Secrets Silenced by the Shame

Words by Leanne Byman

Warning: This article references anxiety, depression, PTSD, sexual assault, and rape. Reader discretion is advised.

Nobody should have to go through this alone:

Hamline Counseling and Health Services: (651) 523-2204

SOS Sexual Violence Services of Ramsey County: (652) 266-1000

National Alliance on Mental Illness: (800) 950-6264 | www.nami.org

***

The worldwide mental health epidemic has increasingly grown over the past few decades. Every year, 26% of adults in the United States suffer from at least one mental illness.^ Globally, depression is on track to become the second leading cause of disease burden worldwide by 2020 and the highest cause by 2030, according to predictions by the World Health Organization.^ It is beyond important that we create environments where we can speak bluntly about what it is like to live with a mental illness.

Let me introduce myself. Hi! My name is Leanne. I’m 21 years old, enjoy reading and music, and there are some days when I can’t persuade myself to get out of bed. I’ve dealt with mental illness for as long as I can remember. I wasn’t officially diagnosed until age 19 because I didn’t want to admit that something might be wrong with me. However, I know that I’ve lived with some of my illnesses since childhood—mental illness has been my lifelong companion.

Growing up, I’d always known my mental state didn’t seem to be quite “normal,” but I desperately wanted it to be. I didn’t want to admit that I might have something very, very wrong with me. It felt like going to the doctor and actually mentioning it would be admitting defeat. The idea seemed comparable to finally admitting to the world that I wasn’t good enough. I already privately believed this, but by actually telling others about it I would have nowhere to hide. People would know. This was something I couldn’t handle.

Two years ago I finally persuaded myself to seek out treatment and in doing so received my diagnoses: Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Major Depressive Disorder, and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. In order to encourage understanding of what it is like to be mentally ill in a world full of stigma and stereotypes, I want to share my personal experiences with being a mentally ill person. Furthermore, while I can not and do not speak for other mentally ill people, I know we share some similar experiences. This being the case, I also want to be a voice for others who cannot yet share their stories.

Anxiety

I was a nervous child. I hesitated to do things that other children did with aplomb. I worried over every possible outcome I could think of for a scenario . All of them were bad, and each one tended to be worse than the last. I grew up believing this was normal for people to do. I didn’t realize that each decision a person makes is not generally accompanied by a stomachache and all-consuming worry.

With anxiety, it can be challenging to make choices and do things, even if the desire is there. I can make myself a promise that yes, this time I will go to this on-campus event I’ve always wanted to, but often I have to convince myself over and over that it is a good idea. I run through every positive benefit of attending the event in my head, but even with my efforts to convince myself it is the right choice, I regularly talk myself out of it. It is too easy to convince myself that I’ll feel uncomfortable, won’t be welcomed, or will be judged. There has been many a time I have stood outside an event, doing my utmost to work up the courage to walk in. Sometimes, I succeed. Other times, I leave, even if I very much wanted to attend.

My anxiety isn’t logical. I have no control over panic attacks. They can be over the smallest things. A little over a year ago, as I was preparing for an interview, I had a panic attack when I realized my hairbrush was missing. It sounds trivial, and really, it was. All I needed to do was buy a new one. That’s the thing about anxiety: I know I am panicking over something easily fixed, but I can’t stop my body from reacting with an anxiety attack.

When I’m anxious, pressure rises up through my chest and up my throat. It constricts my airways. My palms get sweaty, my heart pounds, and I get shaky. It feels as though my throat is stuffed with cotton balls. During full-blown panic attacks, I start to hyperventilate. Shivering and tears follow soon after. It feels as though an icyclawed hand has a grip on my throat and lungs. My hyperventilation will lead to dizziness and a swirling kaleidoscope of thoughts, feelings, and primal fear. I am unable to function at all when these occur. I cannot stop them. I have no choice but to let them ride their course.

Depression

My depression comes as apathy. It manifests as a lack of belief in the world, a lack of belief in humanity to do good things. It comes as a bonedeep and seeping exhaustion, which at its worst, lingers for weeks and weeks. No matter what I try, I can’t get it to budge.

For me, depression is wishing that I didn’t have to continue to live. As a teenager, I was genuinely upset because I knew that if I lived until old age, I was still over 50 years away from death. I fantasized about dying in some tragic and beautiful way—a horrific accident, a martyr’s death. Nothing that would hurt anyone except for me. My family might be upset, but I was sure they would be able to move past it. Then I wouldn’t need to live anymore. I didn’t want to. I just wanted it to be over.

