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Note: I went back and forth on whether to write this post. Because we don’t know all the details around Katie Meyer’s death, I was conflicted on whether or not it would be disrespectful to write something relating my experiences to what happened. On top of that, suicide can be a triggering topic, and I never want to be responsible for causing someone harm, whether that be physical or emotional. However, talking about mental health lowers the risk of suicide, and that’s something I can’t ignore. I feel like sharing my experiences is how I can best contribute to reducing the stigma associated with mental illness; it’s how I make sense of my struggles. That sense of purpose eventually made my decision for me.
I didn’t know Katie Meyer, but the news of her death hit me hard. Ten years ago, during my sophomore year of college, I fell into a very deep, very dark, very scary hole. I’d had clinical depression my whole life, but this was different. I felt more thin-skinned and bone-tired than I ever had before. Tired of the everyday bullshit. Tired of the world. Tired of myself. Tired of life. Have you ever been scalded by water so hot that it almost felt cold? I know it’s an odd metaphor, but that’s the way my brain felt at the time. So singed, so on the fritz, that the nerves went haywire, that I couldn’t trust my body’s basic sense of survival. I remember feeling simultaneously numb and scorched. I also remember feeling adrift and alone – like no one on Earth could understand what I was going through, and no one on Earth would love me if they did. I thank God I had access to a therapist. I thank God I had already built a trusting relationship with her through my eating disorder treatment. I thank God something gave me the courage to share thoughts with her that I was too ashamed to share with anyone else. Because here’s the truth: I rarely talk about it, but from September to February of that year, I thought about dying every single day. I never had a plan, but I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. I couldn’t see what the point of anything was; all I could think was how much easier it would be not to be here. During my weekly therapy sessions, my therapist would remind me that these feelings were storms. And while they were powerful, nightmarish, seemingly infinite storms, they would pass. She promised they would. She told me my only job during this episode, however long it took, was to find a tree inside me and hold on until the gale blew over. I believed her. I found my tree – the small, ragged but resolute voice in my soul that insisted this is not the end, it gets better – and I held on. And she was right. The storms passed, and it got better. As athletes, we’re taught to “tough it out.” That’s what happens when you’re immersed in a culture fixated on performance versus personal growth and overall wellness. Playing through injuries is a toxic badge of honor, one that I’ve certainly been guilty of feeling misplaced pride for wearing. What’s more, we forget that injuries can be mental as well as physical, and pushing through those can be just as harmful. Until we, as a society, accept that mental illnesses are valid and increase access to and affordability of mental healthcare, the pressures will continue to push people past the brink. I’ve pushed through a lot of physical injuries, but it’s the mental ones that almost took me out. If you’re struggling, please understand that this is not something you can overcome through sheer willpower. It’s ok to ask for help. There’s no shame or weakness in it; on the contrary, it’s a sign of fortitude and strength – the greatest gymnast of all time and one of the best tennis players in the world (Simone Biles and Naomi Osaki, respectively) took breaks or removed themselves from competitions entirely to focus on their mental health. No doubt, being vulnerable is HARD (I’ve been writing about my issues for almost a decade and it still makes me sweat to click “Publish”), but it’s the only alternative – if you bury difficult feelings, eventually, you bury yourself.
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About the AuthorConfessions of a failed southern lady. I've got messy hair and a thirsty heart. Writer, photographer, career wanderer. Archives
May 2023
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