​I wish I had considered medication much earlier in my mental illness. I was always anti-meds. My views have since changed, though I’m still not always for them. I think there is a real problem with unnecessary prescriptions and over-medicating, but I’ve learned a lot about my needs and particular meds that have worked for me. 

Though my college days told me I needed help, it was at the University of Notre Dame that I truly fell apart. It was the Fall of 2009, following the news that I’d landed the job. I had my first severe bout of depression. I fell into a deep hole. It’s like I was walking on this path of greatness and suddenly stepped on a trap, covered in sticks and hay. Down I went. 

And that’s one of the many things depression tells you; that things and people are out to get you. That no one is on your side. That you’re doomed. That you’re not good at anything. It gets the best of you. But I know there was no trap set for me. I just felt hopeless. I felt like good things were being taken from me. 

Shortly after my first few days of work I wrote an email. In that email I told my boss and the administrative assistant that I couldn’t do the job they hired me to do. I literally quit. I spent a night writing that email. I went back and forth between hitting delete and typing. Once I sent the email my plan was to wake up the next morning and run away. I started to drive across the country to a place that I knew wouldn’t take away my problems. At the time I felt it was the answer. But I was in that deep hole and I was having a hard time climbing out. 

I packed up my Pontiac Bonneville with a few items and the only thing that truly mattered to me at the time--my dog Sophie. More about her next week. I left early in the morning, before my roommate got up, and off I went. 

Everyone was calling me. People cared. I knew that, but it didn’t matter. I needed to leave my fears behind. My depression was in full force, making many of my decisions. I was ignoring phone calls, speeding, and crying. I would stop to either to get gas or because my tears were preventing me from actually seeing the road. I’d listen to all the voicemails telling me it was okay and that I needed to turn around and talk to someone. My boss emailed me. The administrative assistant emailed me. Despite me quitting my job and running away, I was still wanted. 

I didn’t make it past Kansas. I ended up getting pulled over. I was speeding in a construction zone. The police officer could tell I was in distress and leery of my, “I’m going to visit a friend”. That speeding ticket ended up being one of those meant to be things. I decided to turn around.

Stay tuned next week as I introduce you to one special dog, my Labradoodle, Sophie Jane. She truly did save my life. 

In order to fully understand MY mental illness you need to know a bit about my family history. I am going to tell you about my dad. He also battled mental illness. My dad had many struggles in his lifetime and Major Depression was one of them. He also had horrible Anxiety. I'm not a doctor, but when you start combining mental illnesses it gets confusing. Clinically, he was Bipolar or some say Manic-Depressive.

I didn’t understand the severity of his condition until later in life. As a kid I never thought about mental illness. I didn’t have to. Heck, I didn't make the connection until well after college. You know how it goes—we don’t always take seriously, the things that don’t directly affect us. On top of that, my dad’s mental illness was always masked by habitual drug use, to include alcohol and other drugs. He received help countless times in his life and proceeding that was usually a relapse. His addictions kept him away from his kids and the rest of his family.

Now, in my adult life, I’m familiar with mental illness. I’m more educated than I’ve ever been. I know that it kept my dad from being himself. I have a couple memories of my dad from childhood, but the rest, the most important ones, were later in life. That’s just how it worked out.

It wasn’t until I found out he had HIV that I developed a relationship with him. He wanted a second chance because death was knocking on his door.

I never judged my dad. Not once. I never told people that he was a loser or a horrible father. I think it’s because I knew. I knew in my heart that he struggled I just wasn’t sure why. While I say I never understood the severity of his condition, I did know compassion. That would be one piece of advice that I would give others who are trying to understand mental illness. Just have compassion. The rest will come. 

My dad began writing letters as a part of his healing. There were many years between the last time I saw my dad and his first letter. Actually, I recently began sorting through them. I have every single letter from him. In his writing, he was the best dad. I looked forward to those letters. I always wrote him back too. He would send pictures of what was going on in his life; photos of his dad, his other kids, and events and activities he participated in. He spent lots of time in a halfway house. A halfway house is a center for helping former drug addicts, prisoners, psychiatric patients, or others to adjust to life in general society. So many of the photos he sent were from his time at these houses.

