I come from a family with a history of depression, anxiety, and trauma. Two of my brothers have Bipolar I, ADHD, and trauma. My dad has ADHD, Bipolar I, narcissistic personality disorder, and trauma. My mom has generalized anxiety disorder and trauma. One brother is a genius and has obsessive-compulsive personality disorder and trauma. And I struggle with both depression, obsessive-compulsive personality disorder, trauma, and possibly Bipolar II.
Because of this familiarity with mental illness, I played the helping role in my family for many years before I chose my profession. I have mirror synesthesia, which means I can feel what other people are feeling as though it were my own pain. As a result, I’m pathologically helpful, putting other people’s needs before my own. So becoming a clinical psychologist almost felt like a calling rather than a choice.
I first became depressed in high school. It’s hard to separate the angst of adolescence from clinical depression, but I had thoughts of suicide by the age of 15, so I’ll say that it started then. The intensity of my depression waxed and waned throughout my life, with short periods of being free from depression. I have never been free from anxiety, but it has become more manageable since 2023.
When I left for college at 18, I had my first major depressive episode. Not coincidentally, my dad had his second episode because of “losing” me. (His first depressive episode happened when he immigrated to the US for residency). I didn’t do anything about my depression for over a year.
At 19, I had my first session with a psychiatrist who confirmed my diagnosis of Major Depressive Disorder. At the time, that was enough to make me feel better—to have someone tell me that what I was going through was real.
So I didn’t follow up with therapy until after I graduated from college, when I was 22. I can’t say I thought that therapist was particularly helpful. He never told me his opinion on anything, never gave me homework, never offered me another way to look at things. I would often cancel at the last minute because it was too exhausting to go and then feel like he didn’t really help me.
I have a great appreciation for how hard it can be to find a therapist at all, much less someone who you vibe with. And since there’s often a lot of ambivalence about going to therapy in the first place, it’s hard to get the ball rolling.
The 2nd time I went to therapy was with my boyfriend right before we got engaged. I was 25 at the time. It was clear that our therapist thought that our relationship problems were because of my depression and suggested that I go on meds. Whichreally pissed me off. We didn’t see her for very long.
In reality, our biggest problem was that we both had long-standing trauma and had bonded over it because we understood each other’s pain at a deep level, but not necessarily on a conscious level. Even though on the outside we seemed to have very different backgrounds. We had no idea how deep the rabbit hole of trauma goes, so we couldn’t help each other. Or ourselves.
Still, that couples therapist planted the seed of meds in my mind, which was something. I started a trial of antidepressants in my late 20’s. And it did help. But after a year and half, I stopped taking them because I didn’t want to have to rely on meds to feel “normal.”
Then I started taking them again a few years later when my husband and I started talking about separation. I’ve gone on and off of them, sometimes with my psychiatrist’s permission. But now I accept that it’s easier for me to regulate my emotions if I’m on them. I’m OK with having to be on them for life if that’s what it takes.
I also went back to therapy for the 3rd time at 30 to help me process our marital difficulties. And she is the therapist who I have seen on and off until this day. Her unconditional acceptance and belief in me has allowed me to accept and believe in myself.
Still, I would see her for as little as I could get away with for many years until I became dysfunctional, because I didn’t think I deserved to take up more of her time. I don’t like asking for help. It’s only been over the last few years that I have allowed myself to accept her offer to reach out for help any time I need it.
My 2nd major depressive episode happened when I was 40. I had stopped taking my meds again because my mom suggested it. She is a physician and she was the one giving me samples of the medication. It only took about 3 months of being off the meds before I got depressed again. And it was even worse than the first depressive episode. It probably took me about 9 months to recover completely.
Not surprisingly, my father was also depressed at that time. He didn’t tell me at first, but I could feel it anyway. The combination of not being on meds and feeling his depression was overstimulating and I crashed hard.
In this second episode I was not able to just restart my meds and return to normal, so I saw a psychiatrist for the second time. Surprisingly, he was more concerned about things like light therapy, sleep hygiene, and supplements than he was about antidepressants. But I had to take those, too. He also added anxiety meds and a mood stabilizer because he thought I had Bipolar II, even though I was in a depressive episode and he had never seen me hypomanic.
I questioned whether I really had Bipolar II, but since people with bipolar disorderdeny they’re manic, that just confirmed my diagnosis from his perspective.. And once you’re diagnosed by a psychiatrist, every other psychiatrist went along with the diagnosis without doing their own thorough evaluation.
In 2021 I moved to Knoxville to escape the stress of my job, my family, and my relationship at the time. It was a major leap of faith, leaving all my support systems behind. The transition led to my 3rd depressive episode.
Once again, my new psychiatrist relied on my previous psychiatrists’ diagnoses and said I had Bipolar II and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. After experimenting with antidepressants, mood stabilizers, and antipsychotic meds that were making my symptoms worse, my therapist forced me to tell her that I had to do off the antipsychotics. Which was like having to disobey one of my parents. Although she was more like the most recent step-mother who didn’t know me very well, anyway.
