Stigma

I sat in my sophomore year Helping Skills course in college, excited to learn the building blocks of what it truly meant to sit with a person for 45 minutes and be effective as a helper.

I opened my textbook and saw in the introduction that I should probably head to the registrar's office to switch my major now.

"Mental health professionals have to be of sound mind in order to be effective and ethical helpers"

Now the textbook wasn't speaking directly at me, but it sure felt like it did. I was in my early twenties, crying over girls who weren't worth my time, drinking too much on the weekends, taking one too many espresso shots to make it through my next exam, and using the word "fuck" between every other word in a sentence.

I knew now that I could not tell professionals that I too, struggled with my mental health.

I'm in the second year of my Clinical Mental Health Masters program and I intern at a counseling center, seeing young adults ages 18-25 in an individual therapy setting.

They're young, so they use words and slang that I am attempting to keep up with. One thing they often say when they are struggling is "I must be crazy".

Crazy.

Thrown out flippantly by a college student who is using it to describe themselves and a disorder they may or may not have.

My identity with my own disorder prickles at this word.

I feel like an undercover spy, tucking my OCD away and helping others navigate their own issues, sometimes with similar or identical diagnoses to mine.

I am not some smooth, 007 Casa Nova. I am a person hiding their pain, hiding their "crazy".

I go to therapy, I give therapy.

I learn, I teach.

I am a budding therapist with OCD. It's not as taboo to say anymore and there's a new lens out there that says there are now benefits in saying so. I'm just working on being comfortable sharing this with my closest peers and mentors. What I have learned is I'm not a secret sleuth or stranger with a secret. I am a human who happens to be a helper, who has needed help along the way.

"Everyone has their stuff" is something my supervisor says frequently when I begin to doubt my abilities due to my diagnosis (this can be part of having OCD in general).

My stuff looks different than your stuff. Your stuff looks different than mine. Not in any particular color, shape, or size. The volume is the same to you and me, or maybe it's not. We all carry our baggage, no matter the profession we choose. I keep trying to remind myself that, at least.

I don't just have OCD. I have past traumas that can come up when client's tell a story, I have biases, I have silly little parallels to their lives, I have vices, I too have tears. Some of these we share, some we do not. Counter-transference is bound to come around, regardless of the parts we as helpers can grow ashamed of.

I'm not crazy. I hate that word. I don't believe anyone is, not even the people in this world who do terrible, terrible things. Human behavior is too big to be defined with that little word.

I help others learn they aren't crazy too. That therapy is cool; that it is something to be incredibly proud of when you actively choose to help yourself.

I remind my clients of this, some need to hear it more than others.

I remain aware that when I utter those words or reassure those fears, it might be the message that I need to hear too.