Labeled

For years I’ve been suffering from emotional and psychological cycles ranging from intensely lows to dim highs, but I have never quite been able to put a finger on what’s causing these cycles; never really knew the triggers. Is my anxiety kicking in hard? Is it depression? Well, I honestly never knew its nature. I just understood it was something that happens occasionally and that I have no means to fix it but to go through it and be done with it until it happens again. Weeks in and weeks out those cycles spanned longer and longer, and my ability to handle their effect grew weaker by the day. I sought help from what I thought at the time as a possible fix, such as the beautiful invention of the internet. I’ve gone through various websites where I’ve diagnosed myself through online questionnaires which turned out to prove that I am batshit crazy with a plethora of mental illnesses.

For years, I’ve lived under the mercy of my never-ending emotional cycles without even talking openly about them; except for the few people I’ve told no one. Who would I tell? No one would understand what I am talking about here. My social life has declined drastically, my ability to deal with my own emotional expressively has deteriorated, and essentially, I’ve been killing myself slowly without even noticing. This has been happening for the most part of 7 long years of where I’ve gotten better for an extended amount of time then went back to my aforementioned frequent state.

Regardless of all the downs I’ve had; I’ve always had ups too, but this has not been the case as of late. A couple of months back, I’ve had it with my continuous low cycles that didn’t seem to end and with the help of a close friend I’ve decided to take a healthy step towards putting things together and getting my life on the right track. I finally went to see a therapist. It wasn’t a stroll through a park to put it mildly. The experience was/is truly both demanding and draining. I’ve opened up to strangers and found myself stuck with putting out things I never wanted out. A true spiral of emotional pain unfolded and has yet to finish revealing all that has been suppressed for years.

The first time I was in therapy I was terrified. I remember sitting there in a hospital’s reception hall waiting for my turn and all I could think of is, yes, this is a big step for me, I should be proud of myself, but on the other side my brain went nuts and kicked in a lifetime supply of anxiety attacks. When I sat in the chair in front of the doctor, I could barely speak my mind, I was still anxious and I could hear my heart beat go so fast. A true surreal experience, and I could say here and then things have gotten worse I suppose. The moment a label was put on everything I’ve gone through, that I truly felt the weight.

Before, I only suspected having an illness, I just thought that I am going through a phase of some momentarily sadness that will definitely pass once everything around me got better. But not once did I tell myself that I have an illness. Who would believe me if I said so? Almost everyone I know would say that I am just overacting or being dramatic. Now I am officially in the club. A membership holder of The Mentally Ill Folks. I was initially diagnosed of MDD and GAD (Stand for Mild Depression Disorder and General Anxiety Disorder) among other minimal features of other illnesses. The moment I was diagnosed I felt both relieved and worried. I actually felt a bizarre strike of unexplained happiness.

Finally, I have something to prove to people I know that I am not over-dramatic, I was not making a mountain out of a molehill all these times, I have a well-documented strong proof that I AM labeled. I am mentally ill! All my past emotional whether crazy or sane are justified now. I suddenly found myself in a very strange position; Everything I ever had before, felt before or even thought of before became distant all out of a sudden. Whenever I had a down-cycle my inner resistance to it deflated in a way, I no longer try to kick out of it like I used to, I simply gave up one way or another. A part of me thinks that it’s okay, I don’t have to fight it anymore; I actually have won. I am officially diagnosed by a real doctor as mentally ill. Why would I even fight? I have a long-lasting jail-free card I can use as I please to get my ass out of anything, whether to justify my own shortcomings or use it against others to win some sympathy to have things my way.

But that’s not all, as another part of me – the one that truly suffers – can’t stand it anymore as everything is plain to see and my thoughts are clear. You see; now it is much easier to delve deep into my past and identify all internal issues that I had and still have and by doing such a thing I’ve fallen into a much bigger shithole which is being OKAY with whatever that is. Don’t get me wrong, this is a truly magnificent thing to have; understanding the reasons of my own suffering, coming to peace with them and accepting them, all these might eventually lead to dissolve them and eradicate their grip on my life.

Now I find myself stuck in a labyrinth, unable to escape. Every day’s sunrise brings up the same question that I know the answer, but never able to utter it out loud. Do you want to get better? Recently I’ve decided that I won’t bullshit myself no more; I’ve been doing that for as long as I can remember. So, with this in mind and with the question too, my answer is no. I believe, I truly believe that I am going to get better eventually down the road, but my “eventually” hasn’t started yet, I am unable to move towards it, at least not when I am still here, not when I am too afraid to do what’s necessary.

Having a mental illness is quite a hassle, even a minor one like mine. I’ve seen, been with and around people who have mild to severe cases of mental illness for an extended period. Been there enough to understand the capacity of their suffering. Their immense and intense pain is immeasurable nor comparable to anything out there. These brave men and women put their lives on the lines every single day. And believe me you when I say this is no exaggeration. But with this comes another issue; me belittling my own suffering. I felt and believe that whatever I am facing day-to-day, whatever it felt doesn’t compare to what others feel or face, that I am privileged to have a mental illness in a minor degree! I began undermining my own pain.

Regardless of the countless sleepless nights, head-splitting headaches, anxious troubling thoughts, inability to perform, lingering fatigue, deafening self-conscious voices and continuous fear of what may come… I thought my pain was not enough to complain. As if pain is something to brag about. If I don’t have it in the right quantity, then I shouldn’t even bother to bitch and moan about it. But nonetheless, I bitched and moaned loudly about it to those who knew but still deep inside I didn’t feel that I am entitled to call myself ill. Who am I to fucking complain when other people have heavier and deeper shit? Me? The one with MILD DEPRESSION and some anxiety?! Give me a break.

From a psychological standpoint, I would say that these sterns from a low self-esteem issue or something or a deep emotional knot preventing me from enjoying the little things in life, even the thought of venting or even feeling good about myself and accepting my case. An accurately described analysis is it not? The reality of the situation is all of what I am saying, all of what I wrote and all of what I’m going to write makes no sense whatsoever, or perhaps it makes all the sense in the world. There’s no possible way of ever knowing if I am going to make it or not, if my life will get better or not, or if I get rid of my demons that haunt me every night or not. All I know for now is that I am labeled. I got my label when I was 18 years of age yet was never fully aware of it. And as I stand aware of who I am at this moment I can proudly state that I am a person of mental illness, and I am not ashamed of it.