The Health Bubble:

The Aftermath of My Mental Health Crises

Trigger warning: this article deals with issues of mental health and self harm that may not be suitable for all audiences

** The article was written with the idea of sharing my experience and hoping to reach out to others who have dealt with similar experiences. Everyone has their own personal stories and journey. This is not advice but a reflection of mine**

My mental health experience has always been a topic I tried to steer away from talking about in any type of discussion. In the past, the reason was because I wasn’t ready to talk about certain events that I felt would startle me into a state of panic. That was never a pretty sight to see. However, as several years passed, the reasoning shifted into a constant fear of people defining me by my mental issues. As a result, I hid these feelings and experiences from everybody I knew-- both acquaintances and even my closest friends. I hid it so well that at some point in my life those experiences turned into obscure fragments in my memory that I tried to pretend never happened.

During my second semester at UF, I decided to make an appointment with the CWC (Counseling and Wellness Center) because I started to recognize those familiar symptoms coming back. This scared me because I knew I had never fully recovered from it. I am now a 3rd year and it has been almost two years that I have gone to therapy and have built this strong, trusting relationship with my therapist. Throughout those years I am still trying to learn that I shouldn’t sacrifice my authenticity for safety. In order to fight the stigma, I need to own my story and refuse to let others dictate how I should feel about myself.

Although my mental disorders have led me down many dark paths, I can’t personally say that it doesn’t define some part of me. I wouldn’t be me without it: resilient, empathetic, and a force to be reckoned with. My story is both real, scary, and sad but there has been laughter, love, and light as well.

So here it is:

I am 20 years old Colombian- American who identifies as a feminist, is obsessed with her chihuahua named Chichi, and tries to enjoy the little things in life. I have also been diagnosed with a general anxiety disorder, ADD, and depression since the age of 13. I have had two suicide attempts, one that resulted in being admitted into a psychiatric hospital. That’s as far as I am willing to share, and that’s perfectly okay as well.

In a given year, approximately 1.5% of U.S adults have a persistent depressive disorder [1]. Prevalence of this disorder among adults is seen higher for females. Females are also more likely to have multiple psychiatric disorders in their lifetime, the most common to re-occur with depression is anxiety [2].

Some of us are part of this 1.5% or other percentages of a population that struggle with a mental health disorder. I believe data and statistics paint a picture of the impact of mental illness in the US. Self-advocacy can be very powerful but also requires reflection and self-awareness that should never be rushed. In my personal experience, this journey to recovery isn’t similar to that of a physical injury. It is achieving a state of remission, trying to maintain it, and having action plan for the possibility of a relapse. This may be difficult to achieve alone and only touches the surface of the mental health crises in the US.

For now, I will constantly reassure myself this: Don’t harbor self-stigma. Some days will be amazing, and some days will feel like utter shit. And that’s okay because my mental illness only defines some parts of who I am- both in good ways and in bad.

So, fucking own it.

[1]https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/statistics/persistent-depressive-disorder-dysthymic-disorder.shtml

[2]https://adaa.org/about-adaa/press-room/facts-statistics