When I was a psychiatric resident, my house burned down. I lost a beloved pet, most of my possessions, and moved into a motel. I subsequently developed a number of disturbing symptoms: flashbacks, intrusive thoughts and a crushing depression that lasted months.

I desperately wanted to take time off to pull it together, in terms of housing, getting clothes that didn't reek of char and my emotional state. My leave request was heard sympathetically and denied.

Rationally, I understood this; as a resident, I took call every third or fourth night and managed heavy caseloads in the day. If I didn't show up, my work would fall to someone else. The option I was given was get to work or withdraw from the program. More than that, I got the message — whether intended or not — that I was supposed to treat patients and not become one.

As a psychiatrist with nearly 30 years of experience, I've worked with the old, the young and everyone in the middle. I've chatted with lots of people who hear voices that others can't and I know that mental illness and substance use problems occur in most families, including mine. This is backed by large-scale studies, such as the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention's National Survey on Drug Use and Health, which annually reports that more than 20 million Americans have substance use problems and more than twice that number have a psychiatric disorder. With such numbers, why is it so difficult for people to disclose, get the help they need, and get better?

At a recent conference with one of my heroes — Marsha Linehan, Ph.D. — the originator of a powerful therapy for people with chronic suicidal tendencies and disabling mood swings, she reflected on her own disclosure of serious mental health problems in a 2011 New York Times interview. This included an account of suicide attempts, self-injury and a lengthy psychiatric hospitalization at the Institute of Living in Hartford. When asked why she'd not disclosed decades earlier, she gave an answer that rang sad and true. She said that she would not have been allowed to do the work she'd done if people had known. That resonated with my own experience.

As I think about the staggering number of people who have psychiatric and substance use problems and the small number who actually seek and receive help, I understand. Or as one social worker I met at a recent conference shared, “I disclosed once and was fired. I'll never do that again.” Which is a damn shame, because there's nothing more powerful than one person sharing, “I know what you're going through. I've been there, and you'll get through this.”

So as I think about how we'll ever make inroads past the negativity and discrimination concerning mental health, a good place to start is among the professionals, such as me. That artificial wall of us and them must come down.

I will share a ray of normalizing light, which I hope speaks to progress. At a writing workshop I recently gave with 100 middle school students, we did an exercise called, “Guess my Disorder.” They were each given a piece of paper with a real or made up psychiatric diagnosis and had to do a free-write for 10 minutes as a person with that condition. As I passed out the slips of paper one boy quipped, “but I already have a disorder.” His declaration was met by several others in the room freely sharing that they, too, had some kind of diagnosis. While some might consider that sad, there was a humor and ease that is rare among adults, and certainly would not have occurred when I was their age. My thought at the time was how nice it would be if we could ever get to the point where acknowledging things that are a common part of the human condition could be freely discussed without fear and the threat of negative consequences.

Charles Atkins, M.D., is an author and the chief medical officer for Community Mental Health Affiliates in New Britain, a nonprofit, multi-service, community-oriented behavioral health organization. He is also a member of the volunteer faculty at the Yale School of Medicine.