Rescued Draft: Mental Health Stigma, Talking About Your Own, and the Complexities of Reaching Out for Help.

Do you ever wonder what happened to that person who wrote a few posts on Medium a year ago, someone whose writing or poetry resonated deeply with you; perhaps you exchanged a few supportive words directly in comments before they suddenly fell off?

I’m not here to suggest that what I experienced is the most common explanation, and I believe it’s more common that people find something else, get distracted, end their subscription, find a new platform, or any number of very simple explanations.

But I have one more explanation. And some alternative (really bad twists?) at the end. It’s only been 5 or so weeks since I last posted (*note: when I originally wrote this). but there was a reason. I want to write this both quickly because it is late and as forthright as possible while still maintaining some semblance of anonymity and dignity … for now.

Surely, SURELY by now there is there is no surprise that talking about mental health openly still comes with a stigma. Even amongt the people we often should trust the most, some of us don’t have that luxury. I’ll abstain from why that is true for some of us. At least for now. Another story for another post.

I have been diagnosed with some version of anxiety for years. I had an adverse incident in late 2020, with my closest family and friends (that other story for another post), that “earned” me a few new diagnoses. It also secured a very long path to getting myself back to where I started.

That road, or tunnel as I often call it, seemed to have a light at the end in various points in 2022. I’ve written about my love interest, O. Perhaps not much, not in a positive light, but our relationship began long ago as colleagues and became more around March of 2022. It was fast, deep, and overwhelming. Certainly plenty of red flags for me, but I love being swept off of me feet.

The honeymoon phase very quickly turned into a rollercoaster phase. A phase from which we never recovered.

I’m still there. I took the words of caution from others. I willingly extended another chance time and again, none of which were ever warranted.

By mid-February of this year I was physically sick, having unusual, severe, paralyzing anxiety, decision paralysis, and I was nearly non-functional. I could barely eat. I could not leave my home. All things being fair, I was afraid to shower. I cannot fully explain it, and it wasn’t all related to the relationship, but it seemed to start when we had a falling out and he gave me the silent treatment in late January or maybe early February. Frankly, the timeline is hazy. (*it was early February)

I pride myself on being able to capture stories and feelings with words and despite having survived a cadre of crises in my life, I am almost always able to write about and capture how I felt and processed the emotions: this is not one of those times. At least not yet.

I went so long seemingly irrationally fearful of showering in my house alone that I ended up with a massive knot in my hair. If I wasn’t a super thin fine-haired white woman, it would be better called a single loc. I reached out to someone a few weeks ago. I struggled even after talking to the one person I trust, to allow her to help me. So more time went by.

For some reason, I decided on a whim to open up and tell O about the situation, between sobs, on a rare weekend evening phone call. I had not seen him in 2023. I think that had a lot to do with the escalation from relatively well managed GAD, to a variety of panic disorder and agoraphobia, with a little side of derealization/depersonalization, that I’ve never experienced in my life.

He kindly offered to help. But on his terms. But of course! I was so sick just trying to figure out a plan with O. He blocked and unblocked me. Nothing had changed between us, but now he had more of a hand to play knowing I needed him. And after what seems like an eternity, but was actually about 6 days, the plan proceeded on his terms.

O picked me up today (*early March, on a Friday). I was a disaster in every way. Things were almost immediately the same as they always were between us: tense. Small talk, or any talk, felt contentious since the end of the honeymoon phase nearly ten months ago. My mental state did not help. I was having an ongoing panic attack.

To O’s credit, he did spend an inordinate amount of time getting my hair untangled. I knew it would take a long time. There were other things he wanted to do. Dealing with me, panicky and tearful in his shower, certainly weren’t his entire agenda for the night. He also didn’t restrain his irritation or contempt.

I vacillated between crying and panic, coping mechanisms, and trying to just talk to him like a normal person. The latter was mostly unsuccessful and engendered negative responses.

I didn’t write this to drag O. Our problems not withstanding, I had to start untangling the issue somewhere (yes, I definitely wrote that). My options were incredibly limited. It was an exhausting experience. Now I am restless, but I have a better understanding of how and why this happened, why it should not, and perhaps how to move forward and do better now that I’ve overcome the first hurdle.

There are people who may help you at your lowest and you may have to choose that path a time or two, but those people who cannot do so and handle you with care simultaneously are a reminder that you have to open up to a few more people than you might otherwise be comfortable talking trusting.

I feel embarrassed and shameful, but those feelings will pass as I continue to pick up the pieces of myself that are the real, whole version of me.

A post script: I’m still digging my way out of the disordered panic state. There are so many things contributing that fall into two categories: things I can control that I have anxiety about and things I cannot control that I have anxiety about. Dealing with panic disorder, PTSD, ADHD, and chronic illness that is exacerbated by the anxiety, is not a easy cycle to break, but I am doing the best I can every day. And I celebrate the small victories every day.