End the Stigma Story

I wrote this for an event that was held at my college. The event focused on promoting awareness about the stigma surrounding mental health.

     My story begins about ten years ago. At this point in my life, I was a happy kid. I had extremely supportive, caring parents and I had an inquisitive mind. I had teachers that were interested in my education and I had such a strong enthusiasm to carry me throughout all my middle school days rooted in my anticipation to learn alone.

     This was soon interrupted by things and people that were outside my control and beyond my understanding. Even now reflecting on these events, I cannot fully understand why things happened this particular way.

     At first it began as a joke during lunch. We would try to outsmart each other with snarky comments and witty comebacks, as if these sort of things dictated who was the Queen B or Alpha male of the table. Mostly we just ratted on each other’s short comings until everyone involved was too irritated to think properly or our time to eat was up.

     Then it evolved into an entirely different animal altogether. The transition between the two utterly escapes me. I doubt that even then I was taking note as to how peculiar things had become.

     Soon an “elite” club was formed taking the name of the “I Hate Rachel’s Guts” Club. For only being ten years old, I was not massively fazed by the initial formation of said club. What bothered me was the fact that my assumed “close friends” refused to claim a side. Meaning, their inaction was costing me dearly.

     Being ten years old means that you are fragile. At this point all I wanted was to be accepted by my classmates and excel at school and make my parents proud. This place I had once thought of as a major exchange of ideas and a place to foster my learning turned sharply and became my personal hell.

     I don’t remember why there was a change in heart amongst my friend group. The only things I vividly remember were crying every single day when I went home and going to counselors to have them rip apart and shove in my face what I had confided in them in front of me and my tormentors.

     I also remember my mom in desperation asking if I needed to “talk to somebody.” In response, I just kept shouting no, and crying because nothing in my situation was under my control. The last thing I needed was another thing that degraded my self-esteem. I did not know what the word for that “thing” was at the time.

     Though I was faced with my friends turning their back on me, my crumbling esteem, dismissal of my problems to authoritative figures, I kept thinking that if I was good enough in some way, they’d have to like me. They’d have to reconcile and realize that my guts weren’t meant to be hated or just tolerated. That I was important enough to be a part of their friend group too.

     This idea manifested itself into my being and instantly became more dangerous than the negative remarks I received every day at school. This idea taught me that I wasn’t good enough for others, that I wasn’t worthy of being loved or showing others love, that I wasn’t smart enough, that I wasn’t pretty enough, that I was a terrible friend, that there wasn’t anything desirable about me.

     I began looking for ways to prove this ideology wrong. None of these ways were constructive. I tried to hide the pain from people, especially my mother. My innate perfectionism spiked and I negatively critiqued everything I attempted. I had multiple meltdowns. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I detested going to school.

     Somehow I managed to work through this pain, some inflicted by the actions of others and some self-inflicted. I don’t particularly remember the details of this part of my story because afterwards I spent a lot of time trying to forget. I do remember feeling like this spark inside me had dimmed because of how anxious I felt all the time. I yearned for answers that I will probably never receive.

     Many of the effects of this sort of thinking still affect me. These ideas come and haunt me when I’m sitting in class, when I’m in the middle of a sentence, when I’m walking around campus. They distort how I view myself and make me question far too many aspects of my life. They cloud my mind and refuse to allow me to concentrate on my work. They are my inner demons and they are still dangerous.

     But there is a bright side to this collection of disappointment. I’m fighting back. I’m refusing to settle to believe the stigma that “getting help makes you weak, getting help makes you crazy, or this, or that.” It is simply untrue. These experiences have brought me here to study psychology in the hopes of helping children learn what I needed to learn about myself a long time ago: they are worthy of being loved and showing others love, they are smart enough, they are pretty enough, just that they are enough.

     I believe that part of my purpose is to fight the stigma for them so that they can get the care they deserve, even if they don’t know the specific word for it. And that in itself is enough of a reason to fight back.