Jenn's story 

​​The longest relationship I have in my life, aside from my parents and my little brother, is with my anxiety.
 
For a long time, I didn't think that I had a story worth telling. I've spent most of my life being told that I am melodramatic (which, in fairness, isn't always wrong) and that I over-react strongly to just about everything. I've been told I'm just too sensitive. I've been told to cheer up, because somebody else in my life inevitably "had it worse". I learned very fast that my thoughts and feelings weren't important, and that I didn't matter. This is the story of how I learned otherwise.

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Anxiety has been my reluctant-life-partner since I was five, when my grade one class went to the computer lab to play a new math game. In staring at the computer, unsure of what to do, I combusted into hysterics over the fact that everybody else seemed to know exactly how to proceed, but I had no idea. For some reason, this feeling had filled me with an overwhelming sense of panic.
 
Fast forward to any other time in my life, and this is pretty much how any given social situation goes (except for the most part, I don't burst into hysterics over 1990's educational computer programs). My anxiety has turned into a backpack that I can’t take off, filled with thick novels of sensitivity, shyness, a substantial amount of awkward, a tendency to get overwhelmed, and a giant fear of failure.  It manifests itself in strange ways: I pick at my skin, which started when I was eleven and developed acne. I get overwhelmed in crowds and have panic attacks, which started when university did. I was introduced to insomnia when I was seventeen and couldn’t get out of my head. I take solace in bathrooms at parties or bars, which started when I was nineteen and felt like the world would still go on without me if I wasn't there. I startle easily. I cry at the drop of a pin. I stutter and stumble over words when I'm the centre of attention until my face burns crimson. I sometimes can only stomach one or two kinds of food and run off of minimal amounts of sleep. The list goes on.
 
Pre-university years were filled with whispers behind my back, constant undermining of my confidence, an overall feeling of worthlessness and overwhelming paranoia that the world was out to get me. I had my first unrequited loves and lost friendships, which led to my first run-ins with self-harm- when instead of feeling everything so strongly, I felt absolutely nothing at all aside from incredibly alone. This was attributed to general teenage angst and the fact that I was constantly surrounded by assholes. Which, in fairness, wasn't all un-true. But this is where I learned that I didn't matter, and that I didn't have a real problem.
 
Things appeared to change in university. I made fantastic friends in first and second year and started volunteering in residence on-campus. However, something still wasn’t right. I was always worried that everybody hated me, and I walked around with a feeling that can only be described as being wound tight like a spring. If a room, or a bus, or a hallway was too crowded, I would leave because I couldn't breathe.  I was constantly falling behind in a program that was too gruelling and demanding for the kind of person I am. I quickly developed the fear that I wasn't good enough to do anything, and never would be. I would freeze up and panic during tests, and would have to put my head between my knees and try to not hyperventilate before entering an exam room. My grades started slipping because I couldn't get through a test or assignment without having a meltdown from being so overwhelmed. I couldn't handle being around people, and I couldn't handle being alone. I don't remember exactly what led up to another self-harm run in, but I remember being terrified afterward of ever feeling that way again. However I was also terrified to tell anybody since all I had learned was that anything I felt was unimportant.
 
I was in the midst of a group project in second year that was going horrendously when the metaphorical backpack, now thoroughly weighed down with self-loathing and an overall sense of worthlessness, rendered me immobile. A friend in my building happened to come upstairs to ask me a question, and quickly shifted gears to talk me through the overwhelming thoughts trapping me in my own head. It was the first instance that I felt as if the backpack felt marginally lighter- because other people were helping me unpack and carry it.  This was my first instance of experiencing the thought that who I am comes in waves: the high points were high, and shiny, and made me kid myself that I had ever hated myself or my life. But this made the lows more obviously the opposite.
 
 Since depression is anxiety's best friend, it had climbed into the backpack and started to hang around, too.  It became especially apparent as third year, the subsequent summer, and my fourth year progressed. I was in and out of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT), between two cities, and between two minds. Nothing I was experiencing was new, but everything- not eating, sleeping, functioning- was magnified. I was having horrendous physical anxiety and depression symptoms to the point where I couldn't get out of bed- the earliest would be at seven at night. I got so overwhelmed with school work that instead of having a fear-of-failure induced meltdown, my body just shut down instead. I moved through the world barely existing, and lashing out at everyone I loved. Hating myself and wishing for an easy out.
 
It's important to also note here that having anxiety meant caring too much about everything, having depression meant caring about nothing, and having both was like being pulled apart at the seams.
 
