How to get better often starts with seeking help

            Many people see me as a rather fun-loving, affable, bear. I’d say that most days this is a pretty spot on description of me. But, this isn’t necessarily true all the time. I have struggled with depression for as long as I can remember. The first time I had suicidal thoughts accompanied my realization that I was a gay male. I hated everything about me and I felt the world did too.

            When I was around seven years old, my father abandoned me. Well, at least that was what it felt like to me. My parents divorced when I was four. My mom brought my older brother and me to Helena to live with her mother. After a while, my mom and dad worked out an arrangement for visitation. I remember my dad dropping me off at JB’s, the hand-off spot my parents agreed on, and telling me, “If you’re a good boy, I will pick you up in a few weeks.”

            Sometimes it is hard being a “good boy” when you are eight. You try hard, but it always seems like there is some sort of hiccup in the plan. But, I figured I’d been pretty good, all things considered. Mom took me to JB’s a little before the scheduled hand-off to make sure I got breakfast. I had a hard time sitting still and I remember watching the cars through the windows waiting to see my dad. The waitress asked how I was. “Excited,” I replied. She asked why. “My dad is coming to get me.” I was beaming. A couple of hours later, I was getting hungry again. It was lunchtime and mom got me some more to eat. I could tell she was getting upset. “He’ll be here,” I said.

            By dinner time, my mom had given up. I begged her to let us stay. “If we leave, he won’t know where to pick me up.” I didn’t think he had our regular address. Mom was adamant. She reminded me that he had our phone number and scooted me out to the car.

            I sat in the back of the car, trying to think of all the things I’d done wrong. As a child, you don’t understand enough of the world. At least I didn’t. The cars passed by and I hung my head against my seat belt, the fabric digging in along my jaw, as I rested my head against the window. The cold from the glass filled every part of my insides. I couldn’t figure out how I had been bad.

            When my mom pulled into the drive way, I didn’t wait for her to turn off the engine before I unfastened my belt and dashed for my room. I could feel the tears boiling up from my gut and I didn’t want her to see me cry. I didn’t want anyone to see it. I ran for the safety of my room and locked the door. I couldn’t stop crying as I sat with my back pressed up against the door. My mom banged and begged for me to open the door and let her in. The truth is, I couldn’t let anyone in. My mom figured it would pass and eventually I’d get hungry and come out. I spent the next twenty-four hours crying, alternating between the floor and my bed. The whole time, I wrestled with all of my flaws. I was certain I was at fault. Not just for him failing to show up, but for my parent’s divorce as well. If I hadn’t come along, everyone would have been happy, I told myself.

            I cried until there were no more tears. The next evening, I came out of my room and went to the bathroom to wash my face. Despite the fact that I opened the door, I never really felt like I left the room.

            I cut myself off from my family at that time. I was certain that eventually my mom, brother, and step-dad would all realize how defective I was and would leave me. My child-brain rationalized that if I cut myself off from them, it wouldn’t hurt so badly when it happened. I took to asking my mom if she really loved me (something I unfortunately still do with my husband). I’d ask if she was going to leave me too. She always told me she wouldn’t, but I didn’t trust her.

            Of course, tied to the belief that they would leave was the paradoxical desire to keep everyone in my life. I was terrified of losing anyone. I spent years trying very hard to be everyone’s friend. I made bad decisions that got me hurt more often than not. But, my personal well-being didn’t matter as long as they still liked me. I let myself get taken for granted. When I was thirteen, I was raped by the person I considered to be my best friend. I didn’t tell anyone because I was afraid he wouldn’t like me if I did. I also never said no to him again after that night.

            Somewhere along the line, my understanding that I was defective grew into thoughts of death. They’d been there in that room. The thought of how much better everyone’s life would be if I wasn’t around. A voice sprung up from those thoughts that told me no one would even notice if I died. I would sometimes spend the day silently conversing with this voice about how to do it. The voice grew louder and I felt smaller.

            “No one really likes you,” it’d tell me when I was playing. I’d try harder to make them like me. I’d lie if I thought it made me sound cooler.

