Sometimes, life sucks. But generally, I get over it

I have always had friends who suffered from depression and so forth - mental illness or just the general hiccups of one's psyche have never really bothered me. I have never really felt the need to judge someone if they suffered from depression, and I have always been consistantly critical of those who say you should just "think" or "pray" your way out of something like depression.

Of course, this all changes when it affects you.

I have been in denial for several months now, perhaps even years. I don't think I suffer from depression per say; I don't display too many of the symptoms that is typical with depression. My outlook on life is, for the majority of the time, cheery, and my self esteem, while never the best, generally hovers around adequate. I enjoy the good things in life, and can maintain healthy relationships.

What I do suffer from is a debiliating, crushing sense of fear. A fear of failure, a fear of not being perfect, a fear of making mistakes, a fear of disappointing those around me. Most people who know me wouldn't call me a perfectionist; I would imagine the word "underachiever" would come to mind. I certainly have talents and am not one of those who would bemoan my status in life, but I simply don't make the most of the resources I have, both personally and offered to me. The reason why is because I don't want to fail; I can't fail, in fact, or I will beat myself up over and over again. It's rather irrational, and I realize it's irrational, and yet I cannot help but feel like I never want to try anything again after a bout of failure or even a minor slip-up.

For the longest time, I thought this was normal. I had no real reason to suspect it wasn't. Despite the fact that these fears crippled me in some areas of my life, I was still, for the most part, a normal, healthy boy. So therefore, there shouldn't have been anything "abnormal" with me.

However, I thought this about my own dietary needs. On my mission, whenever I would fast, I would get blinding headaches, drowsiness, tremors in the hands and legs and sometimes nausea. I thought this was normal; wasn't fasting supposed to be an experience in which the spirit conquers the body? However, fasting was such an entirely overwhelmingly unpleasant experience for me that I dreaded every next opportunity to fast.

Finally, I asked my companion if he experienced the same physical ailments when he fasted. The answer was no, and after some talking to the mission doctor, I was severly chastised for not listening to my body and was identified as suffering from some form of hypoglycemia. Thus it has been with my irrational fears. I had always assumed them normal, never suspecting until recently that they were anything but.

This fear was probably managable during my growing up years in high school, though it kept me from living up to probably my fullest potential. However, recently this fear has begun to cripple the more visible aspects of my life, notably schooling, which then causes serious problems.

It only takes one mistake, one slip up, and I begin the downward spiral as my educational plane bursts into flames and crashes into the ground. Perhaps I didn't do well on a homework assignment or a test. I might have been late for class one day and everyone saw me slip in the back. Or sometimes it's just as simple as answering a question wrong in public. Suddenly, my outlook changes on class. Thoughts begin running through my head in this manner:

I think the professor hates me. He probably thinks I am stupid and a waste of his time. I'm not as good as these other students. They work hard and know the answers. I don't know the answers because obviously I don't work hard and I'm not smart. They probably don't want me here. I'm just wasting everyone's time. I don't want to be here because nobody wants me here. I'm sure they think I'm stupid and wonder why I even try to go to this university.

All this from incorrectly citing a theorem or botching an author's name.

Soon, my learning environment grows unpleasant for me. I feel stifled. I quickly move the blame to others. This results from my rational mind battling some incredibly irrational insecurities. Obviously, I can't be stupid. I did well in high school and I read and know lots of things. My mind absorbs knowledge like a sponge. So it must be the university. It must be the students. I hate this place. I want to get out but I don't know where to go.

Then, I begin to panic. In class, I have little, minor panic attacks. And I just stop going. I don't want to go, and even if I wanted to, I can't.

This semester, I have been fighting the impulse to move the blame to others, but try not to blame myself at the same time - instead, find some Buddhist concept of non-blame, that perhaps nothing is to blame except for something wrong with me that I can't control. But nobody likes to admit that they can't do something because it infers they are broken, that they can't take care of themselves. I soon realized, however, that I was broken. I finally took the plunge after some extrenuous circumstances and walked towards campus to set up an appointment for a counselor.

As I walked down the street, I realized what this meant. My mind screamed at me that I was giving up. That I was ultimately admitting that I was wrong, that something was wrong with me. That I was broken. That somehow, I didn't function properly like everyone else around me. The thoughts started up again, as I walked among my peers, chatting, stressing, but all around happy, able to handle the pressures around them without any visible outside help. My chest began to constrict. I couldn't seem to get enough air, and my breaths started coming out in little, quick, sharp gasps. My hands shook and I could almost feel my mind shutting down in efforts to try and stop me from admitting that maybe, I wasn't okay.

