Bravely sharing our stories

When I was a senior in high school, I missed a week of classes because I believed I was living in a dream. I believed I would be picked up by a spaceship and taken to an oracle who would wake me up. I believed I'd awake to some point in the past (one week? one month?) and would finally feel happy and real. I remember telling my parents, 'I'm sorry, but you're not real” and seeing pain in their eyes. I remember by mom driving me to my therapist and being convinced the therapist would tell my mom I was right. Instead I sat in anger as the therapist said it was a 'delusion” caused by 'stress.” She prescribed me Prozac and said it would help my depression. My mom took me to Wal-Mart to fill the prescription, and I bought a black goldfish with puffed out eyes to keep me company while I felt punished and alone. I named him Oscar.

Two weeks into my freshman year of college, Oscar died. Life is, at times, quite literary. My depression worsened, and I spent a lot of time alone in my dorm room. I struggled with my piano lessons, an instrument I'd been playing since I was five. I oscillated between drowning and soaring as I tackled a heavy course load. By the end of year I'd restarted counseling and was switched from Prozac to Lamictal.

During sophomore year I was diagnosed with anorexia nervosa: I was 5'11” and weighed 115 pounds. It'd take until 2015 for me to weigh the 145 I did in high school and until 2016 to weigh more than 150.

In my junior year I turned 21 and started drinking. My depression worsened, and I used the alcohol to 'have a good time.” I switched medications the spring of that year and drank myself into the hospital after presenting a research paper. I once again saw pain in my parents eyes as I sat with them and explained what had happened.

Twelve months later, the second semester of senior year, I was hospitalized for suicidal thinking. I'd given a goodbye letter to a friend to give to my parents, and he read it, immediately notifying a staff member. I remember campus security escorting me to the ER. My parents were on a cruise for their 25th wedding anniversary, so this time I didn't have to see pain in their eyes; I heard it in their voices instead. My medications were changed, and I was finally diagnosed with an anxiety disorder, something that should have been diagnosed when I was a senior in high school.

Five months later I graduated college with B.A. in English and a 3.98 GPA. I was surrounded by friends and family. I got my first apartment and was lucky enough to have a job doing what I loved: working with teenagers at a youth shelter. I enjoyed being able to support those who had gone through struggles similar to my own.

But seven months after that, I was back in the hospital for suicidal thinking, nearly one year to the day since I was hospitalized the first time. I self-placed this time, with the support of my parents, after I confided in a co-worker that I didn't think I could stop myself from overdosing. During this second hospitalization, I spent less time thinking of myself as a captive and focused instead on how I would keep myself safe once I was back on my own; I had a desire to live, and I planned how to protect that desire. My medications were slightly adjusted and my therapy was increased.

I left that job, and things started to improve. I met with my psychiatrist (who differs from a psychologist (aka therapist, counselor) in that he can prescribe medications, and adjustments were made to my medications when necessary. One time we tried a medication that ended up causing me extreme agitation and rage; we discontinued that medication pretty quickly.

My therapy switched to focusing on my anxiety rather than my depression, and my mood made great strides in balancing out. I learned about mindfulness (living in the present moment) and practiced dialectics, which addresses black-and-white thinking to replace it with 'both/and.”

By the end of 2014, we'd found the right medications to balance out my mood, and therapy had helped me replace harmful habits and thought patterns with breathing exercises, visualizations, and measured thinking. I started going on dates, got a new job, and started writing music again. I had a few panic attacks and anxious/depressive episodes during the early stages of dating, but thanks to patience and support, I found new confidence in who I was and learned to accept every part of me rather than blame myself for the parts I didn't like.

In May 2015 I participated in This Is My Brave, a showcase of pieces about mental health. I publicly shared part of my story for the first time, and it was liberating. Standing on stage, surrounded by other people who have had similar struggles that are often stigmatized and misunderstood, was empowering. We bravely told our stories to show that we are people just like anyone else and that our illnesses are just like any others: they can be diagnosed, treated, and lived with, without needing to be stigmatized, ostracized, or shamed. I came away from the show with a second family, and I'm happy to have gotten to see many of them since then.

Now, a year later, I sit in the two-bedroom house I rent, eating dinner, and writing a guest column to share my story. I had a tough winter, but with the support of family and friends, I made it through with one panic attack, only a few depressive episodes, and no hospitalizations. I love my job, I play a couple gigs a month, and now that spring is here, I enjoy working in the yard.

On Friday, May 13 at 7 p.m. I'll again participate in This Is My Brave at the Coralville Performing Arts Center. I'll be sharing a bit of my story that night and will be joined by around a dozen other individuals sharing their stories through music, poetry, prose, acting, and public address. We'll encourage others to be brave in the face of stigmas and to increase public dialogue about mental health and its equal status with other areas of health. I hope I'll see you there and that you'll come up to say hello after the show! I hope that we will all come away with a better understanding of mental illness and a greater acceptance of those who live with it.

My name is Joseph Sorensen, and this is my story. This is my brave.

' Joseph (Joe) Sorensen is a singer-songwriter from Cedar Rapids. Comments: letsbebravetogether@gmail.com