This might sound odd, but I felt well prepared to parent a kiddo with life-threatening chronic illness. My brother was born with hemophilia in the early 1970’s. ER visits and hospital stays were a routine part of our childhood. I learned IV therapy in middle school. As a teenager, I could find my way between the ICU, radiology and the lab, and locate the best vending machines after hours (hint: hospital basement).
When my son Zack was diagnosed at birth with hemophilia and then later with a congenital heart defect, it was frightening, but not overwhelming. I had mad skills. It felt like I had been training decades for this. We became a family of advocates. We went to conferences, led parent support groups, testified before Congress and lobbied for health care reform. We told Zack’s story to anyone who could improve access and care for chronically ill children. We were loud and proud.
Then, when Zack was 16, he was diagnosed with treatment resistant major depressive disorder. And those ugly beasts that Brene Brown calls the shame gremlins moved into my head. I told myself that I was protecting Zack by not talking to anyone—even close friends and family—about his depression. Someday, my reasoning went, Zack would be better and able to move on with his life. Since mental illness is so stigmatized, I told myself (completely unironically) it was important that no one knew what was happening.
As the parent of a child with a life-threatening physical illness I had felt resilient and capable. As the parent of a child with life-threatening mental illness I felt helpless and deeply ashamed. How badly do you have to fail as a mom, I kept asking myself, to have a child who wants to die?
Luckily, Zack had an incredible psychiatrist and care team. Intensive individual and family therapy helped me see that the same childhood that prepared me to be skillful in response to physical illness, had also taught me toxic lessons about mental illness. I came to understand that blaming myself was actually centering myself (and my shame) in Zack’s illness. My internalized stigma was making Zack’s treatment and recovery much more difficult.
I wasn’t a “bad” mom. I was a mom who grew up in a culture where mental illness stigma was so deeply embedded that it was reflexive, like breathing. Early on, Zack’s psychiatrist asked if there was a history of major depression in our family. I assured him that there was not, just many, many relatives who were alcoholics. I remember his response, “Happy people don’t drink themselves to death.” I grew up surrounded by relatives who used life-threatening amounts of alcohol to numb their pain, and never recognized that trauma and depression.
Our early childhood lessons are both enduring and impactful. I’m still fabulous at starting IVs and navigating hospital corridors. And we can learn new and different skills when we choose to. Suicide is now the second leading cause of death for people 10-34. So, it's time to learn new skills to promote mental health.
A first step is to explore our own internalized ideas and stigma around mental illness. Here are five questions to get you started
This might sound odd, but learning to talk openly about depression and other mental illness has made my family much happier. And safer. So. Much. Safer. That’s the bottom line. Open, shame-free conversation about mental illness is suicide prevention.
I can promise you that there are people you love who are struggling silently. They are trying really hard to be strong. They keep going forward, even when it’s overwhelming. And some of them think that asking for help would make them seem weak. Or make you think less of them. But you know better. You love them so much that you're willing to learn new skills and have uncomfortable conversations. So here’s one last resource to help: Seize the Awkward will teach you how to recognize when someone needs help and then to have that conversation. You can do this. You have (or can learn) mad skills.
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Professor of public health and Yes Collective expert contributor, Jena Curtis, EdD, shares her powerful story of internalized mental health stigma as a parent, and 5 questions to start asking today
Professor of public health and Yes Collective expert contributor, Jena Curtis, EdD, shares her powerful story of internalized mental health stigma as a parent
Jena explains how opening up and talking about mental illness is the key to providing a safe, supporting, and healing family environment
Jena gives us five areas to start questioning how we're feeling around talking about mental health and illness openly and honestly
Reading time:
5 minutes
This might sound odd, but I felt well prepared to parent a kiddo with life-threatening chronic illness. My brother was born with hemophilia in the early 1970’s. ER visits and hospital stays were a routine part of our childhood. I learned IV therapy in middle school. As a teenager, I could find my way between the ICU, radiology and the lab, and locate the best vending machines after hours (hint: hospital basement).
When my son Zack was diagnosed at birth with hemophilia and then later with a congenital heart defect, it was frightening, but not overwhelming. I had mad skills. It felt like I had been training decades for this. We became a family of advocates. We went to conferences, led parent support groups, testified before Congress and lobbied for health care reform. We told Zack’s story to anyone who could improve access and care for chronically ill children. We were loud and proud.