Hope is one of those illusive concepts that I have struggled and struggled to locate, grasp, and hold onto. Every time I think I’ve found it, it gets away from me again.

Sometimes when I wake up in the morning, the thought of getting out of bed is so unfathomably daunting that I grab my phone and send an email to my professor that I’m sick—have a stomach bug. I don’t, but if I were to write the truth—that I am struggling to work up the motivation to face the day, that I feel stuck and like I can’t—I won’t be excused from class. It doesn’t happen often, but every time it does, I feel like I’ve failed.

It’s so hard to find the motivation to try my best when I don’t know what I’m living for. I told my dad that I struggle to find a purpose to exist and that I wish I didn’t. He didn’t say anything. I know he loves me and that he just doesn’t know how to respond, but that doesn’t make it feel any better. The silence is a towering beast of judgment and discomfort. It makes me want to justify myself, to explain why I am this way. I would, if only I knew.

The silence is a towering beast of judgment and discomfort.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder

It’s a little more clear to me why I have PTSD.

It’s because I still sometimes wake up in a cold sweat, shaky and nauseous and so afraid.

It’s because of harsh fingers, hands, legs, pushing me down.

It’s because of a heartbeat, hammering so fast I suspect it will explode.

It’s because of a hissed snarl: Stop struggling.

It’s because when I was quite literally on the other side of the globe, I was convinced that he was coming back, that he would find me, that I would never escape.

It’s because of breathing hard fast light-headed dizzy he’s coming he’s coming he’s coming.

It’s because even though we shouldn’t need to pretty up our words to make the idea of trauma and mental illness more palatable to others, I cannot speak about this in any other way.

Even to this day, over four years later, when I start to talk about what happened I tremble. Every part of me wavers over an abyss. My hands shake, my voice gets caught in my throat, I shiver and shiver.

It’s because of the pit of helplessness and isolation and fear. It’s because I can still feel the spear of horror in my stomach and wave of terror when I remember.

While I was being raped, I didn’t know what was happening. I know that sounds naive. It wasn’t that I didn’t know what intercourse constituted. I did. It was that my mind could not comprehend that he would do this to me. The only thing happening in my head was a danger siren. It told me what to do. Perhaps that was the fight or flight response. All I could think was danger danger danger danger danger danger danger. I knew that if I didn’t move my body this certain way, or struggle as much as I could, horrible things would happen. My brain wouldn’t even let myself admit what those horrible things were. I just knew that they would happen.

I don’t know who that girl was. The Leanne I knew never would have been in a situation like that. So who was it? Who was that girl? The Leanne I am never would have let that happen to her. I have struggled with my identity for a long while, but ever since then things have gotten a lot more fragmented.

Maybe one positive thing that has come out of this is that I now know I would fight. I wouldn’t just passively let it happen again. I am strong enough, even at my most vulnerable, to fight for myself and my wellbeing. In a twisted sort of way, it is empowering to be aware of that.

Living

I know what stigma is. I know it informs the way I view myself, and colors my every waking moment. I know my self-disgust is actively made worse when I can’t measure up to my impossibly high standards. I know this occurs due to stigma. But knowing something and successfully using it to re-shape how I view myself are two very different things.

I am fortunate that my day to day life is a lot more positive than some of the experiences I have had. I continue to successfully travel through my life and try my utmost to keep the despair at bay.

I don’t want sympathy. I want to interrupt the heavy and shameful and awkward silence that surrounds mental illness. I want people to know.

^https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/me/articles/PMC5316796/

Title is from Hope of Morning by Icon for Hire

***

The author would like to note that she is seeking treatment, has been prescribed medication, and will continue to do her best to care for herself.

The author spoke with people across this campus who also experience mental illness. Here are selected quotes about their experiences:

“I hid for too long.”

“Anxiety feels like a cold numb rush on my back, shoulders, and the front of my head. That numb stage could persist for days, while I tell myself that I can’t breakdown yet, I’ve got to hold it off.”

“I can be physically and emotionally numb for days.”

"I was sure that people knew that something was wrong—like they could smell it or hear it in the way I walk."

"You can KNOW you're being irrational, but you can't stop thinking the irrational thought."

"I am aware of my illnesses every day."

"I fake a lot of my reactions to things. I gauge accordingly to what I think the situation is."

"As an artist—I don't like people being like 'oooh, mental illness makes you produce the best art.' Van Gogh made his best art after he checked himself into an asylum. Your inner darkness is NOT what produces your best art."

"I live in fear of the look in people's eyes when I tell them I'm mentally ill. Every time, it feels like they're thinking 'Oh. You're not normal. I should keep my distance.'"