On the surface, in high school I embraced my status as a mental health patient. I got myself a keychain that said “CERTIFIED CRAZY PERSON” and my nickname became Pinball, as I drunkenly bounced off the hallway walls. Inside, though, I hated myself.

Just a couple months into our sessions my therapist said, “I’m worried about you. I think you might be suicidal.” I snorted in laughter, and she demanded to know what was so funny.

Staring at my shoes, I quietly confessed, “I’ve tried twice already, since we started counseling.” She and I then had a serious talk, in which I committed to my safety and signed a contract. I didn’t tell her I didn’t care about the words on her silly yellow legal pad. I was desperate. Therapy wasn’t going to work. I was keeping my secrets.

But slowly, over years, the barriers came down and I started telling more of the truth. Yet there was one secret I continued to keep – that since I was a child, I’ve had visual and auditory hallucinations. I knew they weren’t real (most the time) but I was deeply ashamed of these symptoms. I was convinced I was broken beyond repair. Surely they locked people up for things like this. I would never tell.

More years passed, with new therapists and psychiatrists. I did eventually start sharing with my providers. I earned my college degree and found a job working with an investigator researching strategies to helps people with disabilities improve their financial well-being. My boss was incredibly supportive and encouraging, but even in this environment I would not open up about my mental illness.

I took a new job with more responsibility. I didn’t want to tell any of my friends, family or colleagues just how bad things were again getting inside,  although I started being honest with psychiatrist and my current therapist. I finally was admitted to the hospital. Over a few years I was hospitalized over a dozen times, put on various medications, and had thirty-seven ECT treatments.

During one of my hospital stays an artist came onto the unit and we made masks of our faces, which we then painted to represent our stories. My mask was red for anger and lavender for softness, with a lightning bolt down the middle and eyes of different colors. These masks were later used in an exhibit at the hospital. I changed my Facebook profile picture at that time to a picture of my mask, and quickly my phone started to ping with texts and voice messages – Are you OK? Did something happen? Do you need help?

I realized the picture concerned my friends, but I didn’t want to take the photograph down. I pondered this dilemma, while my phone continued to ping, and came to a conclusion that scared the daylights out of me.

I’d been a mental health advocate for decades. I’d served on government commissions and the NAMI NH board of directors. Yet I’d never been willing to tell my story. I realized I couldn’t fight stigma while hiding my  own truth. It was time to fess up.

I wrote about my mask – about how I’d made it while inpatient, and how I felt cracked down the middle because of my mental illness. I opened up about my depression and PTSD. I hit post.

And ping, ping, ping. People liking and loving my post. People saying me too, or my mom had bipolar, or my brother has schizophrenia, or I’ve felt suicidal before. The love started pouring in. And while it wasn’t all supportive, most were, and I ignored the ones that were unkind.

I didn’t stop there. I submitted an op-ed to the Union Leader about the ER boarding crisis for psychiatric patients, in which I shared about what it felt like for me to spend days in an ER, alone, in crisis, waiting for a bed to open up on a psychiatric unit. Gulp – it was published! Then I auditioned for This Is My Brave Concord in 2019, and was able to read my poem Homecoming on stage in that show.

I strongly believe in the power of our stories to heal each other. I didn’t trust my first therapist until she opened up and shared some of her trauma story with me – and was stunned that someone could go through such a thing and yet appear in front of me like a normal person. She gave me hope that someday I might function. My 12-Step sponsor gave me hope I could stay sober, and live a more normal life. And a lot of people with smaller roles in my life gave me bits of hope that added up into so much, that I could even start this blog.

There are so many ways of sharing your story – tell it, sing it, write it, dance it – just consider doing it. It doesn’t have to be about mental health. Is there something you’ve overcome? Sharing it may give another in your shoes some hope. And if you’re not ready right now, that’s ok. Just don’t slam the door shut. Be brave, spread hope.

“Homecoming” can be found on Invincible Hope here: https://karenprive.com/homecoming/