How I helped myself through self-help books

This year has been monumental for me. It’s truly been the greatest in terms of inner growth and achievements. I feel extremely grateful in saying that I’m living my best life. I’ve conquered dreams and fears, and I wouldn’t change a thing. 

But what does “living your best life” really mean?

I’ll tell you what it doesn’t mean: It doesn’t mean that I’m happy all the time; it doesn’t mean that I’m stress-free; and it doesn’t mean that I open my eyes every morning excited for the day ahead.

I can’t complain about my life, but it hasn’t always been fun. I was born with depression. My mom often said that I was full of drama. She used to call me Sarah Bernhardt. And on account of my curly hair, people used to recite this poem to me by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:

There was a little girl,

            Who had a little curl,

Right in the middle of her forehead.

            When she was good,

            She was very good indeed,

But when she was bad she was horrid.

It’s true. I used to cry a lot, and until my teens no one really knew why. Mental health awareness as we know it today was in its infancy in the 90s, and I spent most of my late teens and early twenties being misdiagnosed and medicated with what were experimental drugs.

It wasn’t a pleasant time. Not for me, and not for my family.

A psychiatrist told me during that period that my problem is that I am a lesbian, and I can’t face the truth. That was the last time I spoke to a psychiatrist, because: a) being gay is not a problem or an illness, and b) I knew I wasn’t gay, because that’s not something that would cause me such pain.

Two years and two suicide attempts later, I was lucky to be connected to a psychotherapist, who changed the trajectory of my life. The depression was now accompanied by debilitating anxiety, but I was properly diagnosed, appropriately medicated, and given the right tools to deal with my illness.

I can go on and on about all the strategies I was given once a week during those visits, but what made the biggest difference for me was a book I was introduced to. My doctor gave me a book by David D Burns, MD called Feeling Good: The New Mood Therapy. It helped me a lot because during that period, weekly sessions were not enough; this book was like having a therapist at my fingertips.

My battle with mental illness was far from over, but the fact that I could read a book that taught me how to exercise my mind and my emotions and train myself to form habits that would save my life was a turning point.

Around the same time, there was a new movement elevated by books such as The Secret and The Power of Now by Ekhart Tolle, promoted by prominent voices like Oprah Winfrey. Even though self-help books had been around for almost two centuries, their popularity was increasing, and the growth of the genre was parallel to advancements in psychopathology, though the prejudice and judgement was lagging behind.

But that didn’t stop me. I was still hesitant to reveal my illness to many and kept it close to my chest — but it’s not an easy disorder to hide. Still, I was exploring more and more books to read. I discovered 7 Habits of Highly Effective People by Steven R Covey and How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie, both of which were much more dated (the latter precedes my parents’ birth). And even though they weren’t explicitly about mental health, they were about being able to find success and joy.

At a certain point I was becoming more spiritual and turned to books like The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho and Life of Pi by Yann Martel, and it was this deviation that led me to discover yoga and meditation, which have since helped me to live a more peaceful life. These days, aside from enjoying books by yogis like Sharon Saltzberg, I’ve dipped into Marie Kondo to help me declutter my home and energy, as well as sarcastically funny books like Broken by Jenny Lawson — after all, laughing (at yourself) is the best medicine. 

There is an infinite variety of self-help books these days, so if you can pick up a book to help improve any aspect of your life, or learn The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck, then why not?

I’ve been in therapy on and off for thirty years, and I’ve read a lot of self-help books, all of which helped immensely, but neither of which saved me — the birth of my daughter did. 

But life still sucks a lot of the time, and things are seldom “unicorn and rainbows” (though, there’s a lot of that around in stores these days for some reason?).

However, I’ve learned that my best life is the one I am living every day. The old adage “Not every day is good, but there is good in every day” has been my guiding light, and every night before I turn on my sleep meditation, I write in my gratitude journal. I have so much to be grateful for: a loving family, supportive friends, two jobs I absolutely love, a home I can call my own, and the fact that I really don’t have much to complain about. 

I have put in motion health and academic goals I’ve always strived for, and though the road may be bumpy, I’m forging ahead with hope and a smile on my face.

By: Maya B.