Social media makes mental illness look like it’s the latest fad or a
guaranteed way to get attention, but my personal experience with mental illness is nothing like what is seen on social media.

It’s not pretty and getting attention for it is the last thing I want.

It doesn’t mean I have problems with drug or alcohol abuse.
It doesn’t mean I go to parties and take my clothes off.

What it does mean is that every day I have to work and push myself to do simple tasks like getting out of bed.
It means struggling everyday against the tidal waves of physical and emotional exhaustion.

Having depression doesn’t mean I’m broken or that I have to give up on my life.

But it hasn’t always been like this.

My mom first noticed that something was wrong in my middle school and early teenage years. Some of the other kids–a lot of the other kids–would mock the way I looked, from my hair to my clothes and even the way I carried myself. I remember coming home every day in tears.

Having people constantly judging and mocking me changed the way I looked at myself. I couldn’t stand what I saw when I looked in the mirror. I felt like I wasn’t good enough no matter what I did.

I tried to change the way I looked by losing weight. I started skipping meals. It didn’t take long for me to become unhealthily underweight.

At a height of 5 foot 5 I weighed a mere 110 pounds, a solid 20 pounds lighter than I should have been.

Despite my efforts, starving myself didn’t make me as happy as I thought it would. It made my depression so much worse. Not having enough nutrients in my body set my hormones off balance.

Self-harm soon followed.

It started off with snapping a rubber band against my wrist until the skin turned red and raw. The rubber band snapping led to scratching my skin with paper clips and pencils. I wore long sleeves to hide it, even during gym class.

Then one day I woke up from the fog I had been living for months and found myself sitting on the bathroom floor with a bloody razor in my hand and a pain in my left arm. I called my mother in tears.

She then called my therapist and got an appointment the next day.

I was officially diagnosed with anxiety disorder and depression at that appointment, although my mom and therapist had always suspected that was what had been going on.

I started see my therapist more often after that. My family doctor put me on medication to control my anxiety, the root cause of my depression.

It took months for the medicine to start working, so those few months were some of the hardest of my life. I was starting to feel better at times, but then some days I’d wake up and feel like garbage. The constant up-and-down, back-and-forth inconsistency of my emotions was almost nauseating.

I felt like I was tied to a yo-yo. One day I’d be giddy with uncontrollable laughter and happiness, but then then next day I would drop so low I felt like I was drowning.

When the medicine did finally start working, my whole life got better. I started eating a healthy amount, and I reconnected with some of the friends I had cut out of my life.

Contrary to what social media might portray or what people unaffected by mental illness may think: having a mental illness didn’t ruin my life.
While it does pose obstacles in my life, it doesn’t make anything impossible. I don’t consider myself “broken” or “damaged.”

Some days it’s battle just to wake up in the morning and face the world., But then I remember my goal of getting a PhD in psychology, so I can help troubled teens.

I think to myself, If I can’t get out of bed, how can look at someone else and tell them to do it? So I get out of bed and go through my day.

I am in control of how successful I am. My anxiety and depression don’t dictate my life or my happiness. I know that going forward in my life I am going to have to work and push myself to do the things I have to in order to reach my goals.

Even knowing this, I am excited.

I don’t regret my past. I wouldn’t be the person I am today if I hadn’t struggled the way I did. What I went through has allowed me to have a different perspective on life.

I know now not to take anything for granted. That even the hard times are worth holding on to. Without sadness there would be no appreciation of moments of joy.

It’s also given me empathy.After my experience I know that no one should have to suffer alone, and that I want to help them. I plan to become a therapist and to work with teenagers suffering from mental illness.

At first I didn’t want to get help because that meant admitting to myself that I was sick. Looking back I wish I hadn’t let it go as far as it did. It’s okay to get help. It doesn’t mean that you’re a freak or that you’re crazy. It just means that you need a little help to be okay again.

My message to anyone who is suffering silently is please get the help that you need. You are important and loved and deserve to live a happy and successful life. Talk to someone about what is happening: a guidance counselor, a favorite teacher, a friend or parent, even me.