How to Support a Loved One with Mental Illness

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Years ago, a close friend of mine was going through a heart-wrenching breakup. I had run out of ideas on how to help her, and I was simply unsure what a good friend looked like in this particular situation. So I reached out to someone who did—someone who had been through a similarly devastating breakup—and I asked for help.

“What helped you? What are things your friends did that made you feel loved? What things did they do that didn’t make you feel loved? What are practical things I can do?” I asked.

I was deeply grateful for her response. She had something I didn’t: personal experience. This qualified her to see into the pain my friend was feeling in a way I couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried.

Similarly, as someone who’s lived with mental illness, people often turn to me for advice when their loved ones are struggling with mental health issues.

As I’ve witnessed how many people contact me because they genuinely want to love their friends and family well, I’ve been motivated to put this advice onto paper (or screen) so it’s more widely available.

I’m not an expert or a mental health professional (though I am a big fan of those people!). In person or on the blog, I’m simply here to offer insight from personal experience. Over the next few posts I've invited several people to share their wisdom on how to support loved ones with specific mental illnesses, but this first topic is just for you!

As you walk alongside someone with mental illness, here are a few things that may be helpful to keep in mind.

1. Caring—just caring—goes a long way.

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As humans, we’re built for connection, and we can tell when someone cares. In the throes of mental illness, the stigma and shame can feel overwhelming. Knowing people care about us can be a powerful force.

Don’t underestimate the difference simply showing up can make in someone’s life. People with mental illness are still people, and connection matters to us all.

 

2. You are not responsible for someone else’s recovery. 

We are not responsible for others’ happiness, for their health, or for their mental wellbeing. We are not responsible for the decisions others make, for their backsliding or for their recovery. We are not responsible.

We are responsible for our own actions. We are responsible for acting in love and practicing compassion. We are responsible for our words and our attitudes. We are responsible for ourselves.

In our pride or our well-meaning love, we can berate ourselves for not doing more or fixing everything. However, no matter how hard we try or wish we could change someone’s mental health, we can’t. 

We are not responsible for their recovery, even if we wish we were.

3. Don’t forget about you.

In our efforts to help others, it can be easy to lose ourselves. We sacrifice time and energy, and sometimes we sacrifice our own identity in an attempt to help others find theirs.

In our devotion to others, it’s vital to take care of ourselves, too—to set boundaries, set aside time to rest, and engage in activities that replenish us in all senses: emotionally, physically, mentally, and spiritually.

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4. Don’t be afraid to ask for help.

Reach out to someone you trust and ask for help when you need it. “Help” might look like a lunch date to process how you’re doing or a quick text to a friend asking for prayer.

It might look like going to counseling or receiving training when you’re closely involved with someone with mental illness.

It might also look like asking your loved one with mental illness for help: “Can you help me understand what’s going on?” or “How I can best love you this week?”

Last of all, don’t be afraid to reach out for help from me or anyone else in your life who’s experienced mental illness! We are here for you, to support you and cheer you on and remind you to take a deep breath when things are hard.

4 Ways the Enneagram Is Changing My Life

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I’ve never been overly interested in personality tests, but this one—this one was different. Occasionally I heard friends discuss the Enneagram, speaking “numbers” and “wings” as fluently as a second language. 

Despite my skepticism toward “personality types,” curiosity finally motivated me to complete the personality assessment.

I like the term “assessment” because unlike a test, there is no way to fail; it simply tells you what’s there and what isn’t. As a nurse, I’m well versed in assessing. We assess lung sounds, pain, safety—even poop! 

As a nurse, an assessment is neither a moral ruling nor a categorization algorithm. It’s an observation: this patient has crackles in their lungs; that patient has C. diff. The body’s current strengths and weaknesses are documented, and a plan is formed to move toward optimal health.

Much like a nursing assessment, the Enneagram leaves room for growth and struggle. It helps me identify healthy and unhealthy tendencies so that I can make a plan to move toward health. I won’t get into the complexities of how the Enneagram works, but there’s a brief description below. You can find more at the Enneagram Institute Website.

