Imagine that you live with two horrible roommates. They disrespect your space, your time, and your relationships. They barge in at all hours of the day, leaving a mess in their wake that you have to clean up. Neither of them are particularly nice to you, and their constant belittling and berating makes you doubt every optimistic thought that crosses your mind. To top it all off, you’re stuck there. You can never move. You’re permanently trapped under the same roof as this irredeemable duo. It’s forever.
If you’re in the same boat as me, you really don’t have to work hard to imagine. I’ve always likened having depression and anxiety to being stuck sharing a home with a pair of bullies. They aren’t always around — in fact, sometimes I get nice long breaks while one or the other skips town for a bit — but it’s still their house, and they always come home.
I had many years under my belt of coping with my two atrocious roommates. A great therapist, a close-knit family, a dedicated yoga practice, and a growing small business all kept me on the up and up. None of these things solved my problems, but they helped. They kept me busy, distracted and supported.
Eventually, I moved away from my wonderful family and therapist. I wasn’t sure how things would shake out, but all seemed to be well. I bought my first house, I took on a second work-from-home job that I really enjoyed, and my small business — offering fine art wedding photography — went from growing to booming. I wasn’t “cured.” But things felt as if they were shifting into place for the first time in my adult life.
I was not expecting the third roommate.
The third bully
It showed up unannounced and out of nowhere one February afternoon halfway through my daily yoga practice. I dipped into chaturanga and felt searing pain shoot through both shoulders. Confused, I chalked it up to a weird overuse injury. I planned for some rest and recovery, and then life could resume as usual.
Life didn’t resume as usual. The next year was a constant cycle of rest and down time, only for the pain to return worse than before. I spent months (and hundreds of dollars) in physical therapy. I saw specialists, had MRIs, took painkillers and steroids. I couldn’t find an answer. Doctors patronized me and spoke over me, suggesting I try ice and rest — as if these were revolutionary concepts I hadn’t been doing for 12 months straight.
Mental health is ever-present. Even when it’s quiet, I know it’s there.
After a year, the unbearable pain in my shoulders showed up in all of my other major joints and muscles. Doing chaturanga was now the least of my worries as I began struggling just to get dressed, drive or use stairs. Daily life became an ordeal. I blew off plans left and right, often at the last minute, too embarrassed to explain to friends who’d ask.
I was in too much pain to sleep or exercise, which left me completely out of shape. Driving was suddenly a problem, and I could no longer make the trips to see my family just 75 miles away. I was feeling increasingly low and constantly panicked, not to mention clueless as to what was going on.Then, my nightmare scenario: Photography, which was a core component of my identity, had become a physical impossibility. Free weekends I used to spend out shooting with friends were spent home on the couch wrapped in ice packs. The wedding photography business I had so proudly built from the ground up became torture. I barely made it through the gigs I had left in my calendar before I ceased booking new clients altogether, lying to anyone who asked why.
At least, I reassured myself, I had that second great job to fall back on. Or so I thought, shortly before I was abruptly laid off.
Just like that, I had gone from active to couch-ridden, from mobile to house-bound. And I’d gone from two sources of income working jobs I loved to none.
The bullies fed on each other
Mental illness is ever-present. Even when it’s quiet, I know it’s there. That said, certain life events kick it into overdrive with an absolute vengeance. Chronic pain — my third permanent and terrible roommate — was the exact type of catalyst my mental illnesses love to feed on. They took it and ran with it, sending me straight into a rapid downward spiral.
While I worked to find an explanation (and a solution) to my physical pain, I struggled to get a hold on my depression. Eventually, I found a good rheumatologist who took the time to give me a diagnosis (a benign but incredibly painful musculoskeletal disorder) and a pain management plan.
But even after solving a puzzle now two years in the making, it did nothing to quell my runaway depressive episode. I was alternating between utter despondency and total apathy. All I could focus on was my past, pain-free life and it left me, frankly, unexcited to carry on.
Photography, core to my identity, became physically impossible.
The conventional means of treating mental illness — things that had worked wonders for me in the past — now ran me in circles. Medications brought side effects I couldn’t live with.
I couldn’t find decent counseling in my new city (and most recently found myself quickly leaving the office of a therapist who insisted that all my issues would be solved if I’d only let her psychic friend conjure my dead relatives).
Exercise became an unpleasant, necessary chore to carefully manage my pain — I did it because I had to. Feeling restricted in my own body did no favors for my mental state. And my beloved hobby and former escape mechanism, photography, was now a pain trigger. For a long time, all of these therapeutic “failures” made me feel infinitely worse. My anxiety taunted me that there was nothing out there that could help.
What’s worked for me
I’ve since come to realize that a lot of people fall into this frame of mind when the traditional means of treatment don’t work for them, creating a vicious cycle of feeling worse. The truth is that mental illness manifests itself uniquely in each of us. What works for your neighbor may not work for you, as it didn’t work for me. That doesn’t mean that hope is lost. It took time, and a great deal of trial and error, but eventually I found ways to fight back against my unique brand of depression, little by little.
First, I took inventory of the toxic, one-sided or negative relationships in my life and got rid of them, effective immediately.
Is this always easy? No, but this was one of the best things I did for myself, and I only wished I’d done it sooner.
In the same vein, I got rid of the doctors and therapists who made treatment feel like a joke. Any medical professional who doesn’t believe you, listen to you, or genuinely want to help you is a waste of your time and money. It takes work to find a new practitioner — let alone a good one — but they are out there, and they are worth it.
I am grateful that, despite my worst pain, I am still relatively able-bodied, and I am not gravely or terminally ill.
After that, I went to the local animal shelter and adopted a cat (my second). As a lifelong animal lover, the wonderful act of rescue, the distraction of taking care of something, and the unconditional love of a pet were all things that nurtured my soul and pulled me a little further out of the fog.
Next, I immersed myself in a job hunt. This wasn’t without stress (what job hunt is?), but it was good for me to focus my energy on something productive. It also eased my anxiety to see that there were plenty of companies hiring remotely. I’d been working from home simply because I liked it. Now, thanks to chronic illness, that was more of a requirement than a preference. Remote jobs are harder to get, but they exist, and opportunities arise regularly.
As for my photography business, I refused to throw in the towel completely. Instead, I accepted the fact that I physically couldn’t do as much as I used to. I cut my normal yearly workload in half, and resigned myself to taking it a step at a time. In the future, I can always take on less or (hopefully!) more gigs as circumstances change. That decision is mine and mine alone.
Finally, and most importantly, I returned to my yoga practice. And while I’m able to get on the mat a bit again these days, this time, the bulk of my practice is inward. Yoga places tremendous importance on honoring the body, meeting it where it is, and respecting the journey. I hated my body for how it had “betrayed” me. Now, I try very hard to be thankful for what it still does for me despite the worst days.
I also meditate on two primary thoughts. First, the impermanence of life — yes, I’ve had bad days before and will again, but I’ll also have good days again. And, on a daily basis, I affirm what I’m grateful for. I am grateful for my loved ones and that they are, today, all healthy and happy.
I am grateful that, despite my worst pain, I am still relatively able-bodied, and I am not gravely or terminally ill.
I am grateful for a roof over my head, food on my table, and a bed to sleep in. None of these factors negate my struggles, all of which are valid. But it helps me keep things in perspective and focus on the good.
I’ve had to make room, metaphorically speaking, for three unwelcome roommates in a space built to house one. I may never see eye-to-eye with them — even though they all get on famously with each other — but I won’t let their presence destroy the home I’ve worked so hard to build for myself.
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