This morning, I woke up at 6:30am and did yoga. Afterwards,
I cut up fresh fruit, sat down and read my favorite book with a pen in one hand and
a French pressed coffee in the other. The rest of my day was filled with
writing letters to old friends, answering emails and finishing the first
chapter of my book.
Just kidding.
This morning, I actually rolled out of bed at 10am, already
overwhelmed by life, and found my way to the couch. Netflix informed me six
hours later that I had finally completed my goal of watching every episode of
Dance Moms (quite an accomplishment.) Throw in some bathroom breaks, a snack
run, a little self-loathing and you’ve got a pretty good picture of what my
life looks like on “bad days.”
Some of you know why I decided to take a semester off of school and others of you are now just realizing why I’ve been missing from class for the past two weeks.
Sorry about that.
It’s no secret that I’ve struggled
with anxiety and depression in the past, but until recently I thought that I
had put these issues to rest. Surprise! I relapsed. It started in the beginning
of Summer 2014, but I didn’t reach out for help until this past month.
There were a few misguided reasons behind my unwillingness
to ask for help:
1)
If I asked for help from my school I could have
potentially been kicked out because many of the coping mechanisms I used were
against school policy;
2)
I didn’t ask my parents for help because I’m an
adult and should be able to handle my own problems; and
3)
I didn’t ask my friends because I didn’t want to
burden them.
Really, it all came down to pride and the deep sense of
shame that I carried with me. The stigma of mental illness is a very real
thing. It’s scary to those who experience it and confusing for those who
witness it. For me, though, it was nothing new.
In those months, I slept a lot, cried a lot, and lacked
motivation to do anything. Unable to stop time, Spring rolled around and
I halfheartedly convinced myself it would be better. But I knew I needed to ask for help when I
found myself unable to leave my room because of debilitating anxiety after only
the first day of classes. The thought of being in a room
full of people paralyzed me.
This once small problem had grown into a monster of its own,
one that I could no longer control. So that same day, I sat down, wrote out a
pro/con list and ultimately decided that it was time to take a break.
It was the best
decision I could have made for myself.
Now, I’m a walking cliché: 24 and living in my parent’s
basement. But that’s not going to get me down. When I finally got the courage
to talk with my parents about everything that had been going on and my plans
for the future, I was blown away by their love and support. Likewise, my
friends have brought me to tears with their kindness.
In fact, this past week I ran away from home (can adults
still do that?) My best friend and I decided
to take a road trip down to her place in Kansas. So here I am, indulging myself
with frivolous reading, sweatpant wearing and long talks
with the dog of the house. It’s been great.
And did I mention that they live in an eternal Fall here in
Wichita? Seriously, these people don’t know how good they have it. While
everyone in Chicago is trudging around, waist-deep in snow, I’ve been sporting
a t-shirt and sneakers and have had the privilege of sleeping with my window
open at night.
I don’t know what life will hold for me when I step off that
bus back in Chicago, but I do know that I’ve already found some healing in the
quiet moments of life.
While I initially wrote this post to inform friends and
family where I disappeared to and why, I also wanted to take time to
encourage those who sympathize with my story. Asking for help was one of the
hardest and most humbling things I’ve ever had to do, but it was absolutely
worth it. For those of you who are struggling, please reach out until someone
listens. There is hope and healing even if it looks like moving back into your
parent’s basement.
