A Mental Illness Diagnosis Means a Better Life Is Possible

Lately, I’ve been doing a series of interviews with people who have mental illnesses, and some interesting themes are emerging. One major theme is resisting our diagnosis. For most of us who were initially diagnosed at a younger age (I was 19), it seems that our initial reaction is not relief, but fear.

The sources of that fear are two-fold. The first is stigma. As much as the mental health community rails against the stigma we receive from society, what’s worse is our self-stigma. I hear this often in phrases like “I wish I were normal,” or “I don’t tell people I’m dealing with [insert diagnosis here].” When we aren’t ready for it, a diagnosis often changes our perceptions of who we are negatively. What could be a relief instead feels like another way that we don’t belong.

The second source of the fear is the unknown future. Now that I am diagnosed with depression/bipolar disorder/anxiety/schizophrenia, does this mean that I can’t have a good marriage? Will I abuse my kids? Will I ever have a healthy relationship?

Ultimately, both of these fears boil down to a single source: A lack of education on mental illness and its impacts. As a result, fear stops us from moving forward and stepping into a healthier, more fulfilling life. Even for those who take steps to get healthier, those steps are dogged by the fears; most stop attending therapy and stop taking their medications. Unfortunately, these half-hearted attempts usually lead to more guilt (because “I’m not doing what I should”) along with more trauma (due to not learning new skills and in some cases due to increased risk exposure).

However, a second theme also emerges from these interviews: A decision to get healthy. At some point, each person I’ve interviewed (and this holds up in my support groups, as well), decided they were sick and tired of being sick-and-tired. They didn’t want to deal with the cycles of depression or the impacts of borderline personality disorder any longer. For many, this came with a second or revised diagnosis later in their in life.

That second diagnosis generates relief: Finally, I have a name for what I’m feeling. My pain is validated. There’s a path forward; I just need to walk it.

This is the critical point. This is the point where healing — real healing — begins. It’s an exciting moment to witness, that moment when someone realizes that a better life is possible. Although they know the work before them is significant and not easy, the commitment is there.

What I find most interesting, though, it that this also seems to be the moment that compassion enters their lives. This was especially true for me; the moment I got my second diagnosis, I was able to look at my past experiences and actions through new eyes and recognize that I was fighting a battle I could not see. It allowed me to finally say to myself, “You did a good job under terrible circumstances. You didn’t have the skills you needed to act differently or do more.”

Compassion is what helps the recovering make it through the plateaus and the setbacks. When life gets to be too big and demand more than they can do with the skills they have, they start to recognize it. Saying to themselves, “This is just a setback; I will feel better again,” becomes not just a possibility but a likelihood.

The commitment to getting healthy, to doing the work needed to live a better life, grants patience while getting medications figured out. Scaling up doses or dialing in the right prescription (or prescription cocktail) can be a difficult and trying experience. Knowing that you’re ready to get better makes it easier to handle the side effects or lack of effectiveness that may mark the start of the journey. The hope that awaits on the other side eases the impatience.

Additionally, therapy becomes significantly more effective as well. Whereas before we wanted perfect conditions with our therapist — the right gender, the right degree, the right demeanor — now, we are more willing to take a chance and open up. We are more willing to step into the vulnerability needed to have a positive and effective talk therapy experience. We may start slowly, but our version of slowly begins from a place of hope instead of surrender.

We do the homework. We commit to experiencing our emotions and learning to live with the pain we’ve hidden from ourselves for years. We seek out and attend support groups. We’re not perfect — maybe we miss a therapy session or two — and this is a difficult time. Every time we have a setback, we eventually dust ourselves off and pick up where we left off.

We know that every time we stand back up, we demonstrate our strength, even when it feels like weakness.

Now, every little step of progress encourages us, whereas before we would minimize it. Our language changes from “I only took a shower today” to “Today, I took a shower. I’m proud of myself.” We know that the baby steps will eventually get us where we want to go, and we celebrate every victory.

The commitment to getting better changes everything.

I’ve had enough experience running support groups and encouraging people now that I know the flags that someone isn’t ready to get healthy. Sometimes, it’s in their language: “I just have to accept that this is my life.” Sometimes, it’s in how they treat those closest to them and the lack of remorse they feel over it. Other times, it’s the inconsistency in which they attend therapy or how often they “forget” to take their prescriptions.

It saddens me and frustrates me when I see this; I know they can have a better life so why won’t they just do it?

The reality is that they are missing the key ingredient: hope. Without hope, a diagnosis of a mental illness feels more like a death sentence than a guide post to health. The only thing I’ve seen influence people without hope is being around those who are getting better and hearing from them that a better life is possible.

Often, as the group leader, I’m the wrong person to send that message. It’s hearing from others in the group that they feel better, that their relationships are better, that encourage someone still deep in their suffering. As hope enters their minds, the commitment to getting better blooms.

So, now I’m going to challenge you: Where are you on your journey to mental health? Do you believe that a better life is possible for you? That you can manage your symptoms, instead of your symptoms managing you? What holds you back?