As I said in a previous post, I’m not usually one for talking about my personal life too much, on here or even in general. But since today is #WorldMentalHealthDay, I thought it might be worth my time to reflect a little.
I was first diagnosed with anxiety and depression ten years ago. Although, when I think about it, I can now recognise previous occasions where I had problems but I never addressed them properly at the time. Either through ignorance. Or fear. Or both.
I still consider the period where I was diagnosed to be the worst time. I recall days when I could barely get out of bed, except only to call in sick to work or make an appointment at my doctor’s to get another prescription. And despite that, I didn’t really talk to those closest to me about it. I was afraid of being judged, of being thought weak. Because there was a part of me that believed I was.
Gradually things did get better. Part of what helped me was having a fresh start; a new marriage, a new home, a new life. But I’ve come to realise that while you can recover, it’s not something that ever completely leaves you. And there’s no telling when it might decide to rear up again.
This time around, I’m trying to be better about dealing with it than last time. Admitting I’m having trouble, talking to people. But, most of all, trying to come to terms that it’s okay to not be okay.