In that session, my psychiatrist asked me if I thought I was bipolar. I felt like screaming, no! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all this time! But I just said no. And she acted like, oh yeah it gets misdiagnosed all the time because the criteria are so vague. Like she knew all along. Even though she insisted I keep taking antipsychotics that made me feel like a zombie for a year.
But to her credit, she did reconsider my diangosis. She then switched me to a newer antidepressant. Since then I have been able to regulate my emotions fairly well. Until recently.
So now she has diagnosed me with Bipolar Disorder again, but I question whether her diagnosis is correct because she is not familiar with neurodivergence in adults, and she has made a lot of questionable clinical and ethical calls in my opinion. So I’m switching to a psychiatrist who does have expertise in neurodivergence in adults.
I have never shared this detailed account of my mental health history with anyone before starting this blog because I was ashamed of my depression. It felt like a failure. I was supposed to have everything under control. I was the one everyone looked to for help. In reality, sometimes I was struggling more than my clients were. I was still able to help them, but I didn’t know how to help myself.
I have always known that I was meant to write a book but was afraid to let people read my writing. Which was kind of a problem. I decided I would do some exposure therapy and start a mental health blog where not only would people be reading my writing, but I would also be honest about all of the things that I ordinarily tried to hide. Then I would illustrate how I use the techniques that I teach in therapy to demonstrate that they work.
It was terrifying.
The biggest gift the blog gave me is that, in sharing my vulnerability with other people, I was articulating their pain and suffering as well, so that they felt seen and heard. Many of them reached out and told me how thankful they were that I was able to put into words what they were experiencing so that they didn’t feel so lonely, crazy, and ashamed. At that time, I wasn’t as authentic with my clients as I am now because I lived in a fish bowl where I was constantly being criticized. So this feedback was an amazing gift of reciprocity.
In my current practice, since I can do whatever the heck I want, I primarily focus on teaching people how to self-regulate and eventually thrive by practicing mindfulness and self-compassion. I help people feel seen and heard, teach them how to empower themselves, and show them what their strengths are so that they can use them to overcome their weaknesses. I share much more of myself in I come from a family with a history of depression, anxiety, and trauma. Two of my brothers have Bipolar I, ADHD, and trauma. My dad has ADHD, Bipolar I, narcissistic personality disorder, and trauma. My mom has generalized anxiety disorder and trauma. One brother is a genius and has obsessive-compulsive personality disorder and trauma. And I struggle with both depression, obsessive-compulsive personality disorder, trauma, and possibly Bipolar II.
Because of this familiarity with mental illness, I played the helping role in my family for many years before I chose my profession. I have mirror synesthesia, which means I can feel what other people are feeling as though it were my own pain. As a result, I’m pathologically helpful, putting other people’s needs before my own. So becoming a clinical psychologist almost felt like a calling rather than a choice.
I first became depressed in high school. It’s hard to separate the angst of adolescence from clinical depression, but I had thoughts of suicide by the age of 15, so I’ll say that it started then. The intensity of my depression waxed and waned throughout my life, with short periods of being free from depression. I have never been free from anxiety, but it has become more manageable since 2023.
When I left for college at 18, I had my first major depressive episode. Not coincidentally, my dad had his second episode because of “losing” me. (His first depressive episode happened when he immigrated to the US for residency). I didn’t do anything about my depression for over a year.
At 19, I had my first session with a psychiatrist who confirmed my diagnosis of Major Depressive Disorder. At the time, that was enough to make me feel better—to have someone tell me that what I was going through was real.
So I didn’t follow up with therapy until after I graduated from college, when I was 22. I can’t say I thought that therapist was particularly helpful. He never told me his opinion on anything, never gave me homework, never offered me another way to look at things. I would often cancel at the last minute because it was too exhausting to go and then feel like he didn’t really help me.
I have a great appreciation for how hard it can be to find a therapist at all, much less someone who you vibe with. And since there’s often a lot of ambivalence about going to therapy in the first place, it’s hard to get the ball rolling.
The 2nd time I went to therapy was with my boyfriend right before we got engaged. I was 25 at the time. It was clear that our therapist thought that our relationship problems were because of my depression and suggested that I go on meds. Whichreally pissed me off. We didn’t see her for very long.
In reality, our biggest problem was that we both had long-standing trauma and had bonded over it because we understood each other’s pain at a deep level, but not necessarily on a conscious level. Even though on the outside we seemed to have very different backgrounds. We had no idea how deep the rabbit hole of trauma goes, so we couldn’t help each other. Or ourselves.
Still, that couples therapist planted the seed of meds in my mind, which was something. I started a trial of antidepressants in my late 20’s. And it did help. But after a year and half, I stopped taking them because I didn’t want to have to rely on meds to feel “normal.”
Then I started taking them again a few years later when my husband and I started talking about separation. I’ve gone on and off of them, sometimes with my psychiatrist’s permission. But now I accept that it’s easier for me to regulate my emotions if I’m on them. I’m OK with having to be on them for life if that’s what it takes.
I also went back to therapy for the 3rd time at 30 to help me process our marital difficulties. And she is the therapist who I have seen on and off until this day. Her unconditional acceptance and belief in me has allowed me to accept and believe in myself.