Then, when Zack was 16, he was diagnosed with treatment resistant major depressive disorder. And those ugly beasts that Brene Brown calls the shame gremlins moved into my head. I told myself that I was protecting Zack by not talking to anyone—even close friends and family—about his depression. Someday, my reasoning went, Zack would be better and able to move on with his life. Since mental illness is so stigmatized, I told myself (completely unironically) it was important that no one knew what was happening.
As the parent of a child with a life-threatening physical illness I had felt resilient and capable. As the parent of a child with life-threatening mental illness I felt helpless and deeply ashamed. How badly do you have to fail as a mom, I kept asking myself, to have a child who wants to die?
Luckily, Zack had an incredible psychiatrist and care team. Intensive individual and family therapy helped me see that the same childhood that prepared me to be skillful in response to physical illness, had also taught me toxic lessons about mental illness. I came to understand that blaming myself was actually centering myself (and my shame) in Zack’s illness. My internalized stigma was making Zack’s treatment and recovery much more difficult.
I wasn’t a “bad” mom. I was a mom who grew up in a culture where mental illness stigma was so deeply embedded that it was reflexive, like breathing. Early on, Zack’s psychiatrist asked if there was a history of major depression in our family. I assured him that there was not, just many, many relatives who were alcoholics. I remember his response, “Happy people don’t drink themselves to death.” I grew up surrounded by relatives who used life-threatening amounts of alcohol to numb their pain, and never recognized that trauma and depression.
Our early childhood lessons are both enduring and impactful. I’m still fabulous at starting IVs and navigating hospital corridors. And we can learn new and different skills when we choose to. Suicide is now the second leading cause of death for people 10-34. So, it's time to learn new skills to promote mental health.
A first step is to explore our own internalized ideas and stigma around mental illness. Here are five questions to get you started
This might sound odd, but learning to talk openly about depression and other mental illness has made my family much happier. And safer. So. Much. Safer. That’s the bottom line. Open, shame-free conversation about mental illness is suicide prevention.
I can promise you that there are people you love who are struggling silently. They are trying really hard to be strong. They keep going forward, even when it’s overwhelming. And some of them think that asking for help would make them seem weak. Or make you think less of them. But you know better. You love them so much that you're willing to learn new skills and have uncomfortable conversations. So here’s one last resource to help: Seize the Awkward will teach you how to recognize when someone needs help and then to have that conversation. You can do this. You have (or can learn) mad skills.
This might sound odd, but I felt well prepared to parent a kiddo with life-threatening chronic illness. My brother was born with hemophilia in the early 1970’s. ER visits and hospital stays were a routine part of our childhood. I learned IV therapy in middle school. As a teenager, I could find my way between the ICU, radiology and the lab, and locate the best vending machines after hours (hint: hospital basement).
When my son Zack was diagnosed at birth with hemophilia and then later with a congenital heart defect, it was frightening, but not overwhelming. I had mad skills. It felt like I had been training decades for this. We became a family of advocates. We went to conferences, led parent support groups, testified before Congress and lobbied for health care reform. We told Zack’s story to anyone who could improve access and care for chronically ill children. We were loud and proud.
Then, when Zack was 16, he was diagnosed with treatment resistant major depressive disorder. And those ugly beasts that Brene Brown calls the shame gremlins moved into my head. I told myself that I was protecting Zack by not talking to anyone—even close friends and family—about his depression. Someday, my reasoning went, Zack would be better and able to move on with his life. Since mental illness is so stigmatized, I told myself (completely unironically) it was important that no one knew what was happening.
As the parent of a child with a life-threatening physical illness I had felt resilient and capable. As the parent of a child with life-threatening mental illness I felt helpless and deeply ashamed. How badly do you have to fail as a mom, I kept asking myself, to have a child who wants to die?
Luckily, Zack had an incredible psychiatrist and care team. Intensive individual and family therapy helped me see that the same childhood that prepared me to be skillful in response to physical illness, had also taught me toxic lessons about mental illness. I came to understand that blaming myself was actually centering myself (and my shame) in Zack’s illness. My internalized stigma was making Zack’s treatment and recovery much more difficult.
