Ya know that feeling when you’re driving a little faster than you should be on the Toll Road, and in your rear-view mirror you see the cop come out from his hiding space on the median with those damned flashing lights? Your chest is tight. Your heart is beating so fast that it feels like it might jump out of your chest. You’re fighting tears. Feeling on edge. Then you realize the cop is actually going after the car in front of you, and all your levels normalize again. That’s what it’s like living with anxiety. Except the cop is always coming for you.
I am Claire Condon. I am twenty years old. And I live with depression and anxiety.
A lot of people probably don’t know that about me. Because for a very long time, I didn’t want to talk about it. I wouldn’t even admit it to myself, so imagine how I felt when I finally broke down to my mom that something wasn’t right with me. Or telling my friends and losing sleep over what their reactions could be. But look at me now, telling the whole world wide web about it in an article that will live on in cyber-space for the rest of eternity. But ya know what? That’s okay. Mental illness is nothing to be ashamed of. I know that now. It’s not something we need to brush under the proverbial rug. It should be talked about. Talking helps. A lot. And so does writing. Which brings me here…
When I was little, I had separation anxiety. I cried every single day before school for two and a half years. I was the little girl in a plaid uniform who cried five hours before school even started at the thought of leaving my mom’s side for the day. I wore her perfume to school. We had “best friend” necklaces.(They were monkeys and they were awesome and yes I still have it.) I had a picture of my mom taped to the inside of my desk. It was sad and weird and nobody else I went to school with really understood. I didn’t even understand. It was out of my control.
Eventually it got easier, and for years I was fine. I was “normal.” I could go to school, hang out with friends, and do all those things that “normal” kids/preteens/teens are supposed to do. I had bouts of anxiety that would come and go, but it was always something, I thought, I could deal with on my own.
Flash forward to sophomore year of college. (There were other pieces of the puzzle that contributed to this moment, but I’ll save all that for the memoir I’ll never write someday.)
I was excited to go abroad. “It’s the best time of your life” they say. I don’t think any of those people had undiagnosed depression or anxiety. Don’t get me wrong. I loved my time in Rome. I would recommend anyone who has the opportunity should 100% take full advantage of that. But my experience was a little different. The second I got to Rome I made a countdown for when my brother was visiting, then my parents, then my sisters, and then when I got to go home again. I spent more time than I want to admit sitting in the bathroom of the Albergo del Sole (the only place wifi worked in my room) trying to call home with tears in my eyes, or sitting in the library waiting for it to be late enough at home to talk to my family so they could make me feel better. I was on edge all the time. I never felt like I was fully “there.” I would walk down the streets of these beautiful ancient cities and didn’t even feel like I could appreciate what was right in front of me. I hated myself for it. How could you feel so miserable when you are experiencing so much? I felt like I was fighting back tears 75% of the time. And that’s hard to explain to someone else when you don’t even know why it’s happening to you. So I dealt with it the best way I knew how. I’d go on walks. I’d talk about anything and everything else to take my mind off of it. I read books for fun (and I never read for fun). I surrounded myself with positive people. And I did that day after day until I made it back home and started feeling like myself again.
Second semester. I was good. I was excited. My friends were all back in one city together.South Bend is a lot closer to home than Rome. I had no reason to not feel happy all of the time. But I didn’t. And I cried, and cried and cried some more and couldn’t explain why. That was the worst part. It’s like all of these things are happening inside your head and you can’t pick them apart or decipher what they mean. My mom made me an appointment with a psychiatrist at home. A psychiatrist? Me? I didn’t want to talk to a stranger about my life. I didn’t need that. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to have to tell my friends that the reason I couldn’t go to formal was because I was meeting a psychiatrist. I was a nervous wreck leading up to my appointment.
But I went. And I talked. And she listened. And she diagnosed. And she prescribed. And I got better. And I told my friends. And they understood and accepted me and still treated me like a human.
My mom told me that after going through this myself, my job is to be an advocate for others. And we all know our moms are always right. So here I am. This isn’t meant to be a cry for attention, or a condescending message, or an open diary entry…it’s just life. This could happen to anyone, at any time, for any reason. So don’t be afraid to talk about it. Be there for someone. Listen. Understand. Give space. Give attention. Support a Belle, love a Belle.