This week, my friend and colleague Taylor and I had lunch. She said, “Ron, you seem ‘lighter’ today, like you’re not as ‘heavy’ in your presence.” I laughed because it felt great to hear that someone noticed. Last week, Carson Daly opened up about his struggles with mental health on the Today show. It felt like his words were directed at me, and it was comforting to hear someone else voice the same challenges I face. That’s the feeling I hope to convey with this post.

Mental health has been a struggle of mine for 37 years. I’ve been fortunate enough to step outside myself and say, “Hey, Ron, something isn’t right.”

It’s tough and embarrassing to explain, and understanding it can be equally hard.

For a long time, my mind hasn’t been functioning smoothly. I always assumed everyone’s brain worked like mine. My brain would tell me things like, “Everyone eats when they’re bored,” or “It’s okay to stay in bed all day because today might be the day you drop dead,” or “I need to cut this person out of my life before they abandon me.” Describing it as a ‘hellish way to live’ feels like an understatement. Imagine your brain telling you every day, every hour, that you’re not good enough, that you’re undeserving of what you want. It’s like being in a constant state of buyer’s remorse, struggling over trivial decisions like what to make for dinner or whether to buy something. In those moments, I want something so badly, but when it’s within reach, I throw it away, like a hot potato.

After two years of weekly therapy sessions, I began to make progress. My therapist told me she doesn’t often treat people like me because those with brains wired like mine often end their lives before seeking help. An ADHD diagnosis from a leading expert in Houston, followed by an anxiety disorder diagnosis, made sense of some things. If you suffer from an anxiety disorder, you’re familiar with the flip side: depression. The anxiety would fuel my depression, and the more anxious I got, the deeper my depression became.

Catchphrases like “Just snap out of it” or “Think positive thoughts” aren’t realistic for me. I could never just ‘snap out of it.’ I’d find myself trapped in cycles of rumination, making it hard to escape whatever headspace I was in.

After two years of cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT), I decided to try medication. I was hesitant due to the stigma around pills like Zoloft, Prozac, or Xanax, which I assumed I’d be prescribed. I avoided medication because of my upbringing. My childhood wasn’t great, and I remember my mother saying, “I’m not going to have some doctor put me on pills and dope me up.” This made me view mental health as something negative, often associated with medication. Those words from my mother still resonate with me, revealing where many of my issues stem from.

I started seeing a psychiatrist a few months ago, who worked closely with my therapist. She’s someone who doesn’t believe in over-medicating, and I felt comfortable with her approach. Despite more honesty, CBT, and medication, I still felt something was missing. After further exploration, I was diagnosed with a personality disorder.

I was skeptical but stayed open to learning about it. Research revealed I met 8 out of 9 criteria for Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD). My ADHD, anxiety, and depression were so prominent that my BPD had been overlooked. Looking back, this might also explain why my ADHD and other conditions were missed growing up.

With a new therapy strategy and stronger medications (none of which are Zoloft, Prozac, or Xanax), my brain feels better than it has in years. I’m functioning in ways I never thought possible. I can go to the grocery store without feeling overwhelmed, talk to people without getting agitated, and not be upset if someone is late.

The issues that once seemed insurmountable are starting to ease, like the retreating tide. I know the root causes will return, and my CBT will help manage them.

I’m aware I’ll face setbacks, but I’m in a place where I can recognize them and get back on track. My struggle isn’t over, and I’d love to say I’m ‘cured,’ but that’s not the case—at least not right now. Having a veil lifted from my brain has changed my thought process. I no longer see the world in black and white but in shades of gray. This adjustment has been challenging and feels unnatural, but it’s necessary for my growth.

I share this not for pity or attention, but to shed light on a topic close to me. I hope my experience might encourage someone else to seek help.

If you’re dealing with similar struggles, please reach out to someone. You can even talk to me. It’s the only way people like us and those who haven’t yet found their voice can get the help they need. Here’s to living our best lives, even with a little help from colorful pills.