I have struggled with my mental health for my entire life. I don’t remember a time I didn’t think about suicide, and first attempted when I was just six years old.

My mental illness finds its roots in childhood trauma – ongoing physical and sexual abuse from the time I was a baby. I was sixteen when I realized my brother needed protection and I turned my family into the authorities. The state insisted I see a therapist, who quickly diagnosed me with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and major depression.

I have stayed in therapy ever since, but was resistant to the suggestion that I also see a psychiatrist and go on medication for my depression – in spite of the severity of my symptoms. I was suicidal, hallucinating, and unable to function. I dropped out of college for financial reasons, but basically, I found myself unable to go to class many days and consequently my grades stunk.

If it weren’t for the compassion of a friend who let me crash on her couch, after I left school I would have been on the streets. As it was, I often wandered them aimlessly. I couldn’t work. Inanimate objects were speaking to me. I refused to go to the soup kitchen or accept other help. I was sober by then, but my mind was a really bad neighborhood. After being given an ultimatum by a mentor, I finally saw a psychiatrist.

The first medication wasn’t helpful, but the second prescription moved me in a new direction. I wasn’t without symptoms, but they helped enough so that I could begin to function in life. I found a job, and excelled at my new position. I was soon able to move into a roommate situation and get off the couch. My life began to change. I started taking therapy seriously, too, instead of using it as a place to just complain about my life. I also started making friends.

Treatment didn’t cure my mental illness – to this day I meet the criteria for Complex-PTSD and major depression. Still, medication and therapy help keep the ups and downs more manageable.

Around 2015 my depression again became severe. Perimenopause changed my chemistry so the medications used to help me no longer were effective. My doctor and I changed my medications several times but eventually I was admitted to a psychiatric ward, suicidal and desperate for help.

This was the first time I had been on an inpatient unit, but would not be the last. I had several electro-convulsive therapy (ECT) treatments. It’s not like the movies – rather, I was given a little anesthesia and lots of encouragement. The first round of treatments were helpful – I began to feel better, and less obsessed with suicide.

I also go to a lot of peer support groups – many National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) Connection meetings, but also those offered by the Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance (DBSA) and the Hearing Voices Network. Peer support groups have taught me that I am not alone. My mental illness can shame me into believing I’m unique and hopeless, but my peers share their stories and I fit right in. More importantly, they welcome me.  

There is no shame in having a mental health struggle. In our lifetime, most of us will have some degree of depression, anxiety or psychosis. I’m grateful I finally learned to accept help for my issues. I felt like I didn’t deserve the air that I breathed, but today I know I’m just as worthy as anyone else.

May is Mental Health Awareness Month. Consider sharing your story – sit down with a friend or trusted family member. If you want to share more publicly, NAMI offers training to learn to share your story of hope– reach out to your local affiliate or your state organization and ask about In Our Own Voice.

You’re not alone.

Find your local NAMI at https://nami.org/Home.