I went on medication after failing half of my semester’s seven exams. I took my first pill at 7:45pm five days before Christmas, and have since been on them for almost a year. Since then, there have been days where I smile without being forced to, and days where I’ve relapsed. I've come to learn, however, that when you look back and remember the good times over the hard times, the times where you danced on the beach instead of being drowned by the waves, that's what's most important- no matter how “it gets better” bullshit that may sound. Being on meds wasn't an easy decision for me; it meant admitting fully that I wasn't okay. But they've definitely helped me manage my undesireable travel companion strapped to my back in reminding me what I learned in CBT: to breathe deeply and slowly when triggered, and ground myself when my head won't stop spinning in circles. It helps me remember to be kind to myself when it's hard to get out of bed, or when it takes me longer than others to do something (I'm in year five of my undergrad, with no shame on needing the extra year). It also helps me see that I am compassionate, and care so much for others. I empathise with ease. I am fiercely loyal to the people I love because I do not know where I would be without them. Being open with my own story and struggles have encouraged others to seek help and be open with their own. I also seek solace in music, the one constant I’ve had in my life since I was old enough to sing along to my dad’s old records, when I started piano at eleven, and when I got my first guitar at fifteen. I now pick up my guitar or ukulele especially when I have idle hands that don't stop picking, and feel songs so deeply that I need to sing at the top of my lungs or get up and dance. And I write. Oh God, do I write.
 
Therapy will probably never be easy for me. Talking about my problems is something I’ve repressed so long that it's incredibly difficult to do so. But I've continued in and out for the past two years because for the nine out of ten times CBT hasn't worked for me, it's helped at least once.  I have, however, come to accept the fact that I don't go because I need help, but because I deserve it. After roughly seventeen out of twenty-two years living with anxiety and depression, I have accepted that my problems are important, and that I am truly loved.
 
My staff team has a saying that goes, "if you see a hole, bring a ladder".  It's a metaphor for empathy, see- sympathy means looking at someone at the bottom of a hole and saying, "wow, that sucks". Empathy means bringing a ladder to the hole and climbing down with them- and then helping them out.  I would have never gotten where I am now with the people that continuously bring me ladders. The ones that walk through snow storms when I’m in trouble, the ones let me curl up into their laps or shoulders on their floors and cry, the ones that blast music on car rides and sing along with the windows down, and the ones that let me sleep on their couches to help me feel safe. They know me better than I know myself, and I will never stop being grateful for the people that I have in my life and that they didn’t leave when I was pushing them away. They make the backpack lighter to carry.
 
On the rough days when I am facing how far I still have to go on my mental health journey and wondering if I really still have the energy to keep fighting my own brain for the rest of my life, I like to think back to where I used to be: scared, confused, and terrified of admitting that I had a problem. And realizing that while my mental illness will never be gone, it will be managed and one day won’t occupy as much space in my life as it does. I’ve learned to love myself, which has been the hardest mountain to climb. So now, when people tell me that I could move mountains, even carrying a very heavy backpack, I believe them.
 
The longest relationship I have in my life, aside from my parents and my little brother, is with my anxiety.
 
For a long time, I didn't think that I had a story worth telling. I've spent most of my life being told that I am melodramatic (which, in fairness, isn't always wrong) and that I over-react strongly to just about everything. I've been told I'm just too sensitive. I've been told to cheer up, because somebody else in my life inevitably "had it worse". I learned very fast that my thoughts and feelings weren't important, and that I didn't matter. This is the story of how I learned otherwise.
 
Anxiety has been my reluctant-life-partner since I was five, when my grade one class went to the computer lab to play a new math game. In staring at the computer, unsure of what to do, I combusted into hysterics over the fact that everybody else seemed to know exactly how to proceed, but I had no idea. For some reason, this feeling had filled me with an overwhelming sense of panic.
 
Fast forward to any other time in my life, and this is pretty much how any given social situation goes (except for the most part, I don't burst into hysterics over 1990's educational computer programs). My anxiety has turned into a backpack that I can’t take off, filled with thick novels of sensitivity, shyness, a substantial amount of awkward, a tendency to get overwhelmed, and a giant fear of failure.  It manifests itself in strange ways: I pick at my skin, which started when I was eleven and developed acne. I get overwhelmed in crowds and have panic attacks, which started when university did. I was introduced to insomnia when I was seventeen and couldn’t get out of my head. I take solace in bathrooms at parties or bars, which started when I was nineteen and felt like the world would still go on without me if I wasn't there. I startle easily. I cry at the drop of a pin. I stutter and stumble over words when I'm the centre of attention until my face burns crimson. I sometimes can only stomach one or two kinds of food and run off of minimal amounts of sleep. The list goes on.
 
Pre-university years were filled with whispers behind my back, constant undermining of my confidence, an overall feeling of worthlessness and overwhelming paranoia that the world was out to get me. I had my first unrequited loves and lost friendships, which led to my first run-ins with self-harm- when instead of feeling everything so strongly, I felt absolutely nothing at all aside from incredibly alone. This was attributed to general teenage angst and the fact that I was constantly surrounded by assholes. Which, in fairness, wasn't all un-true. But this is where I learned that I didn't matter, and that I didn't have a real problem.
 
