Thread by @PenguinOfTroy

Last year on #WorldMentalHealthDay, I shared I was starting therapy. Weird to realize it's been a year.

Here's an update: After 6 months of therapy, I finally spoke to my doctor about going on an antidepressant.

And it's the best thing I've ever done for myself.

Here's my story: My family moniker has been Eeyore since I was a kid, which should tell you something about me and my moodiness.

As I got older, I called my moods "funks." I'd go in an out of them, with no apparent pattern. Sometimes it'd last a few days, sometimes weeks.

Tired, unmotivated, apathetic, I let them wreck havoc on my life, particularly when it came to school and later work.

But I considered them a personal failing on my part. I thought I couldn't cope with them because I just wasn't strong enough, motivated enough, whatever.

Pair that with a healthy dose of social anxiety and things could get pretty bad.

I struggle with routine actions that require me to go to new places and talk to new people.

When you're tired/apathetic and your coping mechanism is to hide away in books/TV/video games, then you're presented with tasks that challenge your social anxiety like scheduling a meeting or paying a bill, guess what you do? You hide and compartmentalize.

When I'd come through the fog and look back at myself with clarity I'd think "Why the hell was I so lazy/stupid/weak?"

I've never suffered from what they call major depression. Never had suicidal thoughts. Always been able to make it through each day, more or less. I'd put on a happy face and trudge on.

You know how there are functioning alcoholics? Basically, I was a functioning depressive.

And that's what made it so subtly destructive. It wasn't overt, but it was affecting my ability to thrive. It was affecting my relationships, my education, my job. And yet, it never seemed "bad enough" to seek professional help.

Then last year my body basically forced my hand.

I started having bad stomach cramps and anxiety attacks. I convinced myself that my stomach problems must mean I had cancer and I'd lay in bed unable to function, imagining my certain demise. I was constantly on the verge of tears. I went days without working.

It finally got to a point where I had to see a doctor.

A battery of tests later, I confirmed it wasn't cancer. It was IBS.

IBS is the physical manifestation of mental turmoil. So this year I learned mental health can have a crazy impact on your gut health.

I was given medicine for my physical symptoms, but the true solution was to tackle what was going on in my head. Thus the therapy.

It was 6 months of breathing exercises to deal with my anxiety attacks. Gaining a better understanding of my perfectionism. Embracing the idea of being entitled to basic things, like my opinions and my wants and needs. Releasing myself from worrying about the judgement of others.

I structured my days more rigidly, building a routine around waking and sleeping.

I started exercising in earnest. Running every day, losing weight and feeling good physically.

All of that was really great for me and I genuinely felt like I was making real strides.

And yet, I was still Eeyore. I still lacked the energy and motivation I needed to juggle my self care, my relationships and my job.

It was like one of those games you play: here are three things, you only get to pick two.

And while I better understood my anxiety, I was just managing it at best.

So, my doctor put me on an antidepressant. And it made a difference immediately. The side effects to start with were well worth the benefits.

There was this moment when I realized: WAIT is this how normal people feel all the time? I have the energy to complete tasks throughout the day. Having energy means having more motivation and enthusiasm for my work.

Having more motivation and enthusiasm means more confidence to plan things without feeling like I'm just setting myself up for failure. And then actually following through because I have the energy to do so.

I waited 30 years to feel that way. It was like the day I first put on glasses as a five-year-old and realized I could see the individual leaves on trees. (true story)

I wish I could say it's been all smooth sailing. I've had ups and downs. And the stress of football season has triggered more lows than highs. It's been a struggle, physically and mentally.

The good news is, I'm now working with my doctor to find the right mix of medication and lifestyle to get my head back above water.

I don't have everything figured out. But now with the help of a therapist, a doctor, an understanding family and super supportive friends, I have a plan, an arsenal of tools to help me climb this mountain and, most of all, a commitment to being my best.

It wasn't stigma that stopped me from asking for help sooner. It was pride. I assumed that I should be able to do it on my own and that it was my own weakness that was holding me back. If I asked for help, it would mean admitting that I needed help.

That's why I feel compelled to share. Just in case there's even one other "functioning depressive" out there who needs to hear it, just one person out there who has felt like they didn't have enough in them to thrive, who has been struggling just under the surface.

You might think that therapy/medication is a step too far, but maybe it *is* what you need.

You just have to be brave enough to admit it and try.