Tampilkan postingan dengan label Mental Health. Tampilkan semua postingan
Tampilkan postingan dengan label Mental Health. Tampilkan semua postingan

Addiction, part deux

Posted by Unknown Kamis, 06 Februari 2014 0 komentar
First of all, let me just say thank you from the bottom of my heart for the response to the original post I wrote earlier this week about addiction.

I wanted to clear up a few things, answer a few questions and address a few issues in the wake of it. I wrote it initially because the words just needed to get out of my head. I've told quite a few people that I really don't even feel like I wrote it, I was just the person attached to the fingers that typed it out. It came from my soul.

The difficulty in writing something like this is that I wrote it for my own reasons, which are related to my own personal experiences with addiction in many different forms. I never wrote it thinking for even one second that it would go viral. It was not done to capitalize on the moment, it was not even a celebration of PSH as an actor, though I will miss his contributions to the industry. It was a response to the way people reacted. The assumptions made about him. The assumptions made not just about him, but about everyone out there struggling the same way he did.

It wasn't about him at all, really. It was about the addicts I have known and loved. It was about the people I have known, the struggles I have witnessed. The demons in my own head.

His death just forced all that to the surface for me.


There are a few things that I wanted to clarify, that I probably should have written more in depth about at the time but didn't either because I didn't think about it at the time, or I did and chose to try and condense my words.

The greatest of which is the issue of what causes addiction, something we may not ever have clear and convincing scientific evidence of. We see what we see, though. We observe what we observe. I did not state in the post that every case of addiction has mental illness as a precursor, though I believe many of them do. There will certainly be people who don't relate to it at all. It's not intended to be all-inclusive, nor would I ever presume that it could be.

There most certainly appears to be an element of genetics involved when it comes to addiction. Some people are just more inclined to be drawn toward drugs, alcohol, food, whatever it is. Some families seem to have clusters of addiction. Whether it is an actual issue of genes or just the force of habits and learned behaviors from a lifetime of living with and around other addicts, I can't say. I just know that some people have a predisposition to it.

I know this because I am one of them.

I walk the line.

I have been forthcoming about my personal issues in the past.

There are people who may not have that predisposition, who can use drugs socially, who can drink without hesitation, and it never causes a problem. For some of them, though, these people without the predisposition, they may find themselves addicted anyway simply because the item they use creates its own physical addiction.

Nicotine, heroin and cocaine are the ones that come to mind immediately. These drugs are inherently addictive and create dependence in people who might otherwise be able to fight it off, purely because of the chemical compounds involved and their effect on the body.

Along with all that, there is the underlying issue quite often of mental illness. I say this only because it has been the case in every single addict I have ever known, most commonly depression. In many cases, because of the stigma about mental illness in general, people are resistant to believe they have a problem, resistant to seek help, and in turn seek out ways to self medicate...which can lead them down the path of addiction.

Some of the comments left indicate that people misread my words. I never intended for anything in the post to be an absolution of responsibility on the part of the addict. Quite the opposite, in fact. Attempting to understand why people become addicts and why it is so hard for them to get clean doesn't equal helplessness at all. They are without a doubt the most essential piece of the puzzle. Without a desire to get better, without the determination to get up and fight the fight every single day, no amount of resources, no amount of support will ever make a difference.

Those of us who have been there understand that. Those of you out there who haven't been there should consider yourselves lucky. Honestly.

Do addicts choose to use? Yes, of course they do, at least initially. Once they are in it, though, the issue of choice isn't clear cut anymore, it's not cut and dried, it's not black and white. Some drugs mess with the messages in your head. Some drugs force your body to get more. It's not as simple as just deciding to stop, particularly for people with severe addictions that can only quit safely with the help of detox.

The physical aspect of addiction is only one piece, and most would argue, one of the most inconsequential, at least in the long run. The reason people relapse is precisely because addiction isn't just physical. It's bigger than that. It's more complicated than that.

Our mental health system isn't equipped to help addicts. Even where there are services available, the resources are usually lacking to help pay for it. Not all insurance covers rehab, for those people who even have insurance. One of the lesser discussed aspects of the Affordable Care Act is that all plans sold on the exchanges are required to include coverage for substance abuse.

This is huge, and might finally be a step in the right direction.

We need to do a better job for addicts in this country. We need to do a better job for all mental health conditions in general. We need to have a better understanding of the co-morbidity often present between them. We need to stop believing that drug use is simply a criminal issue.