Still, I would see her for as little as I could get away with for many years until I became dysfunctional, because I didn’t think I deserved to take up more of her time. I don’t like asking for help. It’s only been over the last few years that I have allowed myself to accept her offer to reach out for help any time I need it.
My 2nd major depressive episode happened when I was 40. I had stopped taking my meds again because my mom suggested it. She is a physician and she was the one giving me samples of the medication. It only took about 3 months of being off the meds before I got depressed again. And it was even worse than the first depressive episode. It probably took me about 9 months to recover completely.
Not surprisingly, my father was also depressed at that time. He didn’t tell me at first, but I could feel it anyway. The combination of not being on meds and feeling his depression was overstimulating and I crashed hard.
In this second episode I was not able to just restart my meds and return to normal, so I saw a psychiatrist for the second time. Surprisingly, he was more concerned about things like light therapy, sleep hygiene, and supplements than he was about antidepressants. But I had to take those, too. He also added anxiety meds and a mood stabilizer because he thought I had Bipolar II, even though I was in a depressive episode and he had never seen me hypomanic.
I questioned whether I really had Bipolar II, but since people with bipolar disorderdeny they’re manic, that just confirmed my diagnosis from his perspective.. And once you’re diagnosed by a psychiatrist, every other psychiatrist went along with the diagnosis without doing their own thorough evaluation.
In 2021 I moved to Knoxville to escape the stress of my job, my family, and my relationship at the time. It was a major leap of faith, leaving all my support systems behind. The transition led to my 3rd depressive episode.
Once again, my new psychiatrist relied on my previous psychiatrists’ diagnoses and said I had Bipolar II and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. After experimenting with antidepressants, mood stabilizers, and antipsychotic meds that were making my symptoms worse, my therapist forced me to tell her that I had to do off the antipsychotics. Which was like having to disobey one of my parents. Although she was more like the most recent step-mother who didn’t know me very well, anyway.
In that session, my psychiatrist asked me if I thought I was bipolar. I felt like screaming, no! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all this time! But I just said no. And she acted like, oh yeah it gets misdiagnosed all the time because the criteria are so vague. Like she knew all along. Even though she insisted I keep taking antipsychotics that made me feel like a zombie for a year.
But to her credit, she did reconsider my diangosis. She then switched me to a newer antidepressant. Since then I have been able to regulate my emotions fairly well. Until recently.
So now she has diagnosed me with Bipolar Disorder again, but I question whether her diagnosis is correct because she is not familiar with neurodivergence in adults, and she has made a lot of questionable clinical and ethical calls in my opinion. So I’m switching to a psychiatrist who does have expertise in neurodivergence in adults.
I have never shared this detailed account of my mental health history with anyone before starting this blog because I was ashamed of my depression. It felt like a failure. I was supposed to have everything under control. I was the one everyone looked to for help. In reality, sometimes I was struggling more than my clients were. I was still able to help them, but I didn’t know how to help myself.
I have always known that I was meant to write a book but was afraid to let people read my writing. Which was kind of a problem. I decided I would do some exposure therapy and start a mental health blog where not only would people be reading my writing, but I would also be honest about all of the things that I ordinarily tried to hide. Then I would illustrate how I use the techniques that I teach in therapy to demonstrate that they work.
It was terrifying.
The biggest gift the blog gave me is that, in sharing my vulnerability with other people, I was articulating their pain and suffering as well, so that they felt seen and heard. Many of them reached out and told me how thankful they were that I was able to put into words what they were experiencing so that they didn’t feel so lonely, crazy, and ashamed. At that time, I wasn’t as authentic with my clients as I am now because I lived in a fish bowl where I was constantly being criticized. So this feedback was an amazing gift of reciprocity.
In my current practice, since I can do whatever the heck I want, I primarily focus on teaching people how to self-regulate and eventually thrive by practicing mindfulness and self-compassion. I help people feel seen and heard, teach them how to empower themselves, and show them what their strengths are so that they can use them to overcome their weaknesses. I share much more of myself in sessions now because it feels more authentic.
With self-compassion, there is an emphasis on common humanity–the idea that as human beings, we are all feeling the same feelings, struggling with the same issues, stumbling along, doing the best that we can. So I share some of my own struggles so they are reassured that they aren’t crazy. And then, they can thrive.
That’s actually the inside joke about Normal in Training. You think you’re learning all these techniques so that you can be normal. But in reality, you’re giving yourself permission to be yourself. Because there is no normal.
Or as Neo from the Matrix would say, there is no spoon. now because it feels more authentic.
With self-compassion, there is an emphasis on common humanity–the idea that as human beings, we are all feeling the same feelings, struggling with the same issues, stumbling along, doing the best that we can. So I share some of my own struggles so they are reassured that they aren’t crazy. And then, they can thrive.
That’s actually the inside joke about Normal in Training. You think you’re learning all these techniques so that you can be normal. But in reality, you’re giving yourself permission to be yourself. Because there is no normal.
Or as Neo from the Matrix would say, there is no spoon.
Neurospicy and Flying 