Crazy. Unstable. Irrational. Helpless. Our society often uses these along with many other adjectives to describe an individual who struggles with mental illness. Not only do I find these words personally triggering, but also believe they are weapons used to perpetuate the negative stigma surrounding mental health.
Throughout my life, I have battled with what I recognized as severe depression and anxiety. However, I did not receive an official diagnoses or treatment until about three-and-a-half years ago when I started college.
From an early age, I became part of the mental health discussion. Both my mother and father’s sides of the family are plagued by mental health related conditions. Whether it be Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Anorexia or various anxiety centered disorders, I grew up knowing a family member suffering from it. I grew up hearing graphic stories about what these illnesses had caused them to say do or say. One would think that this degree of visibility of mental health would have encouraged a positive discussion on the topic in our family, but it did not.
Instead, I grew up in fear that I would suffer like the rest of my family. That fear was not so far reaching thanks to the reality of genetics. Even as a child, I believed that these were dark family secrets that should remain in the dark and not be shown to the rest of the world. I began to associate mental health struggles with shame, because that is how it was discussed by my family. Each of them knew they needed help, but they were too embarrassed to seek. If they sought it, they would be admitting a weakness, and vulnerability is not necessarily an asset my family maintains.
Despite struggling my entire life with the same mental illnesses that surrounded me, I did not feel comfortable seeking help until I was much older. Moving away, being separated from my family and beginning college allowed me to realize that maybe it was okay to ask for some help. It wasn’t until I was away from my support system and out of my comfort zone that I realized that I can’t do this on my own. I needed help. I began having a positive conversation about mental health with myself. Eventually, I felt compelled to bring these issues to my parents in an effort to change the historical perceptions of mental illness in our family. It was time to talk about these issues in a constructive way.
Recently, I realized I was not alone in fearing mental illness as a child. One of my siblings has also been struggling with varying mental disorders, and never felt they could be open about it. They felt that the rest of the family would view them as having weaknesses, or that they were not able to be independent any longer. They too were impacted by the negative view point that my family had always had on mental health. This took me by surprise. I thought I was the only one effected by the shroud of secrecy that had loomed over us our entire lives. These negative words, even when spoken by loved ones, have a major impact. They make the sufferer feel invalid and incorrect. They greatly dissuade people who need help from seeking help. Perhaps the easiest thing we can do to avoid further damaging the mental health discussion is to simply change our diction.