It's Just Hair.

Having a mood disorder is exhausting.

Everyone has different experiences with mental illness. I go through periods of hypomania where I feel invincible, only to crash shortly after and become susceptible to depressive episodes. When I'm manic, I feel like I need to broadcast all of my thoughts to the world and start a million different projects. When depression takes over, I become overwhelmed from the over-commitment caused by my manic self and struggle to accomplish even the most basic self-care tasks.

While I've been released from professional treatment, having a mood disorder is still a lifelong diagnosis. I will still experience extreme fluctuations in my mood, but now I am better equipped to detect and cope with my symptoms. As a high-functioning individual in a highly-visible professional role, when in the midst of a depressive episode I tend to go through periods of self-sabotage where other parts of my life come secondary in order to ensure my work performance remains consistent.

About a year ago I stumbled upon a story about a hairstylist who provided a complete transformation to a client suffering from major depression. The woman had gone 6 months without brushing or maintaining her hair, and the stylist spent over 8 hours attempting to restore some normalcy to her client's life. While I've never had an episode this extreme, it was highly relatable. Daily tasks such as grooming, taking out the trash, or shopping for groceries can seem impossible to someone deep in a depressive state.

Growing up I always had a love-hate relationship with my hair. In High School, like many girls my age, I would spend hours straightening my hair, and desperately avoid situations where my natural waves would peek through. Luckily, when I went off to college I learned to embrace my natural waves in all of their impossibly thick glory. I've had people stop me in public to compliment the length and texture, and to ask me what my secret is (it's a good scalp massage in the shower and a microfiber towel to dry, btw).

The tragic thing about having long, luscious locks is that the longer it gets, the harder it is to take care of. (And if you've been paying any attention these last few minutes, you'll know where this anecdote is headed). Yesterday I woke up nearly 2 weeks into a depressive episode and realized that I was becoming the girl from the hair transformation story. While certainly not to the same extreme, making myself look presentable on a daily basis had been becoming a struggle. I had two choices: either continue the cycle of self-sabotage, or to change my circumstances. I chose the latter. I was lucky enough to find a nearby salon that could accommodate the 3 hour ordeal that is a cut and color on short notice, and afterwards felt like a weight had been lifted (in this case the weight was 5+ inches of mostly split ends).

All taken within 24 hours: depressed, coping, and 'normal'

I'm not suggesting that a haircut cures depression, but becoming in-tune with and making time for whatever self-care rituals may be important to you is essential to maintaining optimal mental wellness; instead of cutting hair, you may need to cut out a person, a toxic environment, or a bad habit. It's hard to feel in control when you're deep in a depressive state, but know that only you know what your best self feels like and the amount of strength it takes to get there. 

Anniversaries.

It was one year ago today--I can remember it very clearly: I was sitting in a childhood park with a coloring book and an iced tea; in some ways, I think I was trying to transport myself to a simpler time. 

I was almost all alone, but a few tables away there was a couple completely enveloped in their own PDA to notice me while I sobbed, phone in hand. This would be the first time I would say out loud to someone: "...I need help, I think I have depression." 

Depression can take many forms

Fast forward a year later, and I'm currently in a much healthier place; that's not to say that this milestone didn't come without it's challenges and setbacks. Countless therapy appointments, an antidepressant prescription, and a focus on self-care has helped me get back on the right path.

Everyone's journey with mental illness is unique, which means that no treatment plan should be one-size-fits-all. My path so far has had two distinct phases: first it was convincing myself I was worth it with cognitive behavioral therapy against negative self-talk. With consistent practice I  was able to reach a plateau in this aspect.

 After a while, I became more in tune with certain injustices that used to cause me to become flooded with self-doubt. Now instead of questioning myself and reacting submissively, I became very quick to react to situations with aggression or passive-aggressiveness. This was the beginning of my next phase of my treatment: assertiveness training.  

