Mental Health Deserves to Be Heard—Not Judged

My experience living with anxiety, OCD, and ADHD—and why my treatment journey isn’t up for debate.

Recently, someone questioned my medical diagnosis and treatment plan. A man who suffers from a similar diagnosis. (Gasp!) You see, for half of my life, I dealt with internal unrest. The signs were visible; I was disorganized, quiet, and particular. I was emotional, excitable, and generally considered “too much” to take. It’s no one’s fault. Mental health care is relatively new, still shrouded in bias, especially during this current administration.

Not to mention, by the time I hit puberty, American culture had peaked in sexualizing the idea of the “crazy woman.” Alicia Silverstone in the Aerosmith videos, the resurgence of Marilyn Monroe lore, Girl Interrupted, and The Virgin Suicides, just to name a few. In addition to that, our teen romcom options were full of tropes depicting the weird girl, the book nerd, or the artistic girl who is saved by the popular guy—all ending with the perfect makeover, where she is finally accepted as safe to love (Think She’s All That, Sabrina, or Clueless). These messages are clear: FIT IN OR ELSE!

I am walking, talking proof that trying to fit into a box that you don’t belong in will only negatively impact your mental wellness. And while men liked the idea of a “beautifully flawed” woman, they are the first to label you when they finish fucking you. Typecast as the “Crazy Ex” for reacting to the disrespect.

My journey to mental health care has been long and hard. I have suffered at the hands of my ignorance and slow-played my treatment for fear of being judged. Let’s dive in:

Part 1: Anxiety

"Anxiety, keep on trying me. I feel it quietly, tryna silence me. My anxiety…" – Doechii (2025)

The first week of Kindergarten, I sat at the far end of a long rectangular table. I didn’t know anyone. Our teacher was maybe 50 years old, but looked ancient with wrinkles and white hair. Looking back, I am sure she was a lovely human, but authority figures startled me into silence. She passed out a worksheet with dashed lines that formed shapes and asked us to pick a crayon and trace the lines. I never was given a paper. I panicked—unable to breathe, unable to raise my hand. I grabbed a red crayon and covered my imaginary paper with my free arm. I figured if I just held out long enough, the activity would be over. A child next to me noticed and snitched. I was scolded; it was the eighties, and teachers had no understanding of mental health.

When I was a teenager, I broke up with a boyfriend before his senior prom. I was too nervous to go, so I picked a fight with him and left him dateless. I even bought a dress. We had been together for over a year at that point. Magically, we got back together a few weeks post-prom—he was a glutton for punishment, I guess. But he wasn’t the only one. I broke it off with men who wanted me to meet their family, go to weddings, or interact with their siblings. I hated interacting with siblings. To me, it was all judgment—I was afraid that people would see me as that little girl pretending to keep up with an imaginary piece of paper. By my late twenties, I fell in love with my soulmate (an only child, of course). His parents were quiet and measured. This is not an indictment; it was a relief. Still, I volunteered to work on our first Christmas Eve together to avoid their traditional family celebration. I needed more time.

I went to my first therapy appointment when I was 29 years old (better late than never). When my therapist asked me what I did for fun, I froze. I didn’t know. Overwhelmed, my eyes started to fill up. As I poorly attempted to keep things all together, I choked out, “shopping.” But I didn’t mean it. My favorite thing to do was to drown out my thoughts with music—something I started as a child, spending hours in an imaginary world where I was able to display this magnetic main character energy. I was dissociating into a safe place free from my fears of social rejection.

So I continued therapy, medicine-free, for many years, believing the stigma. I meditated, tried to maintain a healthy diet, and exercised. My efforts were inconsistent at best. When I became a mom at 31, there was a switch. I could no longer be fearful; I had to be my children’s advocate. Motherhood became my superpower—until it wasn’t. The cost of therapy was too much, I barely had any time for myself, and I hated my job. Every day for over four months, I was unable to catch my breath. The more I struggled to breathe, the more I was convinced that I was going to die. I went to my doctor, who tested for asthma, ordered a lung scan, and ordered bloodwork. I was healthy. It wasn’t until my “millionth” sick visit that she finally said, “I think you are having panic attacks.” The second she said it, I knew she was right and started to cry. I was 38, and I finally accepted a prescription for anxiety—something my therapist had asked me to try almost ten years earlier.