            “You’re too fat,” it’d tell me when I ate. I’d starve myself for a few days. Then I’d lose the weight.

            “You’ll never amount to anything,” it’d tell me when I dreamt about my future. I’d get good grades and then someone might notice me. But I felt like no one did.

            “No one likes a faggot,” it’d tell me when I saw a boy I liked. I’d date a girl and maybe she’d make me right.

            No matter what I did, the voice would always find a way to make it all seem so meaningless. I felt dead inside. Occasionally, I’d cut myself to feel something. I used to lie about it. It started with my hands. First the left one, by my thumb, but I didn’t cut deep enough. Then the one on my right, that scar is still visible. But no one noticed. Then I took to cutting across the bridge of my nose. When I cut, the voice was quiet. But when my parents would ask, I’d lie. I didn’t know how to tell them.

Eventually the voice won out. In my early twenties I let it beat me and I tried to take my own life. Thankfully, I passed out before I could finish. When I woke up, instead of slit wrists, I’d cut some Norse runes in my arm. I still can’t figure out how I did it. They meant “Strength,” “Honor,” “Victory,” and “Intuition.” I took it as a sign. Some part of me realized that the voice was wrong, but I didn’t know how to beat it. A few years later, I had those same runes tattooed on my arm. My pledge to myself not to let the voice win again.

I realize by this point, someone is thinking to themselves is this his way of saying goodbye. Not at all. All of this is to explain the hurdles I have had to clear to get where I am today. As most of my friends know, I started seeing a counselor this semester to work through some of this. While I may have a very conscious understanding that my suicidal thoughts and depressed feelings are simply a chemical imbalance in my head, the constant tugging of that voice has shaped how I interact with people. In my professional life, I have had a few experiences that added strength to the voice. It made me feel like I was broken and that everyone is constantly looking at me, judging every action and word. I didn’t matter what my intent was; only what they perceived as my intent. It made me second guess myself and intensified all of my social anxieties. There have been days where the only place I feel safe is in my home, away from the view of people.

Over the last several weeks, with help from the counselor, I have had an opportunity to work through many of these things. Where I used to view that room as the place when I realized I was broken, I know now that I wasn’t at fault. My dad made a decision to leave and that is on him, not me. Even when I did go visit him when I was fourteen and he told me I’d never be as good as Jimmy, my older brother and his first son, I know that is his opinion and doesn’t mean I am defective. Every day I have had to stop and remember that I can’t control other people, I can only work to be the best me for me and my family.

It has helped me start walking around campus. I used to be afraid to because I am quite slow and have to stop because of the pain in my joints. I realize now that no one is timing me. No one is watching me. And I have lost weight because of it. Thursday, I found myself bounding up the steps of the Liberal Arts Building, a feat I never thought I’d be able to do.

I have recognized when I am negatively self-talking. When I have drank the voice’s Kool-Aid and joined in to tear myself down. When that happens, I find myself going to my safe space and breathing and looking for constructive or positive comments. I also recognize when others are negative self-talking and the impact it has on me. I have found myself reaching out to help redirect them, for their sake and mine.

Friday I shared these things with my counselor. She was beaming. I also shared with her that I’d talked about my experience with the technique she used to help me get past the issue with my dad. She pointed out that it wasn’t magic. It was a very long and emotionally draining experience, but that I had been doing quite a bit of leg work between sessions to make it successful without realizing it. She wanted to make sure I understood what I was doing to affect my own mental health.

That’s when it hit me. We talk about eating right to feel right. We talk about the power of exercise. Or dressing for the job you want. We rarely talk about mental health. I knew it was ok to get help, but I was always too stubborn to ask for help. It took the prompting, prodding, and little jabs from friends to finally get me to ask for help. Mental health is just as important as eating well and exercising. Just like we might need a dietitian to help us understand how to eat better, or a personal trainer to teach us how to use the equipment and what exercises are right for us, we occasionally need trained professionals to help us change how we think about ourselves and the world around us. Don’t be afraid to ask for help. It can literally save your life.