I’m Not Ok, but I Will Be

As a hairstylist, I have had the honor and also carried the burden of being a sounding board and appointed “therapist” for many precious clients. I really value that special bond because I get to see their “real” beauty on the inside, flaws and all. Then, I bring out that beauty, usually in the form of a sassy new hairdo, for them to see it themselves.

We all have issues that we are ashamed to admit, scared and embarrassed to talk about for fear of judgement. Unfortunately some of those deepest, darkest personal issues that we battle on a daily basis are the ones we refuse to talk about, even to our hairstylist. But because a small handful of clients were brave enough to share their stories about their demons, I know I am not alone.

I am talking about mental illness. I am going to share my personal story in hopes that it will help the 43 million other Americans who also suffer from a mental illness. I know I don’t have to divulge such private info to you all, airing dirty laundry and showing my skeletons on Facebook, but you know what? I am thankful for the ability to reach so many loved ones that are secretly suffering, afraid to get help because of the horrible, unfair stigma associated with depression, anxiety, bipolar, schizophrenia and the list goes on. It is not fair that we suffer in silence because the general public thinks mental disorders are made up, not real, exaggerated, or can be willed away, and should be “hush hush” to the point that people would rather kill themselves than get help. And that pisses me off. Educate yourselves because with 1-in-5 Americans suffering from a mental illness, I guarantee you have a loved one struggling with this. Then if you still don’t understand or can’t at least sympathize, just keep your mouth shut.

My story starts here.

Holidays are the absolute busiest time in any salon. Since November I have been literally slowly killing myself working so much, making sure everybody was happy, looked beautiful, felt beautiful. Running on time is the bane of my existence. I have known since high school that I have anxiety issues, and having to follow a tight schedule down to the minute day in and day out was totally overwhelming me.

I got sick with an upper-respiratory infection about two weeks ago and had to miss a few days from work which devastated me. While I was at the doctor, which was on a Friday, she asked how my anti-depressant was working to which I replied “that’s another whole visit”. So she switched me to this new similar med, another antidepressant. Here’s where it really gets good. I took two doses. On Sunday, I literally had a psychotic break. A psychotic break is defined as “the result of a mental or physical illness, substance use, trauma or extreme stress.” I had become so irritable and mean that I was scaring myself. The plan for the day was to take my son to his dance performance at 3:30. I knew we weren’t going to make it in time because I had procrastinated too long. I told him to just go back in the house, and I drove off. I drove and drove and drove, going nowhere, reminiscing about good times had at each familiar place I passed. I drove for four hours, eventually stopping at the coast, without telling a soul. I decided I would get a hotel room and stay the night and try to clear my head and calm down, but instead the thoughts became more dark and, well, suicidal.

Long story short(ish), my husband told me he had called the cops and they were searching all local hotels for me, which only made me panic, so I fled the hotel, pulled all the identifiable magnets off my car, and drove into the darkness. I had nowhere to go. I was hysterical. So lost and confused, so out of touch, so desperate for help. At the first intersection was a red light so I stopped and just prayed the most raw, desperate prayer for God to help me, tell me what to do. Green light. I look up and directly in front of me is a 24-hour freestanding Emergency Room. I swear it was glowing. It looked so bright and welcoming. I crossed over the intersection and parked my car. I said goodbye to self-destruction and hello to help. Hello to hope.

I’ve spent the past week in the psychiatric unit of the hospital two hours from home, getting the help I so desperately needed, yet was so afraid and ashamed to ask for. And that is just so stupid. I was in a low so low that nothing in this world mattered, a world where there was no enjoyment, no laughter, no hope, no God. And because of debilitating shame and fear, I irrationally preferred to die than to admit I have an illness—that we now know is bipolar disorder—and get help for it.

I spent the week being evaluated, diagnosed, medicated, and time in group therapy, learning coping skills, reflecting on how screwed up my priorities had gotten, finding myself again, and meeting some really incredible patients with the most heartbreaking, humbling stories. I survived the week in pretty much a jail cell with a roommate. We had strict schedules and visiting hours; no caffeine, nicotine, cellphone, internet, I even had to have a doctor’s prescription for tweezers so I could pluck my whiskers! See, I know that’s funny and you can probably relate because I wax facial hair for a living and know I’m not the only female w/ whiskers … but I won’t tell. 

I’m not sure what the future holds for me and my career. Frankly, I’m trying to give it a rest and focus on me and my beloved husband, who I have taken for granted for far too long, and my boys who I have neglected to spend quality time with during their precious, limited childhood years. To my clients, I cherish all of you and ask for your patience, prayers and encouragement right now. You can’t pour from an empty cup, they say. I just need time to make some changes so that I can come back 100%. And to my supportive parents, siblings and extended family, I’m sorry. I am still working through the shame and embarrassment of this whole ordeal. I know where there is love there is life and I know I am blessed to be loved by many.

I thank you for the concern and prayers over the past several days; I will not let this define me but I will continue to speak up about mental illness. I chose to publicly address this so that I don’t have to lie about why I missed an entire week of work before Christmas. I think most of you appreciate my honesty and I think honesty helps build trust, and so here it is. I mainly hope this gives those of you who are secretly fighting your own demons the power to get help. You are loved and even if we can’t always see it, there is always, always hope. And that’s worth fighting for.

Let others know that there is hope and understanding about mental health. Together, we can become stigma free.