The Enneagram involves nine personality types, conveniently labeled 1-9. Each person has a dominant personality type (their “number”) and a secondary type (their “wing”), which is one of the numbers directly beside their dominant type. For example, I am a “6,” so my wings could be “5” or “7.” As it turns out, I’m a 6 wing 5. As I’ve studied sixes and other numbers, here’s what I’ve learned.

1. I’m learning not to take harsh comments personally.

This may seem like a no-brainer, but I’ve always struggled with taking criticism or hurtful comments personally. Conceptually, I knew other people viewed the world differently than I did, but I didn’t understand what those differences were. 

Here, the Golden Rule failed me. “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” left me wondering why genuinely well-meaning people would use harsh language when I made a mistake or make insensitive comments.

Studying the other Enneagram types helped me move from just knowing the fact that others think differently to understanding examples of other perspectives and why some people have “thick skin” and some (like me) don’t.

2. I’m learning change is hard for me because relationships are so important to me.

In a podcast about Enneagram sixes, Sarah Thebarge commented, “Relationships are everything to me.”

This is when something clicked in my brain. Historically, moving cities (or countries) has been extremely difficult for me (see my ebook on reentry for the raw details). I’ve always wondered at the people who seemingly flow seamlessly in and out of cultures, countries, and cities.

Finally, it dawned on me why it’s so difficult or me. Relationships are everything to me. Any time relationships change (church, community, friendships, etc.), I feel lost and out of control. I feel like my life has been ripped from me because to me, relationships are the essence of a meaningful life.

This insight helps me in two ways: it helps me understand why I feel the way I feel (like I’ve been hit by a train every time I move), and it helps me embrace truth (my life is not over when I move).

3. I’m learning to identify fear-based habits.

My therapist often mentions something called my “pain cycle” and “peace cycle.” Essentially, a pain cycle alternates between feeling distress and reacting to that distress with unhealthy coping mechanisms. Those unhealthy reactions spark shame and more distress, and the cycle continues.

In contrast, a peace cycle involves experiencing distress and then recalling truth and acting on those truths. This leads to internal peace and healthy behavior.

As a 6, my main motivation is a desire for safety and security. Armed with this knowledge, I’ve been amazed at how many of my decisions in life are based on how I feel insecure or unsafe, whether physically or emotionally.

Remembering these feelings of insecurity are a major trigger for my pain cycle, I’m learning to cling to truth in those moments instead of numbing in unhealthy ways.

4. I’m learning to have grace for others—and for myself.

Recognizing others’ Enneagram numbers has helped me immensely to understand what I previously labeled quirks, incompetence, or even intentionally disruptive behavior.

Instead of instantly concluding people are being manipulative or immature, I’m learning to think about their personalities and try to understand what’s going on beneath the surface.

I’m not mentally “putting myself in their shoes” or trying to think like someone else—because the truth is I will never be able to see or understand the world like someone else does. 

However, I can learn about the ways other people think, appreciate the things that are important to them, and set boundaries when those relationships start to turn toxic.

Overall, the Enneagram is helping me to appreciate weaknesses and strengths, my own and others’. It’s helping me to celebrate how I will never understand the way my friend Lindsay thinks  or the way Kris makes decisions. It’s turning frustration into interest, condemnation into curiosity.

Perhaps the most intriguing thing I’m learning from the Enneagram is this: not only do I need others, but others need me, too.

5 Reasons to Try Therapy

As I parked, I wondered if anyone would drive by and recognize my car. At this point, I was so worn out from life I lacked the energy to care about the stigma anymore. I shrugged and walked across the street to the Counseling and Testing Center on campus. 

It was a temporary building and everything was a bit squished inside, but I appreciated the office’s relocation to the outskirts of campus instead of at the heart of social life, like it was before. It felt safer.

