When I was 12, I was brought into my primary school’s counsellor room to discuss an essay I had written about a recent school camp we’d gone on. I can’t remember the experience exactly, but I remember writing that I felt miserable the entire time. Either way, the school read it and arranged to have me visit this counsellor weekly.
There was never any mention of me having depression, and the words mental health were never brought up. We spent those sessions playing UNO and would talk about school and hobbies. But it was the first time in my life that other people noticed that maybe something was not ok.
Depression was always something I had growing up. One week I’d be this stellar student making folks laugh, and the next I’d spend all week rotting in bed, dissociating while watching anime. When I turned 22, I finally started to see a therapist, who, after a few sessions, suggested that I might have an anxiety disorder, which can often spiral into periods of depression.
In hindsight, it was probably obvious to anyone that I had some form of depression. But if people would broach the subject, my immediate reaction would be to laugh it off and try and reassure them that it wasn’t the case. I didn’t want other people to know anything was wrong because I thought it might change how people would talk to me, or worry them.
The irony here is that I already was. The stigma of discussing mental health and seeing a professional for help has died down in recent years. In one.