Mentally Healthy People Don’t Make Good Art!*

*The above statement is, both fortunately and unfortunately, completely false.

As cliche as it is, I was reluctant to seek help for my mental illness, even though I knew it was seriously detrimental to my life and ability to function as a normal human being.

It was easy to keep up appearances at school: every college student is constantly tired and anxious. I dealt with my mental illness like a functioning alcoholic. I maintained productiveness by robotically shuffling between class and work like everyone else. So what if I had panic attacks a few times a week and felt completely emotionless in between? I’m a stressed-out college student juggling a full class schedule, working 20 hours a week, and trying to figure out what to do with my life! Who wouldn’t panic at that?

I moved back home at the end of the semester and completely unraveled. I was fired from my summer job after 3 weeks. I avoided anything that might bring on a panic attack, up to and including looking at my schedule of classes for the coming semester, meeting up with my college friends in Boston, responding to messages on OkCupid, and generally participating in humanity. I wore the same t-shirt and sweatpants for days at a time; what was the point of changing? All I could do was lay on my mom’s couch and watch TV. I couldn’t focus on anything else. I had no energy.

In spite of the fact that I clearly was not healthy, I still felt that if I wasn’t depressed, if I wasn’t having anxiety attacks once every few days, I’d somehow lose all of my personality. Worse than that, I was sure I would lose my ability to write creatively and authentically. I had (and still subconsciously have) a starving-artist complex; this underlying belief that the only worthwhile art comes from suffering. All my favorite authors wrote out of mental anguish and messed-up lives. Healthy people don’t make art! They can go outside and experience life, instead of sitting hunch-backed in front of a computer making up lives for other people to escape their own! If I go on medication and become normal, I won’t feel compelled to write anymore, and then who will I become? Some boring girl who likes her life? Bah!

Of course, what I couldn’t acknowledge was the fact that because I was so numb from depression and wired from anxiety, I wasn’t actually doing any writing. I’d start stories, but abandon them after a few sentences; why wouldn’t I? They were garbage. I didn’t have any room in my head for imagination. I never felt suicidal or even particularly sad; I just felt, well, nothing. Everything was completely numb. My brain was clouded and heavy, as if it had been pumped full of Orajel. But still I clung to my depression. Mental illness seeps into every fiber of your being, twists and distorts every thought you have until you feel as if your very essence is intertwined with your disease, so losing it would mean losing yourself.

I wish I could say I had some dramatic Intervention-type moment where my friends and family gathered at my house and told me all the ways my lack of showering and constant lethargy affected them and convinced me to get help. In reality, I did extensive internet research on depression symptoms and medications and how to get help, and after several more panic attacks concerning making a call to my doctor’s office, made an appointment with my GP to discuss how I was feeling. Two days before my 21st birthday, I was formally diagnosed with major depressive disorder and put on a SSRI medication.

(Which sounds a lot more serious than it is – the “major” in major depression represents a time frame, not a severity.)

A few weeks after starting on the meds I felt, surprisingly, better. I had energy. I talked more and fought less with my family. My sense of humor and cynicism remained intact. And, lo and behold, without the numbing goop of depression all up in my brain, I felt more compelled to make art than ever! I felt creative. I started drawing. I wrote a lot over the summer and didn’t throw anything away, even if it was garbage.

(Most of my writing is garbage. I think most of anyone’s writing is garbage. But keep the garbage. You know what they say about one man’s trash…)

In closing, if you’re feeling mentally ill, get help. Ignore the voice in your head telling you that losing your fucked-up brain chemistry means losing your entire self. It’s bullshit. You are not your mental illness, and your mental illness is not you.