To Be Mentally Ill Is Human, to Find Help Is Divine

While it felt late, it came as a relief when I was finally diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD). It was more than two decades in the making. 

As a child, tantrums, triggered by the most inconsequential of things, filled my childhood memories. I worried strongly about not being picked up from school when it was time to go home, even though I lived right next to it. I have also constantly worried over my health, future career, and life track. This included the health and safety of the people I care about. It felt as if an impending doom—accidents, mishaps, and illnesses–was always about to happen. While I look back on my situation then with clarity, it was not so clear to me what I was going through. Overthinking seemed reasonable or, at most, a quirk. However, the worries expanded, meeting me at every phase and corner in my life. Time and emotional energy were lost on an endless assortment of concerns on a daily basis. Restlessness was constant while peace was fleeting. 

My experience is consistent with how the National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH) defines GAD: “excessive anxiety and worry about a variety of events or activities that occurs more days than not, for at least six months. People with generalized anxiety disorder find it difficult to control their worry, which may cause impairment in social, occupational, or other areas of functioning.” 

Unfortunately, GAD also came with comorbidity, or “co-occurrence of two or more mental disorders,” per NIMH. In my case, it was depression. Sadness was abundant and recurring, showing up even when it did not make sense. Any happiness felt came with the feeling that it came with a tradeoff. And sometimes, when it got too much, I cried. In high school, I coined “Crying Mondays” because, like clockwork, I cried my heart out at the start of the week. Later on, I traded the tears for anger. I lashed out even at the smallest inconveniences. Expectedly, these episodes ended in regret and guilt. I had no idea then that I needed help.

In college, I took up psychology, and I realized that clinical anxiety and depression are issues I might be dealing with. Ironically, while I was surrounded by and taught by experts, I still found it hard to reach out and seek help. Why was it so difficult? Maybe it’s the fear of being vulnerable in a competitive setting? Or is it the remnants of the stigma I grew up with in the '90s? 

College was also the time when I went to doctors on my own. While I was usually independent and fearless with my mother’s HMO card, it felt useless against my mental ordeal. It was exhausting to think about the vague bureaucratic maze of mental health coverage—would the consultation be covered? If not, how much would I shoulder? Aside from the therapist, who else would know of my concerns? And when people find out–what happens? This was a dead end. 

Eventually, I found the encouragement I needed from college friends—fellow psychology graduates—who, in our working years, became vocal about their own struggles, medication, and treatment. I finally reached out for the first time and was referred to the Mindcare Club.

My consultations were virtual since it was the pandemic. I was triaged by a psychiatric nurse who then assigned me to a psychiatrist, who then diagnosed me with GAD. My treatment consisted of two components: medication and cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT). 

I was prescribed two pills: escitalopram, an antidepressant I took daily, and clonazepam, taken as needed to help me sleep. Being on antidepressants was a game changer. I did not know how much I was missing out until I realized on a random day how much better I felt–a heaviness that I did not know was always there was suddenly lifted. My mood stabilized, and I was not easily provoked. I learned both in college and therapy that medicine alone is not enough. CBT, also known as talk therapy, is just as important. With the guidance of a therapist, I examined and looked for destructive patterns in my thoughts. The objective is to empower me by challenging these thoughts and coming up with healthier and more effective coping mechanisms. Each session would last at least an hour. Initially, I did CBT every two weeks, then it became every 2 months, and now I only do it twice a year. Along with journaling and meditation—both hard to apply—I became better at managing my anxiety, depression, and anger. CBT does not make me immune to these or any “negative” emotion. Instead, it helps me have a healthier experience of these very human emotions.

My anxiety was probably exacerbated by my being effeminate—a trait unbecoming of a boy growing up in the '90s. At a young age, my softness had to be kept in check in order to arrest the possibility that I might turn out to be gay. In my late teens, I came out not because I was effeminate but because same-sex attraction came naturally before I even understood what any of these words meant. Obviously, any attempts to “keep” me straight and be more masculine failed, but what remained was the unnecessary self-censorship I grew up with–Is my voice too gay? Am I too soft? Am I making the men around me uncomfortable? This experience highlights just some of the struggles faced by LGBTQ+ people that impact well-being. And unfortunately, according to the United Nations Population Fund (UNFPA), “LGBTQ+ Filipinos may also face high rates of mental health challenges… due to minority stress, discrimination, and lack of social support.” 

Additionally, while I did not conform to the traditional standards of being male, I may have imbibed qualities that are unhealthy. Men are brought up to be strong, independent, and self-reliant. While these are good traits, the flipside is that, in moments of weakness and vulnerability, asking for help is not typically reinforced among men. Doing so is not consistent with masculine traits. In a 2025 article, PIA (Philippine Information Agency) noted the same: men are “less likely to seek professional help [and that]… according to NCMH (National Center for Mental Health) suicide rates in the Philippines are higher among men.” The overlaps in struggles that come with being both male and queer may have been difficult, but fortunately, I found the help I needed.

When I started opening up about my situation, I was surprised by the amount of understanding and support I received. I was even more surprised when I was asked to share details about my therapy and the clinic because they know of someone—sometimes their friends, mostly their husbands or partners—in need of the same kind of support. I am happy to, in a way, pay it forward: from benefiting from others’ openness to helping shed a light for others. Reaching out is not always easy; sometimes it’s the hardest part. But ask anyway.

Visit Mindcare Club to learn more about their services and details.

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