It hasn't been easy, but I've learned that I can say no, that I can stand up for myself, and I can break up with any negativity that is holding me back. 

A year ago I was questioning my competency in my current role, and almost a year later I made the difficult decision to leave my company after 4 years.  After becoming mentally strong enough to begin standing up for myself and others, I underestimated the constant need to do so. I quickly became burnt out and disengaged in my role and asked myself why I was putting up with such behavior to begin with. It was hard to leave others who I know are also struggling behind, but ultimately I had to make a decision that was best for my health and continued growth.

Mental illness can impact anyone, regardless of your socioeconomic status or countless other demographics. The first step towards healing--and often the hardest--is admitting that you need help. It may not feel like it at the time, but you deserve it and things can and will get better.

A year ago I just wanted to hold onto a job--now I'm starting a brand new one and applying to graduate school--things I once thought impossible. 

I will never be cured of my depression, but at least I know I'm on the right path to manage it and continue to live my life to the fullest.

Anxiety.

It’s almost noon. Day 3 of a 4 day weekend. There is so much that could have been accomplished by now, but instead I’ve been forcing myself back to sleep, since it’s the only place the anxiety can’t get to me.

It was a relief the first time someone said, “You have major depression.” At least it validated that there was something wrong with me—even if I couldn’t make it go away, this isn’t the way I’m supposed to feel, and there are ways to cope.

Anxiety is a symptom of my depression, but some days it feels like it’s the star player. All the “what ifs?” and “why bothers?” can just turn into a vicious unstoppable cycle.

“I really should have cleaned the apartment last weekend.”

“I haven’t worked out in over a week; I’ll never be able to get back on track.”

“I was doing so good--why am I like this? Why can’t I keep it together?”

Still, I get out of bed. The past three days I’ve focused on keeping myself occupied that I forgot to eat until 1-2pm. At least I can get a breakfast in today. Veggies, Eggs, I can make something fairly healthy; maybe this is the day I can start over again.

“You’re only going to get off track again.”

I start chopping garlic, onion, tomato—it sounds silly but chopping ingredients has always been therapeutic to me. Knowing that I can transform and combine the ordinary into something flavorful is truly satisfying. The best feeling is when I get the mise en place (“everything in its place”) just right; I might not have control over everything in my life, but at least perfecting this one process gives me a boost in my mood.

Meanwhile, I decide to start a batch of chicken stock. I’ve been making my own vegetable stock out of scraps for months, so I was glad to have a leftover chicken carcass to try a new savory flavor. I combine the chicken with a bag I had already started for veggie stock and a few spices—I love when I find opportunities to become more sustainable. Ideally, I would really like to begin composting someday.

“Who are you kidding? You’re never going to follow through. Think of the mess you’ll make.”

My breakfast is finally done. To my surprise, everything turned out perfect. No overdone onions, no underdone tomatoes, and the spinach was perfectly wilted. A quick taste verify that the seasoning was spot-on; switching to kosher salt a few months ago was definitely the way to go, and adding a dash of basil? Brilliant.

Quickly I plate in an appealing wide blue bowl. I get my phone ready and take a photo near several of my windows looking for just the right light.

I started a weight loss/fitness Instagram several months ago, and it has done wonders for my confidence/staying on track. It’s easy to read fitness blogs and hear from people who have been fit/healthy every single day of their lives, but surrounding people who are at all stages of their progress makes my journey feel more real/attainable.

Finally I find the right light in my living room, and after applying a quick filter, it’s ready to post. Just need to optimize with a few select #hashtags, and it’s posted within seconds. Quickly the usual handful of people “like” my photo—I’m not sure if they actually reading/enjoying the context or are just mindlessly liking down their feed, but that’s social media for you.

“If only those people knew how messy your house was…”

I look around. Clean laundry scattered around my living room, wondering if it will ever make it to a closet. My brand new coffee table is already scattered with miscellaneous knick-knacks, many of which could easy be recycled. My kitchen, one of the places that make me feel most whole is a complete disaster. Dishes pile up in the sink, the garbage and recycling needed to be taken out at least two days ago, and my floor needs to be wiped of kitchen masterpieces that have long since been enjoyed.