Oh, God, I prayed. I could recognize what was going on from what I learned in my psychology classes. Oh, God, I'm having a panic attack.

And that's when I definitely realized something was not okay.

Somehow, I kept walking, and managed to make it to the Wilkenson Center without turning around (though my mind was yelling at me to do so) and I opened the door. I stared at the counseling center for a while, then I could slowly feel my body turn away from it. Not wanting to give up just yet, I swiveled my feet around and walked down the hall, in a circle. Twice I passed the counseling center. Twice, I walked around the Terrace and Garden Court. Twice, I glanced through the windows and saw people talking and sitting and waiting. They will all laugh at me. They will think I am stupid. They will think that I am not a full human, that somehow, I am less than human.

I finally managed to open the door. I shuffled in. Then trying to cobble together somewhat of a confident composure, I asked them if I could see an academic support counselor. I needed to figure out what I need to do, how I can fix this. My voice cracked; I was using all my energy to keep myself from falling apart in front of the receptionist. She gave me a bored expression, then dumped some papers in front of me to fill out, and shooed me away. She must think I'm a failure, the thought flashed in my brain.

I walked dejectedly to the Cougareat and sat at a small table. I slowly filled out the forms, my face burning with shame as people walked by and glanced down at what I was doing. My brain turned dangerously mutinous, as it told me, You don't need this. Nothing is wrong with you. You are perfectly fine. You just need to work harder. You just need one more semester. It's not your fault. It's the university's fault. They just don't understand you. The students are too judgmental. Nothing is wrong with you. But I knew it wasn't true. I had been running into the same brick wall for several semesters now and knew it wasn't going to change, no matter how hard I tried to run through it. I had to fill it out.

By now, my psyche burned out and like a robot, I walked in, mechanically dropped off the papers and set an appointment for Friday at noon. I politely thanked the bored receptionist and stiffly walked home. Making sure none of my roommates were around, I called Dantzel to tell her what I had just done and then, in the privacy of my own room, with only my fiance listening to me, my voice finally broke down and I cried.

Only a little. But I could feel my body sagging, finally giving up the weight I had been carrying around by myself on my shoulders. "I'm not okay," I told her, and my body shuddered. I tried to choke back the emotions, but they spilled over down my face, hot and wet. I could feel it all, the walls I had put up to hold in the tide of insecurities and thoughts and feelings of failure and worthlessness crumble around me, and it all came gushing out. However, reflex kicked in and immediately I pushed it all back in again. Dantzel offered to come home early. I told her not to, somewhat because I didn't want her to go out of her way to help me, but also because I needed some time alone to think.

I am not sure what is going to happen to me. I guess I'll find out today. I don't doubt that I will suffer another panic attack, another boxing match with my pride as I step into the office, admit I am not well, and then attempt to get myself fixed. But hopefully, each successive bout will become easier and easier to handle. I am in no way ready to kill myself or systematically self-destruct. But I also know this is something I cannot deal with alone, and if I don't deal with it now, it could get worse and ruin a lot of my plans, goals and dreams.

I don't tell this story to garner sympathy or wallow in emo selfish tears. I wanted to share this story to try and hopefully convey how incredibly hard it is to deal with something that involves your mind. Hypoglycemia is easy to detect - when my blood sugar hits all time lows, my body goes into fits about how it's being mistreated, every single time. Fortunately, and all too often unfortunately, the mind can be more supple and flexible and tougher than the body. It can take years of abuse, stress and anxiety before it finally breaks. But when it breaks, it becomes hard to crawl back out of the hole you fall in. Just as a man with a broken leg has a hard time walking or driving to the hospital to get fixed, I couldn't simply beat something that was ailing my thoughts with more thoughts - it was the thoughts that were flawed in the first place. Looking back, I've probably suffered from this abnormal amount of anxiety for years, if not at least a decade. But it was only recently that it began to surface in unexpected ways this past year.

The next time someone tells you they suffer from depression or any other mental ailment, please, understand that it is serious and difficult to conquer, but don't pity them either. That's the last thing they want. Treat them normally, like a normal person wants to be treated. Just because someone has diabetes doesn't mean they should be coddled or ridiculed. It shouldn't be any different from someone who suffers from depression or anxiety.

And as for me, I think I'm going to turn out just fine. I'm one of the lucky ones. I have a beautiful, loving fiance who is incredibly supportive and friends who would catch me should I stumble. I'm confident that everything will turn out okay - it usually does - and for once, I feel somewhat free to admit that I am a little bit broken. Because for the first time in my life, I understand that even though I am a little bit broken, it doesn't mean that I'm a lost cause.