Life As a Mentally Ill Psych Major

I'm studying for my Abnormal Psych test right now and am laughing sarcastically at some of the statistics. According to the book, generalized anxiety disorder (which I've had since I was a kid) usually doesn't onset until adulthood. It also says only 5.7% of the American population has it over their lifetime. 5.7%?! Out of the millions upon millions of people in this country only 5.7% deal with anxiety their whole lives. That leaves me in a distinct minority. Don't get me started on depression. I was so upset just reading the textbook chapter that I ditched class both days it was talked about because it hit too close to home. I felt like I was being reduced to a pile of symptoms and statistics and that wasn't a comfortable feeling. I'm sure I'm not the only one who has these sorts of problems because a good chunk of psychology majors I know do have some form of mental illness themselves. There's something oddly poetic about the broken becoming the healers. I'm partly driven by a need to understand why my brain works the why it does but mostly because I don't want anyone to suffer the way I have. Every mentally ill psych major I've met is driven by a similar need. When living with yourself is a nightmare you want to prevent other people from experiencing the same. Even though I know what my reasons are and that my reasons are good, it's still really hard some days. In a way, it's slightly masochistic putting myself through the inevitable discussions about my own mental illnesses and feeling like a bug under a microscope even if I just sit silently in my chair. I keep reminding myself that it will be worth it if I can make any difference at all to someone with depression later on because of those days I have to force myself to sit through class now.

Worth It?

With all of the stressful things going on in my life lately, I've been pretty depressed on a regular basis. Yesterday was especially bad. I hadn't been that suicidal in a long time and it scared me. It was like the past four years of relatively slow progress (but still progress!) were erased. That was the truly scary part. I felt completely hopeless and like life wasn't worth living. My husband was so sweet during all of this and helped me get back to a rational place. After I was sufficiently calmed down, he asked me if I really thought being alive was worth it with all of the physical and mental pain I deal with regularly. I answered honestly: yes it is. I've fought hard to get here. I've fought against myself to live for the better part of six years. Even though life is frequently still difficult and tries to drag me down, you bet it's worth it. I've earned it. I've earned being alive. No matter how depressed I get, life is worth it.