Things appeared to change in university. I made fantastic friends in first and second year and started volunteering in residence on-campus. However, something still wasn’t right. I was always worried that everybody hated me, and I walked around with a feeling that can only be described as being wound tight like a spring. If a room, or a bus, or a hallway was too crowded, I would leave because I couldn't breathe.  I was constantly falling behind in a program that was too gruelling and demanding for the kind of person I am. I quickly developed the fear that I wasn't good enough to do anything, and never would be. I would freeze up and panic during tests, and would have to put my head between my knees and try to not hyperventilate before entering an exam room. My grades started slipping because I couldn't get through a test or assignment without having a meltdown from being so overwhelmed. I couldn't handle being around people, and I couldn't handle being alone. I don't remember exactly what led up to another self-harm run in, but I remember being terrified afterward of ever feeling that way again. However I was also terrified to tell anybody since all I had learned was that anything I felt was unimportant.
 
I was in the midst of a group project in second year that was going horrendously when the metaphorical backpack, now thoroughly weighed down with self-loathing and an overall sense of worthlessness, rendered me immobile. A friend in my building happened to come upstairs to ask me a question, and quickly shifted gears to talk me through the overwhelming thoughts trapping me in my own head. It was the first instance that I felt as if the backpack felt marginally lighter- because other people were helping me unpack and carry it.  This was my first instance of experiencing the thought that who I am comes in waves: the high points were high, and shiny, and made me kid myself that I had ever hated myself or my life. But this made the lows more obviously the opposite.
 
 Since depression is anxiety's best friend, it had climbed into the backpack and started to hang around, too.  It became especially apparent as third year, the subsequent summer, and my fourth year progressed. I was in and out of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT), between two cities, and between two minds. Nothing I was experiencing was new, but everything- not eating, sleeping, functioning- was magnified. I was having horrendous physical anxiety and depression symptoms to the point where I couldn't get out of bed- the earliest would be at seven at night. I got so overwhelmed with school work that instead of having a fear-of-failure induced meltdown, my body just shut down instead. I moved through the world barely existing, and lashing out at everyone I loved. Hating myself and wishing for an easy out.
 
It's important to also note here that having anxiety meant caring too much about everything, having depression meant caring about nothing, and having both was like being pulled apart at the seams.
 
I went on medication after failing half of my semester’s seven exams. I took my first pill at 7:45pm five days before Christmas, and have since been on them for almost a year. Since then, there have been days where I smile without being forced to, and days where I’ve relapsed. I've come to learn, however, that when you look back and remember the good times over the hard times, the times where you danced on the beach instead of being drowned by the waves, that's what's most important- no matter how “it gets better” bullshit that may sound. Being on meds wasn't an easy decision for me; it meant admitting fully that I wasn't okay. But they've definitely helped me manage my undesireable travel companion strapped to my back in reminding me what I learned in CBT: to breathe deeply and slowly when triggered, and ground myself when my head won't stop spinning in circles. It helps me remember to be kind to myself when it's hard to get out of bed, or when it takes me longer than others to do something (I'm in year five of my undergrad, with no shame on needing the extra year). It also helps me see that I am compassionate, and care so much for others. I empathise with ease. I am fiercely loyal to the people I love because I do not know where I would be without them. Being open with my own story and struggles have encouraged others to seek help and be open with their own. I also seek solace in music, the one constant I’ve had in my life since I was old enough to sing along to my dad’s old records, when I started piano at eleven, and when I got my first guitar at fifteen. I now pick up my guitar or ukulele especially when I have idle hands that don't stop picking, and feel songs so deeply that I need to sing at the top of my lungs or get up and dance. And I write. Oh God, do I write.
 
Therapy will probably never be easy for me. Talking about my problems is something I’ve repressed so long that it's incredibly difficult to do so. But I've continued in and out for the past two years because for the nine out of ten times CBT hasn't worked for me, it's helped at least once.  I have, however, come to accept the fact that I don't go because I need help, but because I deserve it. After roughly seventeen out of twenty-two years living with anxiety and depression, I have accepted that my problems are important, and that I am truly loved.
 
My staff team has a saying that goes, "if you see a hole, bring a ladder".  It's a metaphor for empathy, see- sympathy means looking at someone at the bottom of a hole and saying, "wow, that sucks". Empathy means bringing a ladder to the hole and climbing down with them- and then helping them out.  I would have never gotten where I am now with the people that continuously bring me ladders. The ones that walk through snow storms when I’m in trouble, the ones let me curl up into their laps or shoulders on their floors and cry, the ones that blast music on car rides and sing along with the windows down, and the ones that let me sleep on their couches to help me feel safe. They know me better than I know myself, and I will never stop being grateful for the people that I have in my life and that they didn’t leave when I was pushing them away. They make the backpack lighter to carry.
 
On the rough days when I am facing how far I still have to go on my mental health journey and wondering if I really still have the energy to keep fighting my own brain for the rest of my life, I like to think back to where I used to be: scared, confused, and terrified of admitting that I had a problem. And realizing that while my mental illness will never be gone, it will be managed and one day won’t occupy as much space in my life as it does. I’ve learned to love myself, which has been the hardest mountain to climb. So now, when people tell me that I could move mountains, even carrying a very heavy backpack, I believe them.