat in my seat as the young mother and her two daughters slowly exited. The mom, arms filled with bags and toys, reached over and held my hand one last moment. "Hon, I don't know what's going on, but it's all going to be alright. Wherever you're headed, it's where you need to be and one day this will just be a far-off memory." The floodgates re-opened and I thanked her as she left. That made two moments that this inspired woman showed me a kindness I'll never forget.

Knowing it would be a while before the next flight left, I turned on my phone to see if anyone had texted me. Along with texts from Allison, Tara (my best friend's mom) had returned a call I'd made earlier (which was probably very incoherent). I quickly dialed her number and hoped she'd picked up. I don't remember the conversation, but it felt good to know that she knew what was going on. It was cut short by the start of everyone filing onto the next flight. I hung up and started crying again. As I sat there waiting, a text came in from Tara. "Rachel. I love you! You are not alone. Stay safe!! XO" The slow stream of tears became sobs with this. Trying to distract myself, I checked my social media. Pulling up twitter, I had a notification from my roommate, Melissa. "Girl, you got this! I miss you and I love you and I'll see you soon. <3 <3 <3" Although I couldn't escape the reminders of what I was doing, it suddenly dawned on me how many people were rooting for me. What I feared would be the end of various friendships proved to be a huge outpouring of love and support. Somehow, that thought calmed me down a little bit and I was able to peacefully read my Harry Potter book for the rest of the flight. 

I Don't Say Goodbyes

After what seemed like the shortest hour of my life, we arrived at the Salt Lake City Airport with plenty of time to spare. We drove around the loops and circles of the airport trying to get to the correct terminal. "Do you want me to come in with you, Rach? I can help you check into your flight." I sat there debating what to say. I wasn't ready to say goodbye yet, but I didn't want to burden her. "Don't you have classes to get back to, Janale?" "I'm already late anyway. It's decided; I'm walking you in." I breathed a sigh of relief. I didn't want to admit it, but I was not ready to say goodbye.

Praying we ended up in the correct location, we pulled into the nearest open spot. I took a deep breath and stepped out of the car. My heart started pounding when I realized that with each step, I was getting closer to another goodbye. We grabbed my luggage from Janale's over-stuffed trunk. I hefted a bag over my shoulder and took another deep breath. This road was continually overwhelming. Each step seemed to bring about its own hurdle. We carefully jumped over the imaginary barrier and made our way towards the Southwest counter.

Weighing my bags, the attendant asked me how old Janale was. "Oh... uh, twenty? But she's not the one flying today. I am." The lady looked confused. Walking away from the attendant, we laughed at the awkward encounters we seemed to always attract. I turned so I could watch as my two bags were loaded into the machine. I watched them slowly crawl along the conveyor belt until I couldn't see them anymore. Jan gently tapped my shoulder and told me it was time to go through security. We walked arm in arm the entire way. At the entrance to the security line, I paused. It was time to split up and I would be alone for the first time since I decided to check in. I dropped my carry-on blanket and purse as Janale enveloped me. I cried again as she whispered, "I don't say goodbyes, so you'd better not say it either." I squeezed her tighter and choked up while I attempted to whisper back. "Janale, I don't care. Thank you for driving me. I love you. I'll miss you. And I'm saying it... Goodbye. See you in a month." I broke down again. Janale reached her hand out to stroke my arm. We stood there for another second and then she turned to go. All alone, I continued to stand in that one spot. I looked back just in time to see the back of Janale disappear out the door.

I turned towards security and was overwhelmed by the process. I wanted to stand there just a little longer. The tears slowly rolled down my cheeks as I bent down to gather up my belongings. Somehow, the tears just never seemed to stop-- I kept waiting to run out of tears, but they just streamed down incessantly. Salty tears seeped into my mouth and I fumbled to get into the correct line. I tried to muffle my sobs in my blanket as the line progressed towards the innumerable TSA security members. "Please have your I.D. ready when you get to the scanner." I searched my pockets for the plastic card of my 15 year old self. Through my blotchy, red eyes, I stared down at the picture. Five years had passed since I was first handed that card. My mind took control and I thought about all that had happened and changed since I was deemed a suitable driver. While my mind wandered, I somehow made it through the monotonous process of security. My body went through the motions, allowing my mind to drift off. I continued on and slowly made my way to gate 63 at the very end of the terminal. Each step drained me a little bit more. By the time I sat down in an uncomfortable, plastic seat I was exhausted. All the crying and lack of sleep made every movement an Olympic event. The only thing I wanted at this point was to finally see Allison. And then I remembered that there were still so many people to contact. Like my best friend. Or my best friend's mom.

Sitting in the loud, communal seating at gate 63, my hands shook as I dialed my best friend, Clare. For over twelve years we'd been best friends- through thick and thin- and I dreaded what she would say in response. She picked up at the last second and I quickly asked if she had a minute. "yes, I have ten as I walk to class, does tha..." Before she could finished speaking, I blurted out "sooo I'm getting ready to board to a plane. To california. I dropped out of school. And I'm checking myself into a psych ward" I'd gotten pretty good at saying that sentence all in one breath. I don't remember much of the conversation other than the fact that she was in total shock. Ten minutes passed and the conversation was still going. "Clare, you need to get to class. I just wanted you to know what was happening. I'll call you when I have more details and a better idea of what's going to happen." We hung up and I could tell she was still in shock. I took a deep breath and dialed her mom's number. Like I said, Clare and I had been best friends since we were small children, and her mother had become like a second one to me. She had talked with me through various situations and catastrophes, so I was eager to hear her voice on the other line. ...It went to voicemail. I'm sure that voicemail was about as incoherent as all the others I left throughout that week. "Hi, Tara. Sooo give me a call when you get this. I'm getting ready to board a plane in a bit. If you call while I'm on the plane, I won't pick up. But I'll call back when I can." At least, that's what I was aiming for in the message. Who knows what I actually said. I hung up the phone and sat defeated in that stiff, black chair. What was I even doing? This was a lot of work for something I wasn't even sure would help. For something I wasn't sure I wanted.

However, as I sat there, I thought of all those phone calls I had already made. I thought of all of the people who knew me and knew what I was doing, and yet they still loved me. I thought of the people who would be heartbroken if something happened to me. As I sat there and wondered what I was doing, I realized that if I couldn't do this for myself, I could do it for all of them. I never wanted to hurt anyone and this experience would only be for a moment. Eventually, I would get out and I could live my life again. But this short experience would save my loved ones lots of heartache and pain. So I knew it would be okay. No matter how long or hard my stay would be, it would be worth it. No matter how terrible I felt or how much I hurt, I knew that this was something I could do to make up for all of the stress I'd been placing on others' lives. If I gave up here, all of those phone calls would be for nothing. So for that moment that was all I could hang onto. I could hold onto the thought that this would get better. That I would be doing something not only for me but for everyone who was a part of my life.