Figuring Out My Mental Health Equation

Figuring Out My Mental Health EquFigation

In the summer of 1998, I was working as a data entry clerk, adding new customer information into a database for a local gym. I had not long returned from San Diego after a particularly devastating breakup, I was 25, and I had no idea what I was going to do next. As I typed in the information, I noticed that when I pressed a 9 or a 4, what appeared on the screen was 7 or 5—at any rate, not the number I was certain I had typed. I was not there.

 A week later, I sat opposite a GP who drew me a diagram of a brain with tiny holes in it that he filled in with pencil. He explained that these holes were meant to allow serotonin into my brain but that they were blocked. He told me I had clinical depression.

I was thrilled. Just days earlier, I had told my mum that I felt like I was ‘not there,’ that something ‘not me’ had taken over. She looked at me with total confusion. But now I had a name for it, and the hope that it could be ‘fixed’ with the little green and white pills he prescribed.

After some research, I realized that this illness had been with me long before I was formally diagnosed. It manifested in my mind as stories about my laziness, my lack of motivation, and my ‘too muchness,’ and in the days when I stayed in bed all day while my university friends went to lectures, the gym, or drama classes.

I have spent the last 26 years determined to beat my depression and fix myself, I have been on and off medication multiple times, I’ve tried almost every therapy, seen functional doctors, taken enough supplements to last a lifetime, and for many years turned to alcohol to try and stave off the darkness, even though every time I drank, I endured days of it in the aftermath.

When I quit alcohol in 2019 I was convinced my mental health would improve, and it did, but then soon after I found myself flailing in hormones, or lack of them, and my mood shifted gears, from hypo to hyper, hello anxiety. I went back on the meds and survived well enough to convince myself, again, that I didn’t need them.

 Over the last six months, I experienced some major life challenges. I was certain I could handle it, using all the tools I share with clients and adding some new ones. I tried so damn hard, but gradually the mix of uncertainty, fear, and hormones led to feelings of extreme anxiety — this was a new sensation that I would have traded for depression in a heartbeat.

This anxiety made me feel like I was going to die.

After a few months, when the fear subsided, anxiety did get traded for depression. I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t see any point in living.

And so I promised myself, for the final time, that I am going to see my mental health this way: in the same way a diabetic must take insulin, I must take my meds.

After four weeks, I came back. And, as is always the case, I am a better version. After the darkness and hopelessness, a new layer of self-awareness always emerges and, more importantly, a new level of compassion—for myself and for anyone else who suffers from mental illness.

If you’ve never suffered from mental illness, you will not understand. You will try, and you may have a level of empathy, but unless you’ve felt it, it’s like trying to say you know how someone without a limb feels. And if you’ve never suffered from mental illness, I will find it harder to understand you.

As someone who supports others with alcohol misuse and mental health, it feels somewhat risky to share my own challenges. When I’m ‘in the weeds,’ I am filled with doubt: how can I help others when I can’t even handle myself?

But then I remember the moment my counsellor, back in 2002, revealed that she had once attempted to take her own life. That was when I felt heard and deeply understood. That was when I started to believe I could heal.

From then on I have done my best to find people to support me who have lived experience. I need someone who can relate to the darkness; I need someone who has felt what I have felt, not just read about it in a book. I know that when someone has experienced despair, they have also walked back into the light. And this light is wild and bright.

When we find the light again, we don’t just return to who we were; we emerge stronger, more compassionate, more grateful for our lives, and, I  believe, better equipped to guide others. Our struggles don’t diminish our ability to help—they deepen it.

 Our experiences are not a contradiction to our work; they are the very reason we do it.

A final word for anyone reading this who is struggling with alcohol and mental illness.

If you remove alcohol and your mental health doesn’t improve then you have the answer to your unique equation, poor mental health + alcohol = untreatable mental illness. To heal alcohol has to go.

Some may find that their equation is the opposite, alcohol + you = poor mental health. Your prescription is that alcohol has to go.

Whatever the case, I hope this message reminds you that you are not alone, and that there is no shame in seeking help in whatever form that may take. Alcohol can feel like an escape from the pain, but it’s temporary and it only deepens the darkness over time, I know, I have been there.

There is no one-size-fits-all solution, and working out your unique equation for healing may take time, but remember that you are worth every moment of effort. You are not broken; you are beautifully and extraordinarily human, and there is always light waiting for you on the other side.

Thank you for reading,

Take care of yourself,

Love

Sarah