Over the following weeks, I stopped worrying if people would spot my car or notice me walking in for appointments. In the crowded temp building on the edge of campus, an internal shift began. I gravitated from the outskirts of myself toward the very center, and as I tended to my heart I found there was no place I would rather be.

Three years later, I’m still an avid fan of therapy. In fact, I think everyone should go to therapy. Here are a few reasons why:

1. You probably need it.

After experiencing firsthand the benefits of therapy, I’ve encouraged scores of people (okay, pretty much everyone I know) to make it a priority. The responses vary, but I’ve noticed something. 

The people who are most adamant about not needing it usually need it the most.

A main roadblock to getting into a therapist’s office is stigma. Stigma—which I like to call a Silent Killer—tells us therapy is only for people who are “weak,” “have problems,” or are “broken.” 

But aren’t we all broken? Don’t we all have problems? In this case, “stigma” could be a synonym for “pride.” 

Therapy isn’t solely for times when we’re so beaten down we can’t get back up without help (though it is incredibly helpful for those times). It’s also for anytime we desire to be healthier, know and love ourselves well, and interact with and love others well. Which should be….all the time.

If you haven’t figured out how to love yourself yet, therapy is for you. If you ever have conflict with others, struggle with self-hatred, or have a screwed up family, therapy is for you.

If you’ve figured out life already or if you are smart enough to figure it out without help…therapy is especially for you. (I know because that used to be me.)

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2. It's a healthy practice - like a wellness checkup.

In nursing school, patient education is heavily emphasized, especially when it comes to disease prevention.

“The best treatment,” I remember my professors instructing, “is prevention.”

When it comes to mental health, a similar premise holds true. Much like medical care, therapy is not limited to addressing acute situations. Rather, therapy is useful for promoting wellness holistically.

It helps increase our emotional IQ (I didn’t even know this was a thing until I started going to therapy) and keep our mental habits and frameworks in working order. 

Nearly every operational thing needs periodic maintenance in order to function at full capacity—cars need oil changes, air filters in our homes need changing, etc.

Our brains benefit from maintenance too.

3. Counseling is different from venting to a friend or receiving advice from a mentor.

A common misconception about therapy is it’s simply a place to vent or externally process—much like a coffee date with a close friend or phone call with a confidante. 

While therapy does provide the opportunity for both venting and processing, it also creates space for so much more. 

It provides an objective perspective—and someone who will call you out on your bull. Many times, we aren’t aware of our weaknesses or lapses in judgment, and neither are the ones closest to us. In fact, they might have the same blindspots we do.

Therapists focus on what's best for us and are extensively trained to identify and help us address underlying issues.

They are equipped to see past the smoke screen and find the fire. Sometimes the fire is obvious and blaring, and other times we've dismissed it as a smoldering pile of ashes from the past. That's a skill worth paying for.

Sessions are helpful for working through difficult situations, but perhaps their true value comes in the way they challenge our way of thinking.

4. It allows you to empathize with others.

Being willing to try therapy for yourself serves a dual purpose when it comes to relating to others. 

First, it allows you to relate to those who go to therapy. Some of the people I connect with most are friends who also go or have gone to therapy. They understand how wonderful it can be and how difficult, how the stigma still stings sometimes, and how it’s worth it anyway.

It shows me they are humble enough to seek help and admit they’re still growing. It lets me know they’re less likely to judge me for my issues.

Second, it gives you a leg to stand on when you suggest someone else try out therapy. Mental illness is increasingly widespread, and odds are you have already suggested that a loved one seek therapy. It’s one thing to encourage a form of treatment you’ve “heard” works. It’s a whole different thing to endorse a practice you’ve been willing to try yourself.

5. It could change your life.

When I walked into the office for the first time on campus, I was terrified and I was proud. 

Yet therapy changed my life—and it still is. (At some points, it probably saved my life.) Therapy isn’t the be all end all, but it is incredibly helpful.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in therapy, it’s this:

We’re all broken, including me. It’s okay to need help, and it’s courageous and healthy and right to ask for it.

