There are two things that I’m asked about a lot, and that I’ve recently put more thought into. These are why I write, and pressure as a mental health advocate. I sometimes hesitate to write, and share my story, for fear that people will think I am attention-seeking. I fear posting body-positive photos because I don’t want to be sexualized or objectified. But I also realize that some of these fears are self-stigma. And ultimately, I am happiest expressing myself the way I do best (in writing and in theatre), through reading poetry that speaks to me, and singing. I am happiest when I let myself be *me*. Because while advocating for something I believe in so strongly is amazing, it can also be really freaking hard some days to have such a big part of my day-to-day life, and part of my jobs depending on me being open about mental health. It’s the best, because I’m learning new things about myself every day, but the worst because I am so often vulnerable, and for someone with an anxiety disorder this can be very daunting, especially when your mind tells you that you are being judged or a burden.
So, why do I write? I write for those who haven’t found their voice yet. I write for those who are afraid to own their struggles. I write because writing saved me. It helped me think things through, calm me down, and figure out who I am. I write because it helps me take ownership of my own story, and it helps me to be confident in who I am. Sometimes it can be hard to share my story in person (especially in groups). While I love connecting with other people, meeting new people is scary for me, and when I share something personal, sometimes (often) I fall back into the old thought patterns of feeling like I’m burdening the person I am talking to. It’s not easy for me to be physically vulnerable, nor is it easy to be in a space where I feel I cannot escape (this is called agoraphobia, and I had no idea it existed before I experienced it. Side note, agoraphobia is not the equivalent of locking yourself in your house and never leaving… it can manifest itself in a number of ways. To learn more, click here). It took two full years before I was “comfortable” having a panic attack in front of my psychologist, the woman whose literal job was to help me, and be non-judgemental. But, when I’m in a coffee shop, in my bed, on a plane, or between classes and I jot something down… it feels empowering. It means that I am writing for me. Yes, I am writing so that others can read it and hopefully take something from my words, but I am ultimately writing to think things through. I write because it gives me a voice in a world where I was becoming increasingly shy. And, somehow, if I can make my story a bit more public, it has less power over me. I write because I love to read other people’s stories, and I want to be a part of the amazing #bopo and #recovery communities who have helped me immensely in my self-growth during my undergraduate degree.
That said, there is a lot of pressure to be “recovered” as a mental health advocate. People often expect you to have your life together, and to know what to do because you’ve lived it (if only that were true). Or, you know someone who has. What’s tough is, throughout my recovery I have learned that my recovery is mine. While I was able to progress in my recovery, what worked for me might not work for someone else, and while I am so happy to offer support and suggestions, it breaks my heart to see people turn to me for a solution I am unable to provide. How I come to terms with my body might be different from how my best friend does. How I experience my panic attacks and calm their symptoms might be the same as my cousin, but different from my co-worker. And what works for you one day might not the next. Because, beautifully and extremely frustratingly, mental health is fluid. Sometimes your symptoms are different if you have a diagnosed illness. Some people who panic want a hug. Others want to be outside, completely alone. Some people black out; others get extremely nauseous. It’s a twisted guessing-game at the party no one wanted to go to. As a mental health advocate, I sometimes feel hypocritical, too. Because I tell others to practice self-care so often, but frequently forget to do so myself. I sometimes feel that taking a mental health day, or telling others that I’m not okay means I have failed them, because I’m supposed to be the advocate. I’m supposed to be okay. But I’ve also learned that there’s strength in vulnerability. If I tell someone I’m having a bad day, more often than not, they’ll understand. And if not, at least I’m putting my own needs first. So, if you are a mental health advocate, know that it’s okay not to be “recovered”. It’s okay to be a work in progress – we all are. I am so much happier and healthier than I was a few months ago, but that doesn’t mean that I’m 100% recovered. And that’s okay.
