Life Experiences with Mental Illness

Content Notice: This story contains references to Domestic Abuse, Sexual Assault, and Rape.

I’ve lived around mental illness a long time. I got married in 2003 at age 29 and at first, it was good. But gradually, I began to see my spouse exhibit jealousy, paranoia, and distrust. I learned that he had issues from childhood and from his first wife cheating on him. I experienced the aftermath of this. We argued a lot. He would play mind games, turning things around to make it seem like it was my fault. No matter what I did, he always managed to twist things around. Eventually, I felt like I was losing my mind. I was starting to notice changes within myself – losing my patience, yelling and screaming so I could be heard, crying all the time, and isolating myself from everything.

two women looking at each other, shadows on their faces

When I became pregnant, I started my own home daycare so I could make money while still being there for my child’s firsts. Being pregnant was scary because it was my first, but it was also exciting. I ran a home daycare, but because some of the families eventually left when their children started school, money was tight. I applied for other jobs, but my husband would always make excuses as to why I didn’t need to work. I lost friends and found it hard to make new ones because I was trapped in the house by his jealousy. I fell into a deep depression and wasn’t even aware of it. Gradually, I began to feel unlike myself. I didn’t care about the daycare anymore. I didn’t care how I looked or how my clothes fit. I gained a lot of weight. My husband and I did nothing but fight and I fell out of love with him. After ten years of marriage, in November 2013, I finally had the courage to end the relationship.

In 2005, I started a web design company, along with my home daycare. In 2010, I received a phone call from a man looking for a web designer who had come across my ad on a website for local classifieds. After speaking on the phone, we began working together and then continued to work together for years after. We met in person for the first time, and after a few months, we started having feelings for each other. Eventually, we started dating. My boyfriend needed a place to live and I needed help with the rent, so he moved in. Prior to him moving in, I was aware he was living with clinical depression, obsessive-compulsive disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, and a few personality disorders. But I didn’t know to what extent his mental illness affected him until after we moved in together.

I had already gained some tools to cope with mental illness after living with my father. You see, as children, my brother and I spent a lot of time at my grandmother’s house. I had always wondered why. Although we always had a great time, something didn’t feel quite right. Years later, my mother explained that the reason was that she had been protecting us from our dad, who was abusive.

a woman looks over her shoulder in a dark space

My mother, brother, and I lived with the violent domestic abuse caused by my father’s bipolar disorder and his prescription medication addiction. When my father passed away in 2004, my 28-year-old brother was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder, depression, and anxiety. My mother and I live with PTSD, also as a result of the abuse.

Despite the trauma caused by my father, I had learned a lot along the way. I knew I could help my new boyfriend by supporting him. We communicated through text every day. I helped him through panic attacks and helped ease his depression. I was there for him, so much so that he felt comfortable enough to tell me his deepest darkest secrets. However, when he decided to wean himself off his medication because he was doing okay, I saw, firsthand, the effects of living with mental illness without medication. Reality hit me square in the face.

a person standing in front of windows with the blinds closed

It was like living in a nightmare. There were panic attacks, severe paranoia, fear, social phobia, isolation, severe depression where he would sleep all day and not want to do anything but talk to me. It was very scary, seeing him like this and not knowing what to do. I provided him with a lot of reassurance and patience, letting him know everything was going to be okay. His routine became part of my routine; grocery shopping, bedtime, and meal times were always the same day and time each week. If he was off his routine even by five minutes, he would have a panic attack.

For me, it was very mentally draining, but I found myself still able to make time for self-care. It’s been four years since he’s gone back on medication after deciding he didn’t want to live that way anymore. Life has become much more manageable. His panic attacks are very minimal, he doesn’t stay in bed, has gone back to work, and visits friends and family. Now he’s living his dream and is drumming again. He’s become the man I knew when we first met.

In the past, I always tried to treat mental health conditions with compassion. My father and I had a very special bond, despite everything he put us through. Late at night, he would wake me up and we’d sit at the kitchen table while he talked for hours. I was the only one he talked to like this and I know it helped.. He would feel a bit better afterward. It really hurt me to see him in pain. He was out of control, physically and mentally. My grandmother told us that she had taken him to psychologists as a teenager and they diagnosed him with manic depression. However, in the 1950s and 60s, doctors didn’t know much about this issue, so he was never medicated. We may have had our ups and downs and fought like any normal father and daughter would over boys, me wanting a life, and more, but we were very close.

Even though he died in 2004, I continued to experience triggers and flashbacks to his physical, verbal, and mental abuse. Luckily, the nightmares have now disappeared. I look back at how things were and I still think to myself, “This actually happened?”

a woman lies in bed with her head resting on her arms as she looks out into the distant

I remember my father telling us, “What happens in this house, stays in this house.” I was terrified to tell anyone what was happening, but I knew I had to. I started opening up to a high school counselor in ninth grade, but he saw that I was vulnerable and sexually assaulted me. This became another situation in which I was too terrified to tell anyone. For some reason, assault continued to follow me throughout my life. I was revictimized by two close family friends, each of whom sexually assaulted me for years. I went to college and was raped twice; first by my first college boyfriend and then a blind date. I always wondered when this was going to end and my life would change. I wondered if I’d done something to cause all this to happen because similar situations kept occurring. I told my parents but they didn’t believe me. I never talked to anyone about these situations again until after my father died. At that point, I was finally able to talk to my mother. While she believed me she didn’t say anything because these family friends were close friends of my father’s.

Today, I still live with flashbacks and a lot of triggers, but I manage them and have learned to live with them. Instead of dwelling on the negative experiences in my past, I try to find the positive outcomes, learn from them, and then apply this to my life. This helps me cope if similar situations arise in the future.

I have stayed close with my loved ones, so I realize it’s important to keep communication open, be truthful, honest, and show loved ones that I trust them. In return, they will trust me.

Photography and writing have really helped me deal with the past. When I take photos, I’m captured in the moment and the beauty of life. Writing has become very therapeutic for me, as well. I write down absolutely everything I’m feeling at the moment. I’ve been able to share my writing on blogs and have discovered my writing helps others, which is also why I am sharing my story here. I hope it helps someone heal and feel less alone.

Now, when I look back at everything that happened, I realized I’m a more empathetic person. My experiences have helped many people across the world, I know my limitations and how to handle situations better. Even though my father had manic depression and an addiction to prescription medication, he was the best father anyone could ask for. He provided for us, cared about us, and I know we meant the world to him.