Story Time.
I met a man once. He was 21, moderately tall, fairly good looking. He could sing, he played music, he loved art, and he seemed like an all-around nice person. Yet, I could tell that there was something else to him - a cloud seemed to follow him everywhere he went. It was imperceptible to everyone around him, but I could see it clear as day. As nice as the surface image of this person was, I knew there was more going on that I still had to uncover. That man is me. As cliché an introduction as this might be, I want to utilize this momentary lapse in self-editing to make a point. I’ll address that point later. For now, however, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Andrew. I’m 23 years old, I’m from New Jersey, and I have borderline personality disorder. I have been medicated since age 19, but first started experiencing symptoms when I was only eight. My mood swings and aversion to change at an early age were first diagnosed as attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, however it is now believed that this misdiagnosis and the following prescription of stimulants at such an early age only accelerated the further manifestation of my illness.
By the time I was 18 and in my senior year of high school, I was hearing voices and experiencing visual hallucinations on a regular basis. I was haunted by the constant appearance of a faceless man in a trench coat named Sam, and no matter where I was I was almost always followed by three crows, who would squawk at me menacingly and stare at me through classroom windows. Needless to say, I needed help. I didn’t seek help, however, because I was scared. It sounds ridiculous, I know. You’re probably thinking to yourself, “You were being followed by a faceless man and hearing voices and you were scared to ask for help??” Believe it or not, I was. I’ll explain. Before I was initially diagnosed with bipolar disorder, and then subsequently borderline personality disorder, I had very little knowledge of any mental illnesses at all because they weren’t talked about. When they were talked about, those who suffered from these illnesses were called “crazy”, and were dismissed by my peers as being irrational and not worth their time. Mental illness was mocked, ridiculed, and any time I would face a bout of anxiety or depression at school, I was given the infamous advice that we all receive: “get over it.” Keep in mind that upon entering high school, I also suffered from a growth hormone deficiency. I was coming into my freshman year standing only 4’11”. I didn’t crack 5’5” until the summer going into junior year. I also went to a largely athletic-focused all boys private high school, so you can only imagine how well I was received. Imagine if you will, a very small, still mildly pre-pubescent theater kid in a class and school filled with oversized football players. I was an instant target. I was made fun of constantly for my size and high pitched voice, and even after my growth spurt and ultimate onset adolescence, the mocking continued. I’m sure you can see why addressing my “feelings” was out of the question. So, I tried everything I could to repress my thoughts and emotions. I started drinking when I was 14, and began smoking weed and taking pills a year later. My grades fell drastically, my work ethic was almost nonexistent, I faced what felt like constant ridicule every day, and things at home weren’t ideal either. I was miserably and hopelessly awkward around girls I liked, constantly trying too hard or moving things too fast, always getting my hopes up only to have them brought careening back down to Earth by my own doing. By the time I was 18 and a high school graduate, I was the worst I had ever been. Things only got worse after graduation. I went away to my first college, Muhlenberg College in Allentown, PA, where my poor decision making was only enhanced and enabled by the people I surrounded myself with. This was not their fault; how could they possibly know what I was going through? I was smoking myself to sleep, snorting pills regularly, drinking heavily, using whatever coping mechanism I could to mask my real insecurities and darkest thoughts. I stopped attending class in late September, spent the entire month of November intoxicated (quite literally, I was either stoned or drunk every moment I was awake for 30 days), and ultimately, failed out of school with a 0.0 GPA. I was Muhlenberg’s very own Blutarsky.
Upon the start of the Spring 2011 semester, I registered for classes at Bergen Community College, determined to get my life back on track while still keeping my feelings and thoughts inside. I was convinced that I could beat it by myself, and I thought I was doing a very good job. As it turns out, I was entirely wrong. I attended a single class that semester, opting instead to spend my mornings getting high on my porch and lying to my family about going to school. Finally, one morning, I had had enough. I confronted my parents and told them absolutely everything. At first I was met with skepticism; however, as I proceeded and explained every corner of my mind to them, they immediately scheduled an appointment with my childhood physician for a second opinion. Getting diagnosed and prescribed medication is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. My hallucinations stopped within a week, my mood stabilized for the first time in 10 years, and I was finally able to separate reality from fantasy. I was finally able to discover who I was.
Yet, I was still always told not to tell people about my illness, for fear that it would “scare them” and “drive them away”. I was told not to disclose my disability to employers for fear of not being hired for a job. I was told to keep things private at risk of alienating myself in society. For the first few years of my life post-diagnosis, I accepted this. It wasn’t until 2014 that I started really asking myself why this was okay. That’s when I came to a shocking realization: it wasn’t.
Part of what made my illness worsen in severity was my repression and denial of it. By keeping it locked away and not sharing it with anybody, I was still living with a weight on my shoulders. I felt stuck in place. Yes, I was playing music with new friends, I had been working in my first steady job for a while, but there was still something missing. But, I kept keeping it inside, as I had been told to do, for fear of being rejected by society.
This repression culminated in a week-long stay at a psychiatric hospital. I had finally hit my mental rock bottom. My depression was through the roof, my delusion and separation from reality was worsening, and I was convinced that no one would ever love me for me, including myself. However, that week away from technology and the world itself was monumental in my recovery.
It was during my stay in the hospital that I learned the value of self-acceptance. I learned the importance of waking up in the morning, looking in the mirror and saying three positive things about myself to develop a sense of self-love. I saw how important routine is, and I saw how significant something as seemingly “silly” as meditation can be for some people. I learned to appreciate the role religion plays in people’s lives, and to stop pushing it off as “nonsense” just because it doesn’t apply to me directly.
I learned that everyone lives a different life, but we all play a role in each other’s respective worlds. I learned to see myself from the outside looking in. I saw the importance of understanding the multiple layers that make up a person.
Now, it’s time to take that knowledge and pass it on to you, the reader.
It’s time to destigmatize mental illness. It’s time to start talking about it, and accepting it for what it is. Mental illness is a chemical imbalance in the brain. It is not something we can “control”; it is not something we can “get over”. It is something we live with, and it’s something we need help with. We need your support, now and always. We need you to keep an open mind, and we need you to listen. We need you to be there for us through thick and thin; to hold us when we need to be held, and to give us space when we need some time alone. We need you to ask questions first, and then listen until we find the answer. We need you to be the blanket that we can wrap around our shoulders when we’re facing a cold night. At age 21, I saw myself from an outside perspective. I met myself for the first time. We need you to be a part of this fight too. Let’s talk about it. Finally, openly, truly talk about it.