“This is impossible. How can I possible clean AND workout AND make dinner today? I should just go back to sleep….”

The dishes should only take about ten minutes, and once I take out the recycling sweeping should be fairly easy. I always have tomorrow to mop. At least the bathroom’s clean, it could be worse.

“But…”

I could easily throw chicken and veggies in the slow cooker before I head to the gym, and the gym is open until 7 anyways.

“I suppose…”

What I really need to do with my laundry is see what needs to be donated before I put everything away. I bet I could get rid of a good number of items, and doing laundry won’t be that big of a hassle going forward.

“…..”

Here I am, although my eggs are now cold my mood has elevated and I have a plan in hand. Depression and Anxiety may be something I live with the rest of my life but when I focus on the smaller battles rather than a lifelong war, I think I’ll do just fine.

My name is Alyssa.

I am 27 years old.

I have a deep appreciation of cooking, travel, and ironic memes.

I have a successful career, and love my cats more than anything/everything ever.

I am a high-functioning depressive with generalized anxiety disorder.

Why am I telling you this?

I guess I’m sick of skirting around the issue.

People of all walks of life suffer from mental illness, and I happen to be one of the 18% of the US adult population who are identified as having a mental illness every year.

When I first noticed that something was “off” with me, I wanted nothing more to be reassured that I wasn’t alone. I wanted to know that someone else understood the irrational hopelessness and fear I felt, despite “having it all”. I dreaded making that first call to my Employee Assistance Program seeking help, fearing I would be told that they wouldn’t be able to help me—that my issues “weren’t bad enough” and I was on my own. By seeking help and admitting to my issues I didn’t want anyone to look at me differently, to think I was weak or fragile.  

 This was rock-bottom for me; despite being surrounded by all of the love in the world, I still felt completely alone.

It’s been almost four months since I’ve sought professional help and I haven’t looked back since. Since I’m now in a much better place, I’ve had a growing desire to become more vocal about mental health issues, but feared that my “coming out” would be seen as a cry for attention (insert commentary from my therapist here, pointing out that I’m making assumptions again…).

Through my own experience, my eyes have been opened to the lack of resources and understanding about mental illness. I’m fortunate that I have health insurance and a flexible work environment to receive ongoing treatment (I see a therapist 2-4 times a month and take a prescribed antidepressant every day), but only 41% of adults in the U.S. with a mental health condition received mental health services in the past year. Not only can the burdens to receiving care be financial, but there is a severe shortage of mental health professionals in general (more than half of US Counties have zero mental health professionals whatsoever).

I remember in the beginning of my treatment my therapist felt our sessions would be much more effective if I received a clinical diagnosis from a psychiatrist and began medication. Shortly after, I called two separate healthcare organizations to receive a referral to a psychiatrist; the first call: 6 month waitlist. The second call: 3 month waitlist (reminder that I live in the largest city in the state). I can very clearly remember the breakdown I had after making those calls, completely wiping away the small progress I had made at that point. I was beginning to feel that there would never be an end in sight. The worst part for me was never when I was having a panic attack or breakdown, but rather whenever I started to feel the slightest bit better: instead of focusing on my progress, I would be fixated on when the hopelessness would rear its ugly head again.

Fortunately in my case thanks to consistent, continued treatment and finally opening up to a support system I've regained my quality of life back. 

So that’s my story. I haven't changed, in fact, I've probably liked about ten cat pictures after posting this. Most people know me as having a realistic, self-depreciating sense of humor and I think my illness deserves to be part of that. I may not be ever able to cure my illness, but at least I can do my very best to normalize it.  

(I stole a bunch of stats from here: http://www.nami.org/Learn-More/Mental-Health-By-the-Numbers)