Ending the stigma, one sock at a time.

Several months ago, I took a little trip to the Psychiatric ER at the county Behavioral Health Division. I can honestly say I have never felt so low in my entire life.

I was on the verge of committing suicide. Boyfriend had to be with me literally every second to make sure I wouldn't grab the nearest sharp object or swallow a bottle of something. I wasn't going to make it to my scheduled appointment on Wednesday. So that Sunday morning, Boyfriend made the decision to get me the help I needed whether I wanted it or not.

Doctor's offices aren't open on Sunday morning. I didn't have a therapist I could reach out to. We were lost. Or we would have been had we not had Dad. To get me help that day, to avoid the inevitable suicide attempt that was on the horizon, our only option was to go to the Emergency Room and explain over and over and over again to every nurse, doctor, and receptionist there what a disaster I was.

They took my shoes. They made an inventory of everything I had in my purse. They casually glanced at the cut on my wrist. They made notes in a folder about my crisis without even looking me in the eye. And then they made me put on the blue socks.

I did NOT want to put those damn socks on. Those were the socks worn by the patients in the psych ward. Wearing those socks meant that I was on their level. I was a totally normal girl who was having a bad day. Bad week. Ok, bad couple of months. Cycles of depression throughout my life.

It was when they asked me to put on the socks that I felt the sting of the stigma. Everyone who saw me would know that I was "crazy." I felt like the bright blue socks were a warning sign to those around me. It was this stigma that made me want to go home and not get the help that literally saved my life. In that moment, I would have rather suffered in silence than have people judge me for having a mental illness.

Of course, Boyfriend and Dad would not have let me walk out of there in the condition that I was in. They stayed by my side the entire 7+ hours we were there. They even took responsibility for my well-being so that they let me go home instead of staying overnight. 

Still, I was embarrassed, scared, and ready to burn the socks. 

The instant I was discharged, I buried the crazy socks in the bottom of my giant purse with the intent to throw them down the trash chute with my ear pressed up against the wall to listen to them being crushed into a compact square of other memories people wanted to forget. That didn't happen. Boyfriend wanted to keep them. As I stood there horrified, he said something along the lines of, "They're warm, they have grippers so I don't fall, and all my socks are boring white." 

And he wore them nearly every night. Eventually we got to the point where we could joke about the "crazy socks," but only after he showed me how they are just freaking socks. Only after he erased the stigma that I attached to them could I look at them as an article of clothing and not a sign of my madness. I felt like I was propagating the stigma by trying to hide any and every sign that I had a mental illness.

This is why I share my story. Sure, there are people out there who will judge me for having mental illnesses. There may even be people who shy away from me out of fear and lack of understanding. But before I can expect the stigma to disappear, I need to accept the reality of mental illness myself. So I will continue to put myself out there and stare down the stigma until it retreats.

Also, here's a picture I took TODAY of me rockin' the crazy socks.