Post-Depression Recovery

Life during depression is a beast all in its own league, and it deserves every bit of awareness, support, and investment in resources.

As time passes, I’m discovering life after depression has its own unique challenges as well—and unlike periods of depression, this odd period of transition seems to fly under the radar, even among the best of Google searches.

Though I would choose the current difficulties of life any day over the darkness of depression, today’s difficulties are still, well, difficult. As I process through these challenges, here’s what I’m finding:

1. Coming out of depression, though lovely, is still a transition.

Transitions can be hard. Change brings about growth, and growth can be painful. Even though this change was desperately anticipated—and even though this pain seems minimal compared to the throes of hopelessness—I am still experiencing growing pangs.

I’m like a bear crawling out of hibernation who meets the bright sun as if for the first time, squinting his eyes and momentarily shell-shocked at the change of environment.

Like Mr. Bear, I’m reacclimating to my surroundings. Suddenly filled with long-lost energy and motivation, I’m relearning what my capacity is and how to draw boundaries. Some days, like a bear cub, I play excessively out of pure joy and then collapse into a heap for a day or two.

It’s all part of the transition.

2. I lived with depression for a long time, and it feels odd—even intimidating at times—to be without it.

It was off and on, but the struggle with depression spanned my entire adult life until this year. 

At first I was afraid to confess my happiness aloud because I was afraid the sacred emotion would vanish. Even now, a tinge of hesitancy lingers.

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Like a sparrow with a recently mended wing, I’m timid at first to launch into blissful flight. The delicate bird recalls the days of soaring in the wind, but the memory of falling sounds off the alarms in her head.

Like Ms. Sparrow, I doubt my abilities and question any sense of confidence. With time and with courage, this fear will pass. For now, I still face it every day.

3. Sometimes I’m still sad. Some days I even feel depressed again.

The arrival of days reminiscent of depression remind me self-care regimens are most effective when promoting wellness, not curing disease.

Grace and permission to struggle are granted often enough to keep the perfectionism at bay. My bed receives enough quality time to even out my mood—and to make eyes widen and mouths gape. My therapist’s office is still warmed by my presence. Recovery is gradual.

I’m like a baby sea turtle hatching from an egg buried in the sand. He undertakes the arduous trek across the beach and finally reaches the water. But even as the tide pulls him forward into the ocean, waves lapping up against the shore push him back momentarily before he can move forward again.

Like Baby Sea Turtle, I progress slowly, not in a neat, linear way but in zig-zags, lurches and pauses. Sometimes processes cannot be quantified nor journeys predicted.

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Nevertheless, they can be one of the most important things ever to happen to a baby sea turtle. Or to me.

4. Part of my sadness involves grieving the past times of depression.

We grieve because of loss. Depression brings loss.

It brings the loss of happiness all those years. It brings the loss of truth believed about myself—truth of worthiness of life and love and much, much more.

Even elephants grieve. When they return to a site of a herd member’s death, they pause to grieve and remember. I grieve through tears and art and writing this.

Like elephants, I cannot forget; the impact of depression is stamped in the past. I never want to relive it, nor do I desire to dwell on it. But I will acknowledge it and honor the season of immense pain and suffering.

To dismiss it would be to spurn not only the struggle but also the victory.

5. Depression may have ended, but it hasn’t been erased from my past.

This is a misunderstood part of recovery. I’m still trying to figure it out myself.

No physical mark mars my body, but scars on my heart are certainly present. It’s easier to hide the season of sorrow now because it isn’t the daily donning of a mask. It’s a passive choice not to reveal the words stamped on earlier pages.

Yet these scars on my heart are not blemishes. They are part of my story, and my story is beautiful in its own rite. Without them, I wouldn’t be who I am now.

How depression fits into my story, what part of my story I’m living now, and where my story will go—these are all in the works.

Like every human, I’m still making sense of yesterday and today and tomorrow. 

It’s all part of life after depression.