I wasn’t a “bad” mom. I was a mom who grew up in a culture where mental illness stigma was so deeply embedded that it was reflexive, like breathing. Early on, Zack’s psychiatrist asked if there was a history of major depression in our family. I assured him that there was not, just many, many relatives who were alcoholics. I remember his response, “Happy people don’t drink themselves to death.” I grew up surrounded by relatives who used life-threatening amounts of alcohol to numb their pain, and never recognized that trauma and depression.
Our early childhood lessons are both enduring and impactful. I’m still fabulous at starting IVs and navigating hospital corridors. And we can learn new and different skills when we choose to. Suicide is now the second leading cause of death for people 10-34. So, it's time to learn new skills to promote mental health.
A first step is to explore our own internalized ideas and stigma around mental illness. Here are five questions to get you started
This might sound odd, but learning to talk openly about depression and other mental illness has made my family much happier. And safer. So. Much. Safer. That’s the bottom line. Open, shame-free conversation about mental illness is suicide prevention.
I can promise you that there are people you love who are struggling silently. They are trying really hard to be strong. They keep going forward, even when it’s overwhelming. And some of them think that asking for help would make them seem weak. Or make you think less of them. But you know better. You love them so much that you're willing to learn new skills and have uncomfortable conversations. So here’s one last resource to help: Seize the Awkward will teach you how to recognize when someone needs help and then to have that conversation. You can do this. You have (or can learn) mad skills.
This might sound odd, but I felt well prepared to parent a kiddo with life-threatening chronic illness. My brother was born with hemophilia in the early 1970’s. ER visits and hospital stays were a routine part of our childhood. I learned IV therapy in middle school. As a teenager, I could find my way between the ICU, radiology and the lab, and locate the best vending machines after hours (hint: hospital basement).
When my son Zack was diagnosed at birth with hemophilia and then later with a congenital heart defect, it was frightening, but not overwhelming. I had mad skills. It felt like I had been training decades for this. We became a family of advocates. We went to conferences, led parent support groups, testified before Congress and lobbied for health care reform. We told Zack’s story to anyone who could improve access and care for chronically ill children. We were loud and proud.
Then, when Zack was 16, he was diagnosed with treatment resistant major depressive disorder. And those ugly beasts that Brene Brown calls the shame gremlins moved into my head. I told myself that I was protecting Zack by not talking to anyone—even close friends and family—about his depression. Someday, my reasoning went, Zack would be better and able to move on with his life. Since mental illness is so stigmatized, I told myself (completely unironically) it was important that no one knew what was happening.
As the parent of a child with a life-threatening physical illness I had felt resilient and capable. As the parent of a child with life-threatening mental illness I felt helpless and deeply ashamed. How badly do you have to fail as a mom, I kept asking myself, to have a child who wants to die?
Luckily, Zack had an incredible psychiatrist and care team. Intensive individual and family therapy helped me see that the same childhood that prepared me to be skillful in response to physical illness, had also taught me toxic lessons about mental illness. I came to understand that blaming myself was actually centering myself (and my shame) in Zack’s illness. My internalized stigma was making Zack’s treatment and recovery much more difficult.
I wasn’t a “bad” mom. I was a mom who grew up in a culture where mental illness stigma was so deeply embedded that it was reflexive, like breathing. Early on, Zack’s psychiatrist asked if there was a history of major depression in our family. I assured him that there was not, just many, many relatives who were alcoholics. I remember his response, “Happy people don’t drink themselves to death.” I grew up surrounded by relatives who used life-threatening amounts of alcohol to numb their pain, and never recognized that trauma and depression.
Our early childhood lessons are both enduring and impactful. I’m still fabulous at starting IVs and navigating hospital corridors. And we can learn new and different skills when we choose to. Suicide is now the second leading cause of death for people 10-34. So, it's time to learn new skills to promote mental health.
A first step is to explore our own internalized ideas and stigma around mental illness. Here are five questions to get you started
This might sound odd, but learning to talk openly about depression and other mental illness has made my family much happier. And safer. So. Much. Safer. That’s the bottom line. Open, shame-free conversation about mental illness is suicide prevention.
I can promise you that there are people you love who are struggling silently. They are trying really hard to be strong. They keep going forward, even when it’s overwhelming. And some of them think that asking for help would make them seem weak. Or make you think less of them. But you know better. You love them so much that you're willing to learn new skills and have uncomfortable conversations. So here’s one last resource to help: Seize the Awkward will teach you how to recognize when someone needs help and then to have that conversation. You can do this. You have (or can learn) mad skills.
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