I always considered myself to be the more stable child. In no way is that an attack on my sister, but she struggled a lot when we were younger. After many back-to-back influential events–our grandpa passing away, my dad moving to Kentucky when the economy crashed, and my aunt developing breast cancer–my sister developed severe separation anxiety for my mom. In hindsight, it makes total sense. She didn’t want to see another person in her life potentially leave.

 

However, my ten-year-old mind was so confused. It wasn’t that hard to be dropped off at our dance studio for a couple of hours or be left alone while our mom ran up to the grocery store that was a mile away. I thought my sister was just being immature, and I so desperately wanted her to grow up. My mom even made me attend a therapy session with her once because she thought that would help me understand, but I thought the whole thing was stupid. I can officially say that karma came to bite me in the ass.

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I was diagnosed with severe anxiety in the already unfortunate year of 2020. I knew before then that I was at least somewhat socially anxious because the thought of meeting new people made me visibly quake. My knowledge of this fact also came to me when, in the backseat of my grandma’s 2001 silver Dodge Neon, she told me that I was obviously socially anxious. I was in denial of that for a while, though. I never wanted to admit that I wasn’t okay; I wasn't allowed to as the older sister. My anxiety didn’t look like my sister’s anxiety. Bouts of depression started in 2015, but I attributed it to a bad year, nothing more and nothing less. Only when I was stuck at home for months on end and my mom was able to see my worst panic attacks and lack of eating that she realized I needed professional help.

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My embarrassment shone through when asking for help. My pediatrician asked if I was purposely starving myself and I felt my face burn red as I shook my head, knowing that I actively lied to her. When I mentioned my anxiety, I mumbled my words, not wanting to hear her recommendations for cognitive behavioral therapy, or CBT. I called my now therapist and begrudgingly asked for availability, mentioning that I didn’t want therapy, just medication to make it all go away. She told me it didn’t work that way and if I just wanted medication, I would have to call someone else. I caved and decided to start CBT with her a few weeks later.

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I was ashamed to tell people that I got help. Therapy was simply a meeting I took in my room from 10-11am that my roommates were not allowed to interrupt. I couldn’t even admit to my therapist that I thought I have anxiety. For the first few sessions, she called me shy and a little nervous.

 

One of the first friends I told about my therapy appointments was an old high school friend. We met to get coffee and he asked why I was busy before our coffee chat. I couldn’t lie to him–I was never able to–so I admitted with my head hung low that I attended therapy. He told me he was proud of me. I genuinely believe that was the best response I could have received. He validated me when I was so fearful to admit that I wasn’t okay, that I was one of the people that actually deserved help. That feeling lasted for about a week.

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Once my therapist realized that I have anxiety, depression, and an eating disorder, she suggested going on medication. Instead of the relief I wanted to feel because it would finally go away, I was terrified. The conversations about therapy were just becoming easier; now I had to tell people that I am medicated. I didn’t know anyone who took antidepressants, and I was scared of being perceived as a freak.

 

To clarify, I would never think of someone who takes medication for their mental health as a freak. I fully supported people getting the help they needed. When my freshman year roommate told me she took medication for her PTSD, I thanked her for telling me and let her know if she needed me, I’d be there. I just didn’t allow myself to be a part of the people who needed help. Yet, I booked an appointment with University Health Services to get started on 25 milligrams of Zoloft which quickly increased to 50 milligrams.

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I refused to tell my friends that I started medication. It never came up in conversation and I made sure of it. When I drank with my friends and got too drunk too quickly or got sick the next morning, I attributed it to the fact that I was a lightweight, a result of weight loss. On days when I forgot to take my medication and was a bit jumpier, I just told others that I had a lot on my plate. I hid my orange bottles from my roommates in our shared bathroom, making sure to conceal the CVS prescription bag whenever I received one. It shouldn’t have felt as embarrassing as it did. People took medication for illnesses all the time; usually, though, their illnesses manifested visually whereas mine are all in my mind.

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The first time I told a friend that I take antidepressants was in a game of drunken Truth or Dare. He asked me to tell him a secret, so I confessed that I attend therapy and take antidepressants. I was worried about his response, worried that he would view me in a different light. He thanked me for telling him and stated that if I ever needed anything to just let him know. He didn’t make a snide remark about the medications, didn’t laugh at me for going to a “shrink.” I felt minutely relieved.

 

After that December night, I started confiding in more friends about my help. They no longer make fun of me for being a lightweight and instead consistently ask if I am okay throughout a night out. My friends were my rock, especially when I needed to rely on them during medication changes. These changes unfortunately happen frequently, resulting in my mood to change a lot. When I initially switched from Zoloft to Prozac, I was a different person, doing things that I never would have done before like losing my virginity to a somewhat stranger. I was a wreck, but my friends–especially my roommates–helped me be less of a wreck.

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Mental health treatment is so important yet often dismissed as something arbitrary. My family consists of many members that struggle with mental illness–depression, separation anxiety, ADHD, PTSD–but so many refuse to get the help they need, too stubborn to admit that they aren't okay. This refusal of acknowledging that they need help fed into my cycle of believing that I don’t deserve help, that when I did decide to receive it, I would become the pill guzzler of the family.

 

Thankfully, none of them openly view me that way, but none of them responded particularly well. My mom, my biggest cheerleader, begs me to get off every new medication I begin. My dad who only ever asks about my degree and what I am doing with it doesn’t know the half of my mental illness, doesn’t bother to know it. My grandma whom I inherited the anxiety and depression from sobbed when she realized that I started taking antidepressants.

 

Their reactions aid my ambivalence to whether I truly deserve help or not. Maybe I should get off of medications or not talk about my illnesses as frequently, like my parents suggest. While I have been clinically diagnosed with my illnesses by many professionals, I often gaslight myself into thinking that I don’t have it nearly as bad as other people, that I’m just being overdramatic. As big of an advocate I am for other people receiving the treatment that they need and deserve, I just can’t believe that I am someone worthy of treatment.