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.
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.
