The Secret Illness

I had my first panic attack at the age of fifteen.

I didn't know what was happening to me. The fear was indescribable; I couldn't stop crying and my heart rate went through the roof as I struggled to catch my breath.

They came thick and fast after that and were so debilitating I missed a lot of school. On the days when I somehow made it into registration, I would get stuck in a loop of over-thinking and worrying and end up in the medical room, faking physical symptoms so that my mum would be called to come and get me. Mental illness wasn't something I felt able to explain, and I certainly didn't think others would understand.

For this reason, I confided in very few people and my anxiety remained a horrifying secret. I developed an unhealthy attachment to my mum and found it very difficult to be away from her; partly because I needed constant reassurance from all the terrifying thoughts and feelings I was experiencing (which I later understood to be a symptom of OCD) but also because my overactive mind had me convinced that something awful would happen to her if I wasn't there.

I would try to go out with friends, only to panic and have to leave. I remember plucking up the courage to see a film at a cinema just five minutes from my house, but panicked before the trailers were over and had to escape the confines of the auditorium to call home in floods of anxious tears. Again, I faked headaches and sickness, telling just one close friend the truth about that night.

It was only in my mid-twenties that I started being honest about my struggles with mental health. I told my boyfriend of three years quite early on in our relationship, letting him know in advance that I would find sudden changes of plan or surprise visits from relatives quite difficult to deal with. He was brilliant about it (as any decent person should be) and although he never pushes me into anything, he encourages me to step out of my comfort zone and try new things.

A few months ago, for the very first time, I felt able to admit to my close friends that I'd had a major panic attack and didn't think I'd be able to join them for a weekend away. It was extremely heart-warming, for both myself and my mum, when they turned up at my parents' house to comfort me and encourage me to go with them. They were so understanding and lovely that I eventually calmed down and, armed with my mobile so that I could remain in contact with my mum, felt strong enough to follow through with our plans. If I'd faked a physical illness as I'd done so often in the past, I would have missed out on a wonderful weekend away with people who not only accepted my anxiety but understood.

When starting new jobs and filling in medical forms, I am finally able to disclose my 'anxiety and OCD traits' without feeling ashamed or thinking that I'll be judged. There is something incredibly liberating about admitting that you missed a day of work because you were struggling with your mental health and not inventing a physical complaint.

Last year I started a blog, and one of my pages is dedicated to anxiety. Here, I talk about my own experiences and offer advice to others. The positive feedback I have received has been amazing. So many people have come forward and told me that my honesty has benefited them as they, too, have been living with an anxiety disorder for many years and not felt able to talk about it.

We have come a long way in terms of discussing mental health, but I still think we need to talk about it more.

So, starting from today, tell someone your secret. Rest assured that if they don't suffer from a mental health condition themselves, they'll know someone who does.

Together, we can keep people talking about mental health.