What's Your Mental Health Diagnosis?

March Essay

I hit the reset button on March's essay a gazillion times. Partly because the concept needed some marinating, and partly because I knew it would veer into personal territory. But after a chat with friends last week, my writing direction became crystal clear.

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A week ago now, a few of us gathered at our friend's house for a cozy tarot card session. It was my first time getting my cards read in such a cozy and intimate setting. The tarot card reader was pretty spot-on, inducing goosebumps with their accuracy. Plus, we discovered that the four of us embody the four elements, so basically, we're witches and we will curse you if you cross us. But I'll stop rambling about all of that because that's not what this month's essay is about. This month's musings were sparked by a pre-tarot chat. Before the world sent us guidance in the form of images open for interpretation, the four of us were talking about mental health. I've always been pretty open about my mental health journey, the meds, and feeling like a failure when I first got diagnosed. But, during our chat on Friday, it hit me that there's still a lot of shame around mental health. Maybe it's because more folks are talking about it on social media, or it's showing up in movies and books. It just hadn't dawned on me that people still feel that stigma of failure and fear of what others will think after they've been diagnosed. During that conversation, I also realized that maybe I haven't been as upfront as I've thought.

The day that I was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder, I had gone for a regular check-up with a new doctor. During my routine check-up, they started fussing over my oxygen levels.

Are you struggling to breathe?
What? No.
Do you feel lightheaded?
No.

The next thing I know, an oxygen tank is being wheeled into the room, which is when I finally ask what's going on. Then, after a brief conversation with the doctor, we realized that I had been holding my breath without even realizing it. Something that I apparently do when stressed out or feeling anxious. Of course, them wheeling in an oxygen tank without explaining to me what was going on wasn't helping the whole not holding my breath. Then cue the prescription for Zoloft and a dramatic pharmacy parking lot breakdown. Going to therapy is one thing, but having to take medication was a whole other. While I knew that a lot of my friends were in therapy, I wasn't sure that I knew anyone who was on medication. I grew up taking medication only when absolutely necessary, and even today, it takes a lot for me to reach for an Advil to deal with any aches or pains.