When I was first diagnosed with treatment-resistant depression, anxiety, and panic disorder, I was a mess. The only thing I got right was raising my daughter. Somehow being around her eased so much of my suffering. But my social life and job suffered greatly.
It was around 2010, I’d been inpatient several times, lost two jobs because I was having rolling panic attacks that lasted about 8 hours, and I just couldn’t catch my breath. This all came on suddenly–one day I felt completely fine, the next day I had my first panic attack and my brain just exploded.
I looked to two close friends and my family to help me. They were my support group. They visited me in the hospital and kept in close contact to make sure I didn’t isolate too much. But the thing with mental illness is that it doesn’t show up on an x-ray, it can’t be diagnosed with a blood test, and it could take 10 different trials with medications before you ever land on the right one. So many people who are there for you in the beginning, will eventually pull away or ghost you because they don’t understand when they don’t see you improving. Not everyone will do this, but a majority will.
This was my experience. It took two years of constant therapy, trying different medications, trying to put a smile on my face when I found myself alone. My friends fell away likely because they couldn’t stand to talk to me and hear the fear in my voice. My parents started out supportive, but eventually turned angry by the 6th or 7th time I was inpatient. So on top of all my sorrow, I now had to deal with them calling me dramatic, too lazy to get better, and miserable to be around. If I didn’t have my sweet young daughter, I’m not sure how I would have made it.
Eventually we left the psychiatric care in my hometown because my needs were just not being met. The doctors were by-the-book and couldn’t look outside the box, which was what I needed. So I went to the University of Pennsylvania health system and found an amazing psychiatrist, who happened to be a national leader in the mental illness field. We spent a full day together–I took a bunch of psychological tests and had a long talk session with him, then my parents met with him. They showed very little compassion but promised him they would be my support group.
How bad things had gotten with my relationships was made obvious when I spent a full month in the hospital and never had one visitor or phone call. I called to talk to my daughter daily, but nobody called me. This sounds like a pity party, but it was so traumatizing to me. I’d pushed people beyond what they could handle and was paying the price.
Right before I was released, I spoke to a social worker to help me find a new therapist. She asked what type of support group I had and noticed that I had never had a visitor or a call. She was concerned so she found a support group that met weekly and told me to try and rekindle the relationships I’d lost.
Mental illness isn’t cancer. You can’t point to a tumor on an MRI. You can’t get doctors to tell you how you’re doing on certain medications, you can’t get definitive information about your illness to share with friends, and you can’t get a prognosis. Nobody leaves a cancer patient alone to suffer on their own.
If you suffer from mental illness and don’t want to lose your closest relationships, tell them what they are in for. Explain to them that you are working as hard as you can to get through your disease. Tell them you don’t know how long it will take, what medications will work, how bad it will get. Then tell them that you will need support throughout the journey. Explain what that support will be. And tell them they can opt out. Giving this kind of support is not for everyone. Once you assemble your support group, don’t abuse the privilege. Don’t ask for more than you originally said you would. If you do that repeatedly, you will be jeopardizing those relationships. It’s just the cold, harsh truth.
Leave a comment below about how your relationships have been affected by mental illness.
