By Laura Robbins
@lauradawnrobbins
Writer’s note: This piece touches on mental health and suicide. If those are sensitive subjects for you, take care of yourself.
Calm down. This isn’t a big deal. Stop being so emotional. You’re acting crazy.
These are the statements I’ve heard on the daily, weekly, monthly for the past ten years of my life. Statements that came so regularly from those around me that I just began to accept them, wrapping my identity around them. But these statements, and the perception that women are overly emotional, stopped me from seeing that there was a larger issue taking place within my body. I began to live into these words, brushing off any crippling thoughts, because “I’m just a woman, and we’re emotional beings.”
A common first date question is “How would you describe yourself?” I used to say that I was an emotional woman. That I felt things through and through, whether that be ecstatic one day and teary the next, I was a person that didn’t hide what she was feeling. And while part of that is true, while I am someone who tends to feel things wholly, I was feeling too much of the negative. I had never allowed myself to see that something was wrong, because I was so used to being pegged as an emotional woman.
In the spring of 2018, I was in a daily negative mindset. I had spent the better part of eight months planning a secret elopement with my now husband, which allowed me to have a source of happiness to focus on. Once the nuptials were said and done, everything else in my life became the focus, and I realized that I didn’t like any of it. My job wasn’t bringing me joy, and everything my friends did or said was either annoying me or causing me deep amounts of pain and self doubt. I no longer wanted to spend hours on the phone with my mom like I usually did, and I began cancelling any plans I could, my bed becoming the only place I wanted to be.
One night the world around me went out of focus. I was in the apartment I share with my husband, just having a regular conversation, but every word that came out of his mouth I took personally. I truly believed that he hated me. We weren’t arguing about anything, just talking about our days or something minor, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t want me. That I didn’t deserve to live. That no one understood me, would ever understand me, and so there was no point in trying anymore. My husband picked up his guitar and moved to the patio to play music, while I turned to the kitchen and grabbed a knife. He must have seen me, because right as I locked myself in the bathroom, I heard his voice on the other side of the door. I ran to the shower, knife to my abdomen, sobbing that I felt so alone. There was this emptiness inside me that spilled over into every inch of my body, making me numb. The scariest part of that moment? That I actually wasn’t afraid of dying. I was looking forward to the relief.
Prying the door open, my husband moved to the shower to sit with me. He encouraged deep breathing, but made no move to take the knife, scared he would startle me. Many minutes went by before I agreed to hand over the weapon, a little indent in my stomach where I had been pressing it in.
Following that evening I had many anxiety attacks, these moments of panic where I would cry uncontrollably and not be able to breathe. I lashed out at friends, complained constantly about the state of my life, and looked for any reason for someone to give me a second of attention and some soothing. While there were moments where my circle of friends and family did ask questions and tried to see if they could offer an ear, there were also a larger sum of moments where I was brushed off, lashed back at, or was straight up told to chill the f* out. I was called out for being too dramatic, made fun of when I took things too personally, and sometimes walked out on when I began to cry.
It would take a series of scary and regrettable events before my husband would suggest that I see a doctor. He was the first one to ever suggest such a thing. The first out of several partners, a close-knit family, and years of various friends to suggest that something might actually be out of equilibrium.
After a few months of testing and regular therapy sessions, I was diagnosed with Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder (PMDD). PMDD is a condition in which a woman has severe depression symptoms, irritability, and tension before menstruation. These symptoms are much more severe than those seen with PMS, and because of the highs and lows it causes, it’s often misdiagnosed as bipolar disease. Post-diagnosis, I finally felt like I could breathe again, and like the emotions I was feeling were real and my own, not forced on me by my menstrual cycle.
I should have been able to feel this relief years ago.
Had I not been told to calm down, to chill out, or to stop being so emotional. Had I not been told that I was acting crazy, maybe I wouldn’t have believed all those statements, and would have been able to seek help earlier. But that wasn’t my reality.
Crazy is a word we need to remove from our vocabulary. There is a strong belief that being a women means being emotional, which minimizes our feelings as women, putting them in a black and white box. But emotions are grey and curvy, and we shouldn’t tie emotions to someone’s sexual identity.
I am grateful to women on social media, friends or just Instagram connections, who were public about their mental health journeys, because it made me feel like I had an ally. I, too, choose to speak loudly and proudly about my diagnosis, to honour those who inspired me to keep digging for answers. I choose to share my struggles publicly so that if you’re struggling from emotions you don’t feel are your own, or may know another woman who is, you know there’s someone else out there who will hold your hand, look into your eyes, and tell you, “I believe you. I am here for you. You’re not crazy.”
Laura Robbins is a social media marketer in Vancouver. She loves dancing (in heels or tap shoes, take your pick), drinking large glasses of wine with friends, and doing the odd hike with her husband so she can feel she fits in with the Vancouver crowd. She thinks black is a colour and is as loud as her hair is big.
