(Photo found on http://www.recovery.org)
I made a mistake. That was the only thing I could think about as the doctor and nurses came in and out of my isolated hospital room, trying to assess if the hundreds of little pills I had taken had done any damage; to their surprise and my disappointment they hadn’t. I sat there in the midst of all the medical tests deciding that I had to face everything alone because no one could know. Not my friends, because they would think I was a freak and not my parents, because we didn’t show weakness in our family. Because once they knew, they would know the truth, they would know that the perfection they continuously witnessed before them was fake—that I was fake, and that someone full of weakness had skillfully played dress up for years.
“Are sure you don’t want me to call someone?” a nurse asked me, they had been asking me the same question for hours, each time being met with a firm and silent head shake. One of the nurses named Rayniece, who I had gotten to know pretty well in the seven hours I spent in that tiny room contemplating the rest of my life, pulled out a picture from a pocket in her scrub and presented it to me.
“That’s my daughter,” she said simply, “If she was here in the hospital by herself, I’d want to know.” When I tearfully complied, she handed me a phone, helped me dial my mom’s phone number, sat next to me and waited. It took a couple rings before I heard my mother’s groggy voice,
“Hello?”
“Mom?”
“Dee, it’s one in the morning, what’s the matter?” I paused a minute before responding,
“Mom, I’m in the hospital.”
“What?! Why?”
“I tried to kill myself.”
When I was in high school I was a social butterfly and had no problem acquiring a plethora of friends wherever I went. I was determined to leave behind the bullying and isolation I faced in middle school and become a different person. I was the ideal teenager in my church and adored by my pastor and his family, attended Sunday school weekly, and took care of babies in the church nursery. I was outgoing, silly, participated in a choir group, was a member of a few clubs, got along with most of my teachers very well, and did okay as far as grades were concerned. To everyone else around me I seemed confident (maybe even a bit conceited) and I was the therapist of my large social circle, because it seemed to them that I had my life together. I went to school every day with a red lipsticked smile, business-like attire (yes, that included pencil skirts and blazers, insert eye roll here), perfectly coiffed hair accompanied by the sway of my high-heeled walk. All of which skillfully hid remnants of bullying, eating disorders, self-mutilation, years of verbal abuse, self-hate, and a rollercoaster of unstable emotions.
There were moments throughout these four years of playing chameleon that I tried to understand what was “wrong” with me. Why did I put so much meaning into the smallest glance from someone else? Why did I break into sweats and shakes in a large crowd? Why did it feel like every person I saw was silently judging me? I tried to reach out to close friends who told me to ‘get over it’. I told my parents, who I showed my scarred wrists and begged for them to take me to someone who could “fix” me. They told me to “stop looking for attention and get ahold of myself because everyone would think I was crazy and avoid me.” I listened to them.
It wasn’t until my freshman year of college in the fall of 2014, when I eagerly packed my belongings and arrived at the university, that I realized that I was having a very hard time pretending, mostly because there was no one to pretend for. I had thought that because I was away from my home, life would be easier and everything that ailed me would magically go away. Instead, this meant I had more alone time with my own self-destructive thoughts. I tried seeking help from a counselor whose attempts at faux sympathy only made me feel more isolated and frustrated. Why didn’t anyone get it? I became more and more anxious and depressed, skipping classes because the idea of having to walk there and sitting in class all in the midst of judging eyes, gave me so much anxiety I couldn’t bare it. I spent most of my days and nights crept by the side of my dorm room window, silently cursing the laughing figures I could see below me. There they were enjoying themselves and there I was, sitting alone in my room knowing that my fears were irrational but still being held victim by my own mind. I dealt with every conflicting emotion as well as I could until one tried and failed suicide attempt landed me in a hospital’s psych ward.
Upon hearing (or in your case, reading) “psych ward,” any person can easily imagine a padded room or people running around being chased by nurses holding medication; this is exactly what I pictured as they wheeled me into my room. I looked around the room, noticing the bars on the windows, the cot-like bed, and sobbed because it appeared to me that I was officially insane and I was going to live the rest of my days in this loony bin. I stayed in my room crying silently to myself, unwilling to venture out into the hall and ignoring the nurse’s requests that I join group therapy in the room next door. The moment I took a break from crying to venture out into the hall to make a phone call to my mom, I was met by the sight of a half-naked man giggling and a woman who became absorbed in stroking my hair and telling me how nice it felt. After my cries of horror, the nurses decided it was best to switch me to the more stable side of the psych ward.
