My feelings of shame regarding my mental illness.

     The moment I realized I needed help with my mental health issues and seriously went about seeking treatment was when I was on a business trip.  There was a crisis situation and I didn’t know who else to contact so I contacted my superior who was also in the same hotel and floor as me.  I was seriously out of it, no shoes, my shirt was on backwards, and I can’t even begin to tell you what my hair looked like.  I asked her to take me to the hospital.  It was probably the single longest rides of my life.

     I remember the advice she gave me.  “Don’t tell them what really happened.”  I ignored this advice; however what information I did give the hospital was fuzzy at best.  I reasoned (somehow, given my then current mental and emotional state) that if the hospital did not know what I had done, their treatment would be ineffective.  Several hours later I came to be able to understand the world around me again.  It was then that I learned that my supervisor had stayed to make sure I was okay.  I was surprised by this.

     There was an intense shame in her staying.  What would she think of me, and what would she tell my co-workers?  Even odder was that at the time I also did not want my wife to know where I was or what was going on.  Again, though she knew I needed help (we had hoped it would be manageable until I could get some form of insurance) I did not want her to know just how far I had fallen.  I was severely embarrassed, and afraid that she would find me disgusting and want to leave me.

     I think it was the mid-afternoon of the next day of my stay in ICU that I called her.  Shame was all I felt as I called her, and when she came and embraced me, there was still that shame.  It was discovered that my co-workers knew I was in the hospital (though they did not know exactly why) and wanted to visit me.  Of course this thought filled me with the utmost of dread and I vehemently disallowed such visitation.

     When I got out of the hospital I was still very fragile, getting used to medication and readjusting to a psyche that fully realized what it was capable of made me very emotional.  Everyone asked me where I had been, and when I replied “the hospital” their next question was always “what for?”  I was, and am, a firm believer that most people do not actually care, they are just very nosy.  This left me with a vortex of shame as well.  I justified it with “It is none of their business.”  Honestly though, would I have felt the same way if I had gone in for a medical procedure?  I would have to venture a “probably not.”  I concocted a basic, essentially true, story-- I was in the hospital for a previously untreated condition.

     This did not stop me from worrying that my supervisor had told people what had really gone on and people just wanted the gory details, so to speak.  As such I became increasingly paranoid that my illness was showing, and that someone would piece together what had really happened.  Talking to my therapist about my life and my job we needed to modify my employer’s expectations of what I could and could not do.  Getting a doctor’s note modifying my duties was easy, but attempting to explain to my supervisors these changes needed to be made was nearly impossible.

     There was a strange mixture of shame, fear, and anger when they would ask why these changes needed to be made.  I would say that “my doctor thinks it is best for my overall health and recovery,” but this would not suffice for them.  I felt anger that my answer was not good enough, and shame that I may have to tell them exactly what happened. 

     Around this time, they transferred a co-worker out my department and exiled her to menial work when she admitted she was on medication for depression.  Whenever she made even the smallest mistake they blamed it on her illness and said that she could no longer do her job.  This was after three years of doing that same job while no one knew what was going on.

     This notion terrified me.  I couldn’t handle being in any other position, let alone another department.  I needed time off for therapy and doctor’s appointments—and psychosocial rehabilitation.  They asked me why I needed such time off and that it was unfair for me to expect that kind of special consideration.  As time moved forward it became apparent that I needed to transfer to a different location.  This transfer was denied because of my medical issues.  As such, I was left with this utterly destroyed feeling.

     This has lead to more time in the rehabilitation program and more time to focus on recovery as a whole through therapy and proper medication (it took a while for them to get the cocktail right).  As such I have become more comfortable in knowing that there is nothing inherently wrong with me on a social level, I just have some issues (and who doesn’t?).  If I am ever in a similar position again, I feel confident that I can now stand up and admit what had happened, not feel ashamed of it, and deal with the consequences of this attitude with assertiveness and strength.  I would certainly handle it without the fear and shame I felt in the past.

     I know I am not the only one who has felt this way in dealing with their diagnosis as it pertains to the social ramifications of having any mental illness.    I offer only this thought:  in order for there to be a wave something must move.  If we (those with any kind of diagnosis) allow ourselves to be brow-beaten and made to feel so much shame it will continue to happen.  Only when enough people stand up and do not allow the fear of stigmatization to overwhelm them can things begin to change.  A wave starts small, nearly unnoticeable, but eventually it gains momentum and cannot easily be stopped.

--JJM