Mental illnesses are some of the most common disorders in the world, affecting more than 450 million people, one in four people around the globe. So why the stigma? Why are people diagnosed with mental illness viewed and treated as lesser, weaker people?

I’ve suffered with mental illness for as long as I can remember. When I was in the third grade, my parents started to notice my out-of-the-ordinary behavior. They let the behavior go, hoping it would dwindle and eventually disappear altogether. Unfortunately, that was not the case. The odd behavior only worsened, and they rushed me to a doctor, a psychiatrist, and a scan specialist. An MRI scan and three psychiatrist visits later, I was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder (GAD) and Tourette syndrome. At only age eight, I was already diagnosed with something that would continue to affect me for most likely the rest of my life. The medication started small; every morning I would take 25 milligrams of Sertraline, but my parents sugar-coated their explanation of why I had to take it. I didn’t realize that my little twitches and outbursts of singing or random sounds could be something worth a diagnosis.

Still, I could feel this new stigma around me. My parents had a meeting with my teachers and explained my situation. I was moved to the front of the classroom to sit near my teacher. I had daily visits to the nurse’s office, and I felt like hundreds of eyes were watching me, scrutinizing my every move. This treatment continued pretty similarly for years, all the way through middle school. As I approached high school, higher levels of stress led to periods of erratic behavior. Some days I was ecstatic, going places with friends, and other days I didn’t leave the house. I would panic about being alone, but would reject any contact with other people, including my parents. My mental health became a seesaw, teetering on its fulcrum. It was my well-being against a load of anxiety, depression, and panic; it always seemed that I was on the losing side.

When it was time for me to enter high school, I was a disaster. Shortly after the first day, I was diagnosed with yet another illness. This time, it was panic disorder. I had drawn the short straw again, and now had nightly panic attacks, along with long periods of depression and anxiety. There wasn’t much I could do for this but try therapy and keep medicating. My life seemed pretty steady for a while – sometimes there were ups, sometimes there were downs. There were bumps along the way, and problems that sometimes felt like potholes. 

Death hits everyone hard, no matter their situation – but with my current state, losing someone I cared about wreaked havoc on my health. I was inside for weeks, I didn’t socialize, I didn’t want to eat, and I always felt sick. My invisible illness took something that was bad enough already and made it into something that was difficult to return from. I almost didn’t.

Today, I live with several mental illnesses – from anxiety and depression to hypochondria and Tourette syndrome. I still feel this stigma attached to me – that I’m weaker, that I can be brought down more easily, that I shouldn’t exhibit my illnesses around people. I’ve left sections on documents and permission slips empty in fear that knowledge of my illnesses would keep me from opportunities I deserve. I’ve become embarrassed when others bring up my well-being around people I have just met. I’ve been told countless times to walk away from social situations when taking my medication, or to not talk about it at all. I’ve missed doses and avoided taking medication when criticized by people who don’t understand how it helps me. I’ve lost friends and missed opportunities. 

So this stigma – this dangerous mark – why do we need it? We don’t. People with mental illnesses shouldn’t be ashamed of what they have or who they are. We’re just as strong and have special gifts like everyone else. Erase the stigma around mental illness. And please, take your medication.