my brand of mental illness

The layers just keep peeling away.

I wrote this incredibly cheesy essay for school that I'm trying to spare you from. The prompt was to write about an issue that has impacted on our lives. While attempting to avoid another diatribe on feminism or sexual harassment, I reached instead for something that has had a large impact on my life but has always been one of my deep, dark secrets. I think part of growing up is accepting our rough edges along with our smooth ones and so I'm no longer embarrassed to admit that I may not be as perfect as I had always hoped I would be. Especially after becoming very close friends with several people who have their own brands of mental struggles, I'm okay now with admitting my own. Publicly.

If someone were to be cast in a movie with my divergence from rationality, it would most likely be the nerdy kid with the glasses and the inhaler or else the over-dramatic aunt who watches too much Dr. Oz. And while the irony of being a self-diagnosed hypochondriac doesn't escape me, I can assure you that this is the issue I've been dealing with for nearly my entire life. Just whatever you do, don't confuse me with a germophobe- that's not what I've got going on at all.

The earliest episode I can remember was when I was about six years old. After watching health news  T.V. (I think it was one of those surgery programs) I asked my dad to explain why the procedure was necessary as he tucked me in that night. Before he had finished his description of the ailment involved, I was huffing and puffing as if I had just run around the block. My head swam and my hands tingled and I didn’t know what was happening to me. My dad smoothed my hair and told me there was nothing to worry about before he kissed me and turned out the light. He could calm me down in the moment, but after he closed the door I was unable to get those images out of my mind. I was convinced that some day I would contract some sort of ailment that would require surgery and it was the most frightening prospect I could imagine. 

From there it only got worse. I remember swallowing a particularly crispy French fry while I was at the Red Lobster with my grandmother. She didn’t know it, but I had written myself off as a goner. I could envision the sharp end of the fry as it slowly split my esophagus on the way down and I knew it was only a matter of time before I wouldn’t be able to breathe anymore or maybe anything I ate in the future would just fall though my throat and into my chest cavity. I laid down in bed and refused to play with my friend when she came knocking at the door. My grandmother didn’t know what was wrong with me, but to be fair, I didn't really either.

The worst of it was when I was in high school. I was terrified that someone would find out and that I would be that girl with the mental issues, so I came up with some pretty strange coping mechanisms. For example, I would be sitting in class and feel a random spasm in my chest and would just know that I was about to have a heart attack. My palms would be sweating and my stomach fallen through the floor, but I couldn't give any outward appearance of discomfort. Instead I would dig my nails into the soft tissue of my palms, push my tongue through my closed teeth, squeeze my butt cheeks as hard as I could- anything I could do to silently get myself through the next moment and the next until the class was finally over and the feeling had passed.

And the irritating thing about it is that you can't even be convinced by the words of a professional that you are okay. My mom took me to the doctor more than once to prove to me that there was nothing wrong- including hooking me up to an EKG when I was 17 years old. Even after the doctor's assurances and the concrete evidence of the machine's readout, I simply couldn't discount human error or maybe the equipment they had used was faulty. The thoughts I have in this state are not rational and are only worsened by my highly creative brain. Some other quick-fix coping mechanisms I used were: yoga, lavender-scented things, a lamp with a blue light bulb in it, jewelry with "calming" gemstones, running so long or eating something so spicy that my brain finally shuts off, and much later; alcohol.   

My family had varied ways of dealing with me when I got like this. My mom was the one I could wake up in the middle of the night or frantically call on my drive home to get me safely to our living room. She would walk me through the recurring emotional themes that often brought me to this state. No matter how often I needed it, she was perfectly happy to just sit with me as I tried to put what I was feeling into words either directly to her or into a journal until I could finally calm down enough to get some sleep. I will never be able to thank her enough for those nights, I truly don’t know what I would have done without her.

My eldest brother is a no-nonsense kind of fellow. He would comfort me by letting me know that I would start violently puking before my stomach could be torn open from eating too many frosted mini-wheats. This would be a text conversation at three in the morning while he was away at army training or on base somewhere. My youngest brother has the most entertaining approach- he just straight-up makes fun of me. For Christmas, he got me a book titled The Hypochondriac’s Pocket Guide to Horrible Diseases You Probably Already Have. It’s been on my shelf for years but I refuse to read it. He's also the one who would unknowingly put my breakdown about inhaling bleach and ammonia on speakerphone while he had a car full of army recruits that he was toting around.

My dad had one of the most abbreviated but no less impactful approaches to my behavior. He told me this, "You're going to get sick, you're going to get hurt, you're going to die, and so will everyone you know". For some reason I found this a comforting thought. It sort of takes the control of it out my hands. I can't prevent any of those things from happening so why worry about it? Of course, I'm not always that rational but it does help from time to time.

It's taken me many years to be able to admit it openly and I've found that it has been the most helpful thing that I could have done for myself. Rather than hiding from that beast that lurks in the corners of my eyes and pretend it isn't there, I can now turn to face it directly. I can look it straight in the eyes and tell it “I see you, I know you, and I'm not afraid of you anymore.” Usually after a  few moments' stare down (and a few deep breaths) it will slink back into its hiding place until the next time I’m feeling raw and vulnerable. And once again, I won't back down. Maybe I'll laugh, maybe I'll cry but it will never let it get the upper hand again. It doesn't own me, it doesn't define me, and I'm no less of a person for it. This is who I am and that's okay. And hey, it makes for a great story, right?