Breaking Down & Building Up
Sharing my struggles with you is not glamorous, nor is it easy, and the trembling that vibrates through my body on my worst days was hard at work as I typed this. For these reasons, I ask for your kindness, not just for me but for all those around you. But more importantly, I ask for your bravery. Your courage is critical in addressing the stigma of mental health.
I am an anxious person. High-functioning, yes. But also very anxious. I have been all my life, though I’ve always masked my anxiety with ambition and activity. I’ve always managed my anxiousness by surrounding myself with friends, cleaning until my body is exhausted, and filling every moment of every day with something, from meetings and projects to workouts and hang outs. I’m good at hiding my anxiety by being hyper-productive and high-achieving, and for most of my life, I did a pretty good job of disguising my anxiousness with this drive. That is, until I moved to Hettinger.
When I moved to Hettinger, I felt as though I was not only propelled into the real world, but also into the role of a redeemer for this small town I hardly knew. I was surrounded by skepticism from some, unattainably high expectations from others, and a big, fat dose of imposter syndrome from myself. Combined with the fact that I received no formal training and I immediately found myself wrapped up in the politics and drama synonymous with small-towns, I found that my anxiety was growing worse. Despite my healthy eating, my ridiculously long hours working to catch up—to what, I’m not really sure—and my consistent work outs, my anxiety continued to grow. Suddenly it wasn’t a never-ending murmur in the back of my head thrumming to do more, be better. My anxiety grew into an incessant pounding, like a drum; worse yet, my body seemed to be vibrating with the beating and suddenly the air I was breathing couldn’t reach the bottom of my lungs. My body began to betray me during board meetings and events; no longer could I feign cool confidence like I had learned to do throughout my high school and college years. Instead, I spent most of my energy in my first and second year in Hettinger attempting to tame the shaking that took control of my body, working desperately to breathe deeply enough to reach the corners of my lungs to no avail. My solution was to work harder. Be better. Do more.
As I neared year three working at this insane pace with little relief for the anxiety that began to control me, I met my newest acquaintance: depression. Suddenly, I woke up and immediately began counting down the hours, minutes, seconds until I could go back to sleep. I was no longer energized by my work or time spent with friends. The smallest tasks exhausted me, and the thought of socializing, even with those whom I love so much, was too much to bear. I never felt hopeless, but I felt absolutely helpless. I was no longer in control of myself, physically or mentally. It was terrifying.
I struggled to accept just how bad things were. I thought that if I was just more positive, if I poured myself into my work, if I forced myself to run a littler further, eat a little healthier, achieve another milestone, I would get better. But I didn’t.
Thanks to the coaxing of those who watched me retreat, I finally reached out. But the decision to do so was difficult. Although I am a fierce supporter of my friends facing mental health challenges, and the first to suggest counseling or a visit to the doctor to address the chemical imbalances likely festering in their brains, I feared getting help. I worried about the stigma of a community leader like me asking for help. I worried that my burdens, so small in comparison to so many others, were a waste of precious mental health resources. I worried that admitting to my struggles would mean invalidating my strengths. Logically, I knew none of these thoughts were true. In fact, I had argued ardently against them when advocating for my friends’ mental health.
When I finally did reach out to get help, I won’t lie to you: I felt conflicted. On one hand I was immensely relieved; on the other hand, I was embarrassed at the state of myself. I was supposed to be the shoulder to cry on, the mover and the shaker, the one who had it all together. What I couldn’t reconcile while in that isolated valley of mine, was that I was all of those things; but I was also human. In the two years since, I have ridden the roller coaster of mental health with as much grace as I can muster, sometimes thriving and other times surviving.
The birth of my daughter Josie Rue has caused the most colossal shift in my mental health. She brings immeasurable joy into my life. But she also makes life immeasurably harder. Her health has left me weary at times, and her rapid growth leaves me vacillating between sorrow and joy. With Josie, it is easier to say no and to devote myself to my family as fiercely as I do to my work. But with Josie, I feel a new kind of pressure to be kinder, be healthier, be better, be more for her.
These changes throughout the last few years have been unsteadying to say the least. Recent changes at work, challenges faced by those I love, heartache in Hettinger and the pressure of launching Realizing Rural with Cassidy have amplified my depression and anxiety yet again.
Having grown fiercer in my advocacy for mental health with my friends, family, and community than ever before in light of all that life has thrown at us in the last year or two, I have realized that I needed to swallow a little of that advocacy myself. Workouts and self-care, loved ones and medications are only as good as they are effective. Knowing that these things weren’t doing the trick, I mustered the bravery to call and make an appointment for counseling a few weeks back. As the phone rang, my mind buzzed with nerves and relief. When they told me they would have to put me on a waiting list, my chest deflated slightly. There was so much need that the local counselor had taken on nearly 20 new clients in the weeks prior to my call. A few hours of internet searching later, I found a clinic willing to accept my insurance with a counselor I thought I might click with, who was equipped to take virtual clients. Once again, I gathered what little grit I had left and called to schedule an appointment. The earliest appointment available was April. It was January. I made a few more calls like this before I resigned myself to the fact that although I have been preaching, my community has been preaching for months that “help is out there,” the truth of the matter is this: help is there if you a. have health insurance and b. are far enough out from a crisis that you can wait the three-to-four months it takes to get an appointment with a counselor. On one hand, this is great: people are actually reaching out for help during what has been an incredibly trying couple of years for our community and our world. On the other hand, this is terrifying: I can’t imagine what it would be like to be rejected by a counselor during a true mental health crisis. Nor can I imagine what it must be like as a therapist, with a bleeding heart for service, having to turn brave but hurting souls away.
Mental health is so incredibly important, and the coping mechanisms you use for yours absolutely have to be unique to you. Zumba and Zoloft? Counseling and cuddles? Netflix and knitting? It doesn’t matter the method of mollifying, as long as it works for you. What I’m realizing as I grow older, though, is that we don’t just need individuals brave enough to seek out what soothes their mental health issues.
We need access to services that are readily available, both in the urban areas inundated with people and the rural areas raised to believe in the power of our bootstraps. And we need leaders willing to share their experiences with mental health, willing to expose the challenges and triumphs within the true mental health work we all must do. We need role models willing to normalize the good, the bad and the ugly, and share their struggles so that we can suppress the stigma that we all suffer from.
Sharing my struggles with you is not glamorous, nor is it easy, and the trembling that vibrates through my body on my worst days was hard at work as I typed this. For these reasons, I ask for your kindness, not just for me but for all those around you. But more importantly, I ask for your bravery. Your courage is critical in addressing the stigma of mental health; whether that means seeking out counseling, taking the next step in your self-care, sharing your story, or crusading for systemic change, your efforts are essential. Mental health is monumental, and we’re living it together.
