I am an Armenian woman who has struggled intimately with her mental health. Unfortunately, I can say first hand that such widespread stigma is still alive and well in our community. Since I was a child, I’ve experienced significant bouts of depression, anxiety and anger. But while I was growing up, my family and I could not have imagined that these issues could be attributed to my brain chemistry or family medical history. We simply assumed that these were hormones or the process of puberty. We assumed that my problems could be handled within the home, between my parents and I. We assumed that these feelings could be prayed away, or that we could ignore them until they dissipated into memories of the past.

Needless to say, as I entered university, I was still experiencing depressive episodes and intense panic attacks. Worst of all, around 5PM every day, I would experience a mood swing from normal to despondent. The mood shifts were so intense that I could not leave my home, sleep, eat, engage in any human interaction or even recognize myself in the mirror. All I had the capacity to do was self-harm, break down, and push my dearest loved ones away.

I knew my anxiety and agitation were hindering my ability to perform at school, to sustain a healthy social life, to maintain a sound state of mind. But I always thought, “This is just who I am. I don’t need medication or therapy, because only crazy, ‘khent’ and unstable people need medication and therapy.” Besides, no one in my family or community talked about having mental health issues, and if they ever did, it was extremely hush hush. Bringing it up felt like spilling a bottle of red wine on a white carpet. Thus, I never stuck to any consistent treatment regimen, as stigma drove me to identify getting treatment as a marker for insanity. Stigma falsely implies that needing help is bad, stopping individuals from taking the first important step in treating a disorder: reaching out.

All the while, my sinister, late-afternoon mood swings would fester shouting matches between my family, my then partner, my friends and I. I said horrible things to those around me, things I knew would hurt them, but just couldn’t stifle. The urge to react and instigate was like rocket fuel in my veins. The words would fly out of my mouth before I had a chance to take a breath. The more I hurt my loved ones, the more I hated myself.

Once I graduated college, I hit rock bottom. The exhaustion and major changes that followed graduation overwhelmed me. Four days after I graduated college, on May 9th 2018, I tried to commit suicide. I felt miserable, alone, and scared. I yearned for nothing more than someone to talk to, someone to understand. I wanted to feel comfortable texting my friends and saying, “Hey, I really need you. I am in crisis mode.” But I just couldn’t. Stigma stopped me. The uneasiness that I could be seen as crazy, or problematic, or complicated, drove me to live in fear for months. That uneasiness turned into a belief that took a long time to delegitimize. Stigma made me hate myself and drove me into silence. Stigma prevented me from getting the help I needed when I needed it, and I never want it to stop anyone from getting the right treatment again.

After coming home from college, I finally saw a psychiatrist. The work was hard, and it took a long time to find the right medications, as well as the right words for what was going on inside my brain. At the age of 21, I was diagnosed with a mood disorder somewhere in the spectrum between bipolar 2 and borderline personality disorder. Prior to treatment, I never recognized my symptoms of hypomania, agitation and impulsivity. I thought that having a mood disorder meant a life of horrendous and instantaneous mood swings, extreme unreliability, and an incapability to engage in meaningful relationships. See the internalized stigma?

Now that I am medicated, I am back to living a full life. I enjoy the little things, like a nice big bowl of mante and a cup of soorj. Times are still tough, but through treatment and medication, I found a sense of peace.

Best of all, I have found deeper meaning in talking about my disorder and in talking about my experience. I want every individual who struggles with their mental health to know that they are not crazy, that asking for help is never a bad thing, and that they are never alone, even when it feels like it. I want every person to know that having to take a medication, or having to deal with a disorder does not mean that they are any less human than the next person. No one should have to live in fear. No one should have to feel alone.

Conclusively,