Learning to Change in Order to Heal

I was 21 years old and living in France. I had just graduated from college and was living near Paris when the symptoms began. I didn’t understand what was happening to me. I had never heard of mental illness; I did not think mental health existed. All I knew was that I couldn’t control what I was feeling.

I couldn’t sleep; yet, I also couldn’t get out of bed. I just wanted to stay in the dark with the covers pulled over my head. I became highly sensitive to light and sound. I thought people who approached me were going to strike me, because I was bad and deserved to be hit. Nothing made sense.

I felt as though I was wearing a lead cloak. The weight of it was crushing, as was the sense of guilt and shame I felt for a failed relationship. Waves of panic would wash over me. I was positive I was being persecuted. This person from my past was going to find me and kill me—I was sure of it. Sometimes I felt as though I was floating above myself, watching myself. I would later learn that this was a severe sign of mental illness called dissociation.

I came back to the U.S. for urgent medical treatment. I was diagnosed with major depression and schizoaffective disorder, a condition characterized by a disconnect from reality which accounted for the paranoid delusions.

The diagnosis of depression caught me by surprise. I never saw it coming because I was completely ignorant about mental illness, as was everyone else in my life. Sure, I had been sad for a long time. I had immigrated to the U.S. at the age of 13. I did not adjust well as I just didn’t know how to make new friends. So I kept to myself, with my nose in the books.

I thought I would go through my entire life like that, feeling lonely and disconnected. For me, this was normal. It never occurred to me to ask for help because I didn’t think I had a problem. I just bottled up my emotions. But after eight years, it all came out in a dramatic implosion while I was in France.

My psychiatrist put me on an antipsychotic and an antidepressant, which worked to relieve my physical symptoms. But the emotional wounds took years to heal.

I went to therapy twice a week. I had a lot to say to my therapist and psychiatrist—things I never thought I could tell anyone else, because I didn’t think there was anyone I could count on. I trusted no one even though I had a support system and a caring family. I didn’t notice my support system, which is a big distinction. I still felt all alone.

Therapy saved my life. My therapist told me that many of the belief systems I had grown up with and internalized were not correct and were, in fact, hurting me. I had to be willing to accept that I may be wrong. I had to change.

For therapy to work, you have to be open to change. You have to accept that your way of thinking may be wrong and that your beliefs may be what is making you sick. You have to change your ways to make healthier choices if you are going to get better. I am proud to say that I changed.

In addition to therapy, I also needed (and still need) to take medication every day (and for the rest of my life). I will always have a chemical imbalance in my brain, and I am grateful for the medicines that exist to correct it. At first, I struggled with this dependency. I didn’t want to be dependent on medications. I didn’t want to depend on anything. But my blind psychologist taught me about dependency.