Eventually he asked if he could see us. When I say us, that includes my sister Katie. You’ll hear from her later. Anyways, we started visiting. The visits were not how many imagine of a father and his daughters. He was embarrassed, ashamed, and unsure of how to act around us. It was mutual at times, but we tried not to show it. We met up at restaurants where he’d say he was thankful he had some cash to treat us to lunch or dinner. He never really had money when he was clean. We’d see him for some holidays where we were often gifted with a religious trinket. I personally was never religious, but I supported his beliefs. He said believing in God helped him to get sober and eventually come to terms with his path in life. He found peace in his mistakes. I couldn't argue with that. 

On his road to recovery and in his letters he continued to ask for forgiveness. I forgave him. I forgave him long before he asked for it. I took each moment I spent with him and I cherished the shit out of it. I wanted to learn about his struggles. I felt that it was the only way for me to show him he was loved. He was ill and would soon leave this world.

I did all I could to make him feel like he mattered. In the end, he said it did. The last time I saw my dad's face my sister and I were sitting by his side. He was on oxygen, but basically gone. Not coherent. He would never open his eyes again. We touched his hand. We talked to him. We even laughed a bit. More like giggled. Because we're human. I mean, what do you say?! I think it was very fitting. My dad would've liked to hear us giggle.

At his funeral he wanted the song Wild World played by Cat Stevens. “Oh baby baby it’s a wild world. It’s hard to get by just upon a smile. Oh baby baby it’s a wild world. I’ll always remember you like a child, girl.”

Join me next week as I take you back to my college days. 

​I was fortunate to have worked at the University of Notre Dame. Never, in a million years did I see myself teaching at such a place. I want to begin my story here because this was a pivotal time in my life coming out of graduate school. It was the start of something wonderful and awful at the same time. Actually, if I’m wanting to be honest with myself, and with you, then the truth is that the awful began back in college. I'll get to that later. It just wasn’t until starting my life at Notre Dame that I acknowledged something was wrong.

I found myself in a position, fresh out of graduate school, to work at one of the most prestigious universities in the United States. Currently, according to U.S. News, it’s ranked 18th. Certainly, in 2009, when I applied for the job, it was a big deal. You have to understand how small the world can be sometimes. I grew up in the southeast corner of Wisconsin; spent some time in Burlington and a lot more time in Kansasville. And no, that is not near Topeka. Most of my family had never been to Notre Dame. There was never any reason to go. We were a small town family mostly cheering for the Green Bay Packers from our living rooms and sports bars.

So yeah, my family was super excited that I landed a job quickly, but it took us all some time to realize what I had just accomplished. But that’s what I love about them. It didn’t matter then how Notre Dame ranked on any scale and it doesn’t matter now. They were simply happy for me.

I didn’t really tout my new job because prestige, while great to some, wasn’t a career goal of mine. To this day, it still is not a career goal. The only career goal that’s mattered was wanting to make a difference, to help people most in need. Little did I know, I was one of those people.

The transition from graduate school to my first professional job in the Fall of 2009 was difficult. I was officially diagnosed with Major Depression. I didn’t care about my job or much else for that matter. I always had, but my mental illness kept me from being me. Do you know how that feels?

I hope that by telling my story people learn more about mental health, specifically depression and anxiety. I will mostly tell my story because, well, I’m the one with a mental illness. I will however, attempt to do the best I can to include perspectives from those close to me. You will hear from my wife, other family, a friend or two, and my current psychiatrist. I’m not the only one suffering here. I believe it is vital to include their experiences if the goal is to educate and raise awareness. We all must be willing to listen and learn.

I have been a lifelong advocate for all things wellness and that includes educating others about mental health. I ask you to please listen and read carefully, repeat parts if you have to. Just have an open mind. I am grateful for your time. Welcome to my story.

In Kindness & Love, Stephanie

​See you next week as I rewind a bit and tell you about my dad.

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