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It took me a long time to find ‘the country of happiness.’ Now I want everyone to join me
My husband rescues cockroaches instead of squashing them like any reasonable person. He thinks they are nature’s warriors, and that they too deserve love. When I first met him, it was very clear that if relationships are composed of cockroaches and cockroach rescuers, I was the roach in the relationship — and he was the rescuer.
Every month right before my period, for seemingly no reason at all, I morphed from a calm, conflict averse bookworm to a raging maelstrom of anxiety and depression. Small irritations like a rude cashier at the grocery store could send me into deep rages; the same rude cashier could also tip me over into a chasm of depression, or leave me paralyzed with anxiety. I assumed all of this happened because I had the emotional skills of a cockroach. After all, I had been like this for over two decades. Then, in my early 30s, I learned I had an untreated mental illness: premenstrual dysphoric disorder (PMDD).
In the U.S., we’re in the midst of a mental health crisis. Roughly one in five adults has a mental illness, and the number is growing. Mental illness is more prevalent than cancer, diabetes or heart disease, yet over half of people don’t get treatment. At a very basic level, we tend to assume that mental illness is not real.
Mental illness is more prevalent than cancer, diabetes or heart disease, yet over half of people don’t get treatment.
In some ways, I was lucky: I knew something was wrong because PMDD is cyclical. I spent half of the month residing in happiness, only to be flung out every few weeks. There are disorders where suffering is so normal people have no idea better exists. I have a friend who routinely talks about how her greatest desire is death. Once she told me she’d found the peace Buddhists associate with nirvana.
“What’s nirvana like?” I asked.
“I sit on the couch and imagine myself disappearing into the fabric until I don’t exist. I feel nothing. I want nothing. I am nothing.”
“That’s not nirvana,” I said, but since I clearly had never experienced nirvana either, she was unconvinced. Shortly after, she was diagnosed with depression and began treatment. Today she writes about happiness as if it’s a country she’s visiting for the first time.
Even with a diagnosis it can be hard to take treatment seriously. Even though I learned there are biological reasons for PMDD — essentially, it happens because your brain has a bad reaction to hormonal fluctuations — I still tried to skip medication from time to time. I could not shake the conviction my problem was a lack of discipline, or a personal short-coming, not malfunctioning biology. Every time, I paid for this by having another outburst.
I wasn’t the only one who struggled to take medication seriously. A few months ago, a friend who is a brilliant scientist told me she decided to stop taking her anxiety medications. “I was on such a low dose it seemed silly to take it,” she said.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“… Not well,” she admitted.
“Why?” I burst out. “Why are we doing this to ourselves? If we had physical illnesses, we would treat them. Why aren’t we honoring our minds the same way?” We made a pact to stay on our meds.
The journey to better isn’t always easy or guaranteed, but it’s worth making.
With treatment, I was a different person. My anxiety and depression faded to a low hum. I could laugh over small irritations instead of biting my tongue or crumpling into tears. People around me noticed the difference. “We don’t worry about you anymore,” my parents said. I’d had no idea they’d worried.
From this new vantage point, I wanted anyone who’d ever struggled with mental illness to know they had options. The journey to better isn’t always easy or guaranteed, but it’s worth making.
Recently, another friend called me up, wondering if she should consider visiting a psychiatrist. Over the years, I’ve watched as her world has narrowed into a battle to combat the voices in her head telling her she’s stupid, that she doesn’t deserve nice things. I listened as she explained why she didn’t deserve better. “I’m fine,” she said. “I’m just being weak and stupid. Medication means I’m taking the easy way out.” Standing in the country of happiness, I wanted her to take her hand and drag her across the border. I knew it had been years since she’d been a resident.
My friend did call the doctor, and she got a diagnosis for anxiety. I’d like to say from there it was easy, but she’s still searching for a treatment that works. Still, I’d like to think that one day she, and everyone else who suffers, will find their way here.
The journey is long, and it’s not guaranteed — there’s still so much we’re learning about treating mental health. And, better is not a perfect place. There are still bad days filled with rude cashiers. But here, this will not send you scuttling for bed to marinate in a stew of depression and anxiety. Here, it is possible to believe you are not a cockroach, you are one of nature’s warriors, and today is worth living for. Everyone deserves this.
