The pharmacist looked up from the prescription I’d handed her, and I thought I saw her expression soften as she asked me for my insurance card. Fumbling through my wallet, I felt extremely uncomfortable under the weight of her gaze.
It was probably just my imagination, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was silently judging me.
Pathetic.
Depressed.
Mentally ill.
Insane.
That was 4 weeks ago.
This is the first time I’ve posted a blog entry since January, but it’s not because I haven’t been writing. It’s just that I can’t bear to post the awful things I’ve written – awful things I needed to work through, but don’t need to be revealed to everyone I know.
I had been slowly spiraling down for months, and reached a record low around the end of March. It was as if I was walking around in a haze. On the outside I seemed fine, but I wasn’t sleeping properly, waking up constantly in a panic. I was isolating myself more than usual, and I was alternating between starving myself and binge-eating. I was nearly always close to tears, and when I wasn’t, I was distracted and fatigued.
A few times before, I had confided in friends about this struggle. Not all of them were helpful, and I shouldn’t have expected them to be. It’s hard to understand. They’re not mental health professionals, after all.
Finally, I decided to see a psychiatrist for the first time in my life. I’d been putting it off for so long. I’d had depression before, but I always managed to claw my way through it somehow.
And I was afraid.
Afraid to admit that I needed professional help.
Afraid of what people would think.
Afraid of what the doctor might find.
Afraid that it meant my faith wasn’t strong enough.
But it had gotten so bad that it was starting to affect my personal and work life. After finding myself unable to get out of bed for almost 20 hours straight, I cried and prayed and made a decision.
That’s how I finally found myself awkwardly sitting in the waiting room of a psychiatric clinic. The Filipina clerk called my name and led me to the doctor’s office. I shook his hand and forced a polite smile (I’d gotten quite good at it).
He started asking me questions. He was very nice – soft-spoken and gentle, yet confident and professional. It wasn’t long before I found myself pouring out some of my most intimate thoughts into this complete stranger. He handed me a box of tissues as I sniffled through my explanation of how I’d been feeling.
He listened and took notes. He explained a few things about brain chemistry, how certain hormones control and affect mood, emotions, and reactions. Depression and anxiety are very treatable. The brain is just another organ, after all. Then he wrote me a prescription for an antidepressant.
I wasn’t sure what to expect that first day. I just knew I needed help, and it was worth giving this a shot. It wasn’t a magic switch from “Sad” to “Happy”. It was more of a gradual feeling of stability.
Two weeks into my medication, I was still waking up in the middle of the night but no longer in a panic. I was still feeling anxious at times, but without being overwhelmed by anxiety. It was as if all my negative emotions, which had previously been turned up to 10, had been brought down to 5. I stopped feeling like crying all the time. I could be more objective about things that would normally provoke a strong emotional reaction in me.
I saw my doctor again 2 weeks after that first visit, and he said I looked like a different person. I saw him again today and he couldn’t be happier with my progress.
Now that I’m doing much better, it seems almost silly to me now that so many people still insist on reinforcing the stigma against mental illness. Should there be a stigma against cancer patients for getting chemotherapy? Why do we punish those who are asking for help?
Thank God for providing the means for me to get help when I needed it, and for sending me wonderful friends who were supportive enough to encourage me to seek it.
I’m not ashamed to admit it:
My name is Ruby, and I’m battling mental illness. But I’m not battling it alone.
And neither should you.
