The statistics on mental illness in the U.S. are sobering. According to NAMI, one in five adults experience mental illness each year; for children, the prevalence is only slightly less at one in six. Anxiety and depression top the list of most common diagnoses and frequently occur together. Also troubling is the rising suicide rate. It is the second leading cause of death for those age 10 to 34 and is almost always preceeded by mental health issues. Let those numbers sink in for a few moments.
Consider the people you know and love and the likelihood that they are represented in one of these statistics. And then consider that these statistics represent just a small piece of an increasingly complex picture when it comes to all of the factors that influence our emotional and mental health and well-being.
Given the prevalence of mental illness, you’d think it would be a more frequent topic of conversation, similar to other common illnesses, like heart disease or diabetes. However, the reality is that mental illness is associated with significant stigma, the definition of which clearly conveys the inherent shame.
“Stigma: a mark of disgrace or discredit.”
Anti-stigma campaigns over the past two decades have sought to increase awareness and education around mental health issues, yet they have been largely unsuccessful. For many of us, the information we’re most likely to hear comes from media stories linking mental illnesses like depression to high-profile suicides or mass shooters. This only serves to heighten fear and justify distancing ourselves from those with diagnosed mental disorders. The people least likely to hold stigmatizing views? Those who have personal experience with mental illness–either their own or someone they’re close to.
As a girl, I felt the painful impact of this stigma because of my mom’s depression. When her distress was conspicuous in church, I noticed the whispers and looks directed our way, evidence of how shameful it was to be visibly unwell. When she remained shut in her room all day, I remember how scared and alone I felt. My dad only told us she wasn’t feeling well and we were not to bother her, but I felt so much of her pain that I would sit outside her door, offering anything I could think of to make her better. I needed someone to put words to what was happening and tell me it would be okay. No one did.
Being a highly sensitive child, my emotions and my mom’s became twisted together inside me, and my anxiety was literally making me sick. As a result, I was referred to a child psychologist myself. When I had to leave school for counseling appointments, I felt ashamed and used the excuse of a dental visit, as my mom suggested, so no one would know.
Standing in my kitchen years later, I felt overwhelmed and isolated. I bore a constant weight and sadness that I couldn’t shake. Cautiously, I shared a little of what I’d been feeling during a phone call with my mom. Her response? “Well, you know, you are predisposed to depression.” She said a bunch of other things, probably something about chemical imbalances and medication, but I’d stopped listening. The word “depression” echoed loudly in my head, and my body felt the sensations of shame it still held from those days bearing witness to my mom’s suffering–suffering that enfolded all of us in the absence of restorative care.
Somehow, I managed to pull myself together enough to stave off the looming depression for another few years–fear and shame are powerful motivators. Influenced by religious culture that pointed to Jesus as the answer to everything, I prayed harder, posted Scripture verses everywhere, and begged God to heal me. Did I need God? Yes, unquestionably. Did I need something else too? Yes, absolutely.
I needed others to help me make sense of what I was feeling.
I needed others to provide a safe place for naming and healing unresolved trauma; to normalize what I was experiencing and offer options for care; and to allow me to feel sad and hopeless some days without telling me it was all in my head or that I didn’t have enough faith. I needed others to come close.
The people around you and me–the one in five, the one in six–need us to come close too. Close enough to listen with compassion and see not disgrace, but another human, just like you and me. Now that would be a powerful anti-stigma campaign.
Janet Stark is a woman learning to bless her depth and sensitivity. She is grateful for the deep love she shares with her husband, Chris, and their kids and grandkids. Janet loves curling up with a good book, trying new recipes on her friends and family, and enjoying long conversations with friends over a cup of really good coffee. She is a life-long lover of words and writes about her experiences here.
Janet, This was so beautifully and powerfully written. The stigma of mental illness – oh the stories most of us could tell! I think we’ve come a long ways since our grandparents and parents, but I also think we have further to go. Our brains, like our bodies, can become ill. The part of your piece that struck me was, “When she remained shut in her room all day, I remember how scared and alone I felt.” That was my experience as well. I would tiptoe into my mother’s be room to see if she was still breathing or if she had died. Thank you for sharing from your heart. We read to know we are not alone – and you sharing a part of your story helps me feel less alone. Blessings to you, Janet!
Oh Barbara, I feel with you for how scary it must have been to wonder if your mom was even alive. I know what you mean about not feeling alone – thank you as well for reminding me of the same.
Janet, I hear you rallying for that little girl who was left alone with too much…And I hear you rallying for all who have been there and are still there…Thank you for sharing your heart and for bringing a call to love, kindness, compassion…
Thank you Christine! I miss seeing you, but I so appreciate your encouraging words and presence here.
Thank you for this story! As one with PTSD, anxiety a depression I find comfort in those willing to speak out. Blessing Brenda Murray
Hi Brenda, thank you for sharing your own reality here. I’m so grateful you found some comfort here – as Barbara mentioned, there is so much power in knowing we are not alone. May you experience the comfort of others coming close as well, joining you and bringing hope.
When I was twelve, Mother became very ill after a near death accident. As a result, she was “sick” the rest of her life; some times were less severe than others. We, too, learned to be quiet around her so she could “rest” and around others so they didn’t “know.” All were told she “had a case of the nerves” – medically induced nerves (I realized later in life). I’ve been asked many times why I smile so infrequently; being quiet about the elephant in the room does not lend itself to overflowing joy, aka smiles.
Thank you for sharing your story and encouraging us to bring more humanity into the world.
Bess, thank you for sharing some of your story, witnessing your mother’s suffering, and all the ways that affected you. My heart breaks at the loss of childhood exuberance you must have experienced, having to be quiet, to manage what people knew, and most of all, the ability to smile and feel joy. Your courage in speaking up here is significant, and I hope brings a smile to your face, if even for a moment.
So much yes. Depression has marked our together journey.
Dear Joanna, I am not surprised – somehow I think those of us who have deep, personal experience of this recognize something familiar in each other. Thinking of you often in the hard but rewarding work of continuing to learn and grow.
Janet- Such a powerful and important message. It broke my heart to read that as a girl you needed to tell others you were going to the dentist. Such shame and stigma you carried. Thank you for your vulnerability on behalf of others!
Natalie Sum
Natalie, thank you. The shame I felt was heavy – I can still remember what it felt like to walk into school, wondering if people could see it on my face. Your words bring such kindness and care, reminding me that shame does not belong to me.