May

 May is mental health awareness month. Our family talks a lot about mental health and whenever we do, the story of this girl I knew in middle school always pops up.

She was student council president; choir section leader: straight-A student; a four season athlete (always a starter); played in the band; lots of friends - she was pretty much the girl I always wanted to be.

But the summer before ninth grade, something changed. If you happened to run into her, you'd notice either the self-inflicted burn marks on her arms, or a long sleeved sweatshirt in mid-August. If you invited her to hang out she'd politely decline. On the rare occasion she accepted, her obvious eating disorder would just make all of us feel weird. She grew her hair out in long curtains that covered her face - either to keep the world out or herself in - nobody really knew for sure. She dropped out of band, student council and never went to volleyball tryouts, despite the coach calling repeatedly. 

Rumor had it that her family had sought out a psychologist to help (which was relatively taboo in 1985). Months passed. Nothing changed. The only thing we knew to do was pretend everything was normal. Ignoring her seemed to be the most polite way of dealing with it.

 She was dying in front of everyone, and we just pretended she wasn't.

But her family could not pretend. Her father disenrolled her from school and placed her in an adolescent mental health crisis unit in Minneapolis. And that's where the girl lived - in the "looney bin". That's what we called it - because that $h!+ is weird. In 1985 people didn't admit to seeing a therapist. They sure didn't place their children in psych wards - especially not straight-A, student-council-president-type children. 

People in our town gave her dad a pretty hard time. But a little over two months later the girl came back to school. She joined the choir again; started speech team; she pulled her hair back from her face and decided that sports were fun but her heart was really into volunteering, social activism and politics; she auditioned for the school play and at the end of the year was elected class president -rejoining the student council. 

This isn't the part that made this girl brave to me - the coming back to school and rejoining humanity. No, the part I have always admired about her, is that when anyone asked her where she had been, or asked why she had been living in a "nut house", she would say, "I was being treated for an eating disorder and situational depression because I had some childhood trauma." 

She just said it - like it was normal - like she'd had appendicitis or something. She said "I wish everyone I know could go, because I learned so much." 

I always admired her bravery in that situation. Shortly after she returned to school, two other kids made a visit to that same hospital. Two other kids who are still alive today. Although I don't know that I credit her, I do know that several people asked, several classmates had quiet conversations with her about what therapy really felt like. I know she was honest and vulnerable and strong. 

Most of you know this story is about me. Many of you were there. Some of you are the classmates I had those conversations with. And although my kids and I talk about this all of the time, not everyone knows I was a 14 year-old crisis patient - but you should. Because now I am a mom of three cool kids; wife to the man of my dreams; a mental health advocate; and a fine arts teacher who lives to help kids to be their best selves; but I was not always like this. 

Caring for your mental health can be messy and painful. It is daunting, sometimes terrifying, or even paralyzing - but it should never be shameful.  

Never.

My stay at Abbott Northwestern Station 52 was not the only time I've worked on my mental health -( I wasn't even diagnosed with crippling generalized anxiety until I was 40). But I feel it's important to mention because I've worked with so many kids, so many young people who may think that life will always feel the way it does today. 

I promise you it will not. And I promise you that I am here for you too, just like people were there for me.

Someday I will probably share all of the messy details, but for now I will just share this - I could not possibly be getting through the insanity that is my current life without the things I learned at Station 52. It's ok to practice taking care of yourself. You are loved, you are worth it, there is help out there. Call me if you don't know where to find it. I'll find it for you.

Soldier on.