“They say ‘you’re a little much for me, you’re a liability’” blares through my headphones as I lie on my bedroom floor recounting my failed relationships. I remember the nights spent crying myself to sleep, the desire to be free from them but the knowledge that I can’t, the therapy sessions to unpack everything, the being told that I’m crying; it’s all in my head. If this sounds like a toxic relationship, it’s because it is. It’s also the longest relationship I’ve ever been in, spanning twelve years: it’s my relationship with anxiety and depression. 

When I was eleven, I began having panic attacks at school. No one knew what was happening — let alone myself — and to put it bluntly, it was terrifying. Being diagnosed with multiple mental illnesses in the fifth grade means that I’ve spent more of my life living with this than I haven’t. I’ve known Generalized Anxiety Disorder longer than I’ve known my best friend; I’ve had Major Depressive Episodes last longer than some romantic relationships. With mental illness being such a fundamental part of my life, it naturally becomes a part of every relationship I have, whether that be romantically, platonically, or familial. Out of each of these, anxiety and depression have been most disruptive in romantic relationships.

My experience isn’t novel. When over 60% of young adults face mental health problems, mental illness plays the role of the ‘one they told you not to worry about’ in most university relationships. I was broken up with by my high school boyfriend because my two anxiety disorders made me too exhausting to date. I had to break up with someone who I thought I would love forever because of his degrading mental health. I meet girls in the bar bathroom who tell me similar tales of woe; I listen to my friends debate whether or not to stay with their partner whose mental health is deteriorating. Most people understand that breaking up with someone because they’re mentally ill is wrong, which makes deciding to walk away to protect your own mental health so difficult.

Almost four years later, I still hesitate to tell a romantic interest about my journey with mental illness because of my high school boyfriend. When I decided to break up with my university boyfriend, I postponed it because I was so terrified of being the reason that another person felt the pain that I did. I let the relationship fester to a point where I didn’t recognize myself anymore because of how toxic it was. I disregarded all of the advice I told other people about ‘putting your own oxygen mask on first’ and ‘not pouring from an empty cup.’

In the aftermath of these two opposite situations, I’ve come to terms with the fact that a relationship shouldn’t save me, nor should I be the one to save someone else. I’m working on accepting the inconvenient third party in all of my relationships. My mental illness isn’t going away anytime soon. It ebbs and flows, and I’ve learned that it’s the basis for many of my best qualities. My mental illness allows me to be empathetic to those around me, and through mental health advocacy, I’ve used my negative experiences to uplift others who are struggling. My relationship with mental illness is complicated, much more so than any romantic relationship. In the wake of these formative relationships, I’ve chosen to work on my relationship with anxiety and depression, to nurture my longest relationship to date.

Edited by Isabella Hamilton