In the two weeks that I stayed in the psych ward, I learned the many faces of mental illness: Nicole who was thirty, had a two-year old son and was hilarious, kind-hearted, witty, and bipolar. Laura who was in her eighties, loved gardening, was a successful retired real-estate agent, and suffered from tremors and anxiety. Adrian who was in his fifties, was a well-read intellectual, a father, incredibly artistic, and a schizophrenic. Me, Ndidi, who was a freshman and psychology major at Rowan University, a writer, compassionate, insightful and suffered from borderline personality disorder, social anxiety disorder and generalized anxiety disorder. There were many other patients, all of which weren’t defined by the stigma of mental illness, but who they were as individuals: what their passions, hopes, and dreams were. They were far from the social assumption that they were raving lunatics who were either destined to be serial killers or madmen that walked the streets and warned people about the end of the world. They were beautiful and wonderful people, they were my family for two weeks. We cared about each other deeply, cried tears of joy and sadness when one member was released and welcomed each new member with open arms. We connected in a deep emotional way because we were able to be vulnerable with each other, despite living in a society that tells us not to be. And when I wasn’t fascinated by Laura’s lessons on sales techniques or listening to Adrian tell me about the books he’s read and the little alien people that watch him through the window. I wondered how I would tell people why I disappeared for two weeks, unable to be reached by phone or social media. I wondered about the homework I was missing, I wondered what would happen after I was released, and I wondered how many people were still hiding themselves just like I had been.
The months after I was released proved to be exceptionally difficult. I had to withdraw from school and to start all over again the following year. I lost friends who thought I was a freak because they didn’t want to educate themselves in mental health, but I also learned who my real friends were. I got into an emotionally abusive relationship but I was quick to get out once I learned to love and value myself. I went through many therapists who dismissed my issues because they thought I was “beautiful and intelligent” and couldn’t fathom why I would have any problems, but I found a group therapy program and met even more exceptional people who inspired me and eventually became close friends. I overcame social anxiety and got my first real job. However, there was something I still couldn’t understand—why did I still feel the need to hide my mental illness? After all, according to the National Alliance on Mental Illness, “Approximately 1 in 5 adults in the U.S.—43.8 million, or 18.5%—experiences mental illness in a given year.” I knew I wasn’t the only one. And yet, my parents hid it when people asked why I wasn’t in school, and there were close friends who I had neglected to tell essential details, like attempting suicide and my official diagnosis. I realized that it was because I was ashamed, and when I later asked my mom why she didn’t tell friends or family members the truth, she explained:
“I felt that if I told people the truth, they would judge me. I thought they would think I was a bad parent, because I already thought that about myself.”
Even after everything I had accomplished and all the progress I had made, even now, after I have returned to school, sometimes I still feel the need to hide. Sometimes I worry that someone might catch the scars on my wrist and ask questions or see me taking my medication and make up their own assumptions. And right now at this moment, as I lay these words on this page, I wonder if I made a mistake by writing this essay because whoever has been left to devour every heartfelt word, may mistake its purpose or indeed consider me crazy. So why go forth and do it anyway? Because I know now that though I may have to try harder at certain things in life than others and though I may need take medication for stability, I know I am not alone. I know that there are other people out there, who are afraid to speak up and get help because of the stigma of mental illness. I know that everyone in some aspect is hiding a piece of themselves because they’re afraid that they won’t be accepted by a society that insists its individuals show no weaknesses and conform to its definition of ‘normal.’ And so I say to you, there is nothing “wrong” or “broken” about you; you cannot let the flaws or differences that make you human define who you are as an individual.
Prior to writing this essay and wondering if I should pursue this topic, I was spending time with a friend who I had gotten to know over the few months we had spent together at the university. There was a small pill box she kept in her desk drawer and never disclosed its contents. In that particular moment, I found myself engulfed with curiosity and a need to see if my speculations about the box’s contents were accurate; I begged her to tell me what was inside and she refused. I silently opened my bag and revealed my own pill box, full of my medication and explained what all of them were for.
“I didn’t want to tell you because I was afraid you’d judge me.” I said. Without hesitation, she opened her pill box and revealed its contents. My speculations was accurate, they contained pills that helped symptoms of mental illness. What I never could have imagined, were that many of them were the same as mine. I looked up at her and noticed that she evaded my glance with her eyes and tears threatened to spill on her cheeks.
“I don’t want anyone to think I’m a freak, so I don’t take them in front of anyone,” she said.
I laughed, hugged her, and told her, “Nah, you’re just you.” We continued the rest of our time together as we normally did, watching Family Guy and wondering what we would do in the case of a zombie apocalypse. But at the end of it all, when I walked home, I still had a smile on my face for two reasons. One, because I had decided to try to stop hiding myself from the world in every aspect and two, because I knew what to write about.