Part 2: Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder

"My thoughts are stuck in a washing machine cycle." – Kelsey Warren

When I was 42, my dad passed away. I became overwhelmed with grief, and my mental health once again took a hit. Everything in our home felt contaminated. I smelled things that weren’t there, felt dirty if I dared move to another room. I inspected dishes, used only plastic utensils, and constantly checked my sleeping area. I had always had OCD, but it wasn’t something that concerned me. I had my “quirks,” but they were easily soothed. This was more than that; my dad’s death triggered an unsustainable amount of soothing behaviors.

Most people don’t realize that OCD isn’t cleaning and counting—I know I didn’t. Those types of behaviors are just a result of an obsessive-compulsive mind. OCD is the constant looping of thoughts; our actions are learned behaviors that quiet them. I am predisposed to relive the feelings, the thoughts, the events, the fears—over and over again. Like a whisper to my repulsions.

My dad’s passing didn’t uncover my OCD; it amplified it.

I’ve never been able to just use a dish without rinsing it, even one fresh from the washer. As a kid, I needed to keep my toys and clothes in groups, unable to sleep until I was sure nothing was left “alone.” I double-checked the lights even though I could see they were off. As I got older, I controlled unseen chaos by having everything match—everything. Underwear to clothes, bra to underwear. Shampoo, conditioner, razor, shaving cream—all had to match. If one changed, they all changed. If I didn’t, I felt unsettled, dirty, and plagued. Therapy did wonders for those behaviors. And the ones I kept, I saw as livable.

Fragrance in my body soap and laundry is not allowed, or my skin will crawl. I can’t thrift, use library books, or buy something “antique,” as it can send me into a downward spiral. Contaminants are the enemy!

After working with a psychiatric nurse practitioner, I learned to manage this thinking through a prescription increase (sertraline). You see, anxiety and OCD are treated the same way—OCD just needs a higher dose. I meet with my practitioner monthly, we talk, and I take the required surveys to measure my progress. And we do see the progress.

Yes, I still have obsessive-compulsive behaviors—boy, do I still have them—but now I can evaluate my actions. I can take a breath and decide if I’m strong enough to challenge my thoughts. Sometimes, I can. Sometimes, it’s not worth it. But when I can, I do. And I can move past the cycle of thoughts that lead to disgust. For me, that’s a win.

Part 3: ADHD

"Especially when I'm nervous, my mind is running a mile a minute. My ADHD speaks for me before I can speak for me." – SZA

Sometimes, when you treat OCD and anxiety effectively, it lifts a veil. It lifted mine enough for my doctor to notice new issues: concerns of focus, low motivation, racing thoughts at bedtime, inconsistency, time blindness, and impulsions moved to center stage. Without constant anxiety, I had nothing to move me forward.

Anxiety and OCD are common comorbidities for women with ADHD. Our anxieties mask the underlying problem. In a world where women are expected to “have it all” and “do it all,” we fall short. We learn to mask just to fit in. Now I take the lowest dosage of methylphenidate, and it helps me greatly.

So when a guy with an ADHD diagnosis from 25 years ago tried to shame me into not taking my medication (i.e., prescriptions that are closely monitored by a trained professional), I snapped—and rightfully so. His comments were cruel and pointed. “You graduated from college, you were able to keep a job, you were doing great—you need to be off the drugs,” he said, only to follow it by adding, “How come I can do it without meds and you can’t?”

The fact is, we all choose our journey. And what if I had been treated in high school like he was? Maybe I would have graduated with high honors. Maybe I would have been consistent with writing and made a career out of it before I turned forty. Maybe I would have been organized enough to get my master’s degree. Maybe I wouldn’t have racked up debt in my early twenties because of my inability to control my impulses. I don’t dwell, but sometimes I do mourn my “what if” story.

Message for the Future:

When someone assumes to know another’s struggle and judges them, they are sending a message to their orbit: their comfort is more important than your mental health. They are continuing an unsafe narrative, one that mimics RFK’s dangerous approach, going against what the healthcare community has proven many times over.

So my advice is this: if you don’t have the credentials, you don’t get an opinion. If you want to understand what someone is going through, ask them with the intent to believe them. And if you can’t, kindly shut the fuck up. I will not be shamed into silence.