Yard Signs

My Mom decided to put up a sign in our yard advocating for mental disorder awareness while I was in high school. I must admit, I totally freaked out! One day, as I was walking home from school, I saw the sign perfectly placed in our front yard. My heart played tricks on me, making the sign look like it was flashing in BIG RED LETTERS straight out of Las Vegas. Of course, it wasn't that dramatic; it was actually a nice purple and white sign.

At that time, I felt quite ashamed about mental illness. The idea of my Mom advertising mental illness on our front lawn made me cringe, and my first thought was to make that sign disappear. And you know what? I did just that – I hid it in the garage, a classic suburban hiding spot.

Our hometown had kids walking to school, and I anxiously counted how many people at my school would pass by our awareness sign. The last thing I wanted was for them to feel uncomfortable or judge me. I longed for the image of a perfect family behind a white picket fence, going to church every Sunday. That sign brought up conversations I wasn't ready for, and even now, when I feel ashamed, I tend to throw a tantrum, trying to control the situation and make the awareness yard sign vanish.

In the long run, those tantrums haven't really worked out. You know what really bugs me? Shoes left around the house and people wearing shoes indoors! To this day, I still have an internal tantrum whenever I see people wearing shoes inside my home. I won't say anything, but my eyes do all the talking, with my forehead crinkling and my eyes widening like Galadriel in Lord of the Rings. Suppress, suppress, suppress – that's how I coped. My mouth would say, "Welcome! Come on in!" while my eyes would silently communicate, "How rude, tracking dirt into my clean home after I just spent hours cleaning!"

Now, my husband has this incredible talent of taking off his shoes under the coffee table and then complaining he can't find them. One day, I had enough and threw his shoes into a random closet, refusing to tell him where they were. I felt quite proud for silently standing up for myself. I repeated to myself, "He's an adult and can find his own shoes," as he searched the apartment top to bottom. Needless to say, he wasn't thrilled. Instead of addressing the issue directly, I opted for some passive-aggressive behavior. You know, learning to communicate your needs is like watching a kid learn to ride a bike – expect a few falls along the way. I know avoidance and denial aren't healthy, but I have to admit, I still love them.

Back in my hometown of Wheaton, a white suburban Chicago town, there seemed to be a church on every corner, and not going to church invited judgment. My family wasn't the go-to-church-every-Sunday type, and in that environment, people believed that mental illness resulted from not praying hard enough. People become masters of wearing masks when they fear judgment from a society fixated on an unrealistic idea of perfection. Needless to say, talking about my journey with mental illness in such a shame-rooted town was out of the question. I wish the focus had been on "help me navigate mental illness with love" rather than trying to "take away mental illness" through prayers. 

Looking back, I truly appreciate my Mom's attempt to reduce the stigma around mental illness with that yard sign. She was trying to start a conversation, sending the message that we openly talk about mental illness in our household and don't view it as something to be ashamed of or buried. In a town where people believed mental illness could be prayed away, that sign might as well have said, "We are the Devil."

It wasn't until college that my eyes were truly opened to the widespread struggles people face with mental illness. I learned the importance of not burying discussions about it. Friends opened up to me, sharing their battles with depression after being sexually assaulted, and classmates spoke about their anxiety related to coursework. Witnessing their bravery and vulnerability, I began to appreciate the beauty and empathy that emerged when someone shared their experience. Surprisingly, talking about these heavy subjects with friends made me feel lighter and less alone.

I still don't particularly like yard signs, but they have become a symbol of the change I want to see in breaking stigmas. When I feel that rush of shame, like when I wanted to DESTROY my Mom's sign, I now take a moment to reflect on why I feel that way. If I feel shame about something, chances are someone else does too, and that's all the more reason to keep the conversation going.

So, let me ask you: if you were to put up a sign in your yard, what cause would you advocate for? What stigma do you want to change?

For me, it's all about getting people to talk about mental illness just as openly as they would discuss broken bones. Let's stop shaming others and instead create a healthy environment for open conversations.

If my yard had a sign, it would read: "KEEP HOLDING YOUR SIGN & FIND PEOPLE WHO WILL HELP YOU KEEP IT UP."