Mostly, though, we need to remember what it's like to care about people.

We need empathy and compassion.

They, the addicts, need it maybe more than anyone else does.

Does that mean that I am claiming you should always be there, be subjected to abuse, throw money at treatment centers for people who refuse to try? Of course not. In all of this, you have to understand that all the help in the world won't help someone who doesn't want it, someone who isn't ready, someone who won't get up and fight every day.

You can't love them enough to fix them.

You can't love them enough to keep them clean.

You can't love them enough to make it all better unless they want it to be better.

It's a painful realization, one that I've had to come to before. It sucks backwards and forwards. You can only do what you can do until you can't do it anymore. Then you have to do what you have to do to protect yourself.

No one will fault you for that if they understand what it is like. Those who would can't possibly know.

Another of the topics I wanted to clarify a little here is the subject of religion, which is something mentioned quite often in the comments. I didn't talk about it because I am not a religious person. I am spiritual, but not within the confines of a religion per se. I have known addicts to get clean even without a belief in God. I have known people with all the faith in the world who didn't make it. My opinion is a simple one - whatever works for you, cling to it, but don't think that it will necessarily work for someone else. Each person has a different path, a different inspiration, a different reason.

I honor them all. I respect them all.

I think that is all the issues I wanted to clear up. I think. I'm probably missing something, but I can count on you all to let me know.

Again, thank you for sharing this important message.

Peace and strength to you all.

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Addiction, Mental Health and a Society That Fails to Understand Either

Posted by Unknown Senin, 03 Februari 2014 0 komentar
Philip Seymour Hoffman died yesterday. He was found with a needle still wedged into his arm, heroin believed to be the culprit.


When I heard of his passing yesterday, it hit me in the gut a little bit. Not because I know him, not because I know his family members or friends. Not, much to the dismay of what some may believe, because he was an award winning actor.

It hit me because he isn't the only face of addiction, he is just the most recent one. He's just the face that most people recognize, the one that we were familiar with, the one that we came to love through his work on the screen.

Whenever someone famous dies, there seems to be this immediate attempt by far too many people to make their life and death insignificant, as though the death of a celebrity somehow negates the death of all the other people who died on that given day. People attempt to place more value on the lives of some people, less on others, claiming that the celebration of the death of a celebrity is a misplaced outlaying of our efforts. I argue the opposite, obviously, particularly in situations like this one where there is so much opportunity for us to learn about addiction, about mental illness, about why lives end this tragic way.

The opportunity is there, without question. The issue is whether we, as a society choose to seize it, or whether we chalk this loss up to drug use and wave it off indifferently as another selfish life wasted.

It seems we do the latter.

Plenty of opportunities have been presented to us in the past, of lives abruptly ended this way. Of people who happen to be famous, but also struggle with the same demons that many of us ordinary folks do, meeting sudden death in this way.

Philip became addicted to heroin after struggling with abusing prescription pain medications, an all too familiar and increasingly common path to this addiction. This is not the addiction we want to think it is, the sordid one that happens in alleys, nor is it one reserved only for those in positions of privilege. Heroin doesn't discriminate. Its use is up 75% in the past few years, and the demographics of the users have shifted. 

It's easier to think that drug addiction happens to other people, to them, over there. Reality tells us that it happens far more often than we want to believe. It's a false sense of security.

Chances are that someone you know is addicted to drugs right now, you just may not realize it.

Or you do know, but you hide their addiction because of the social stigma. 

Or you don't hide it, but you shame them instead. 

Or you don't shame them, but you slowly phase them out of your life because you don't want to be around them anymore or because you just can't do it anymore. 

Or you keep them around, but talk about them behind their backs, discuss how sad it is that they refuse to get help, vow to be better than they are.

Or they do try to get help and sometimes they get better for a while. 

Or they relapse and die just like he did yesterday.

The trouble with drug addiction is that it really isn't about the drugs, no matter how much most people seem to believe that. Drug addiction is a means to an end. It begins usually as a way to try something new, to try and get high, to try and transport yourself somewhere else, to try and just feel better for a minute.

Most drug use is self medication for the things that people either can't or won't cope with in real life. The root of most of all that? Mental health conditions, the huge piece of this issue that we find ourselves ignoring all too often every time drugs are involved.

Nancy Reagan taught us all that drugs are bad. D.A.R.E. programs taught us that users are criminals, they are bad people. No one ever bothered to tell us that the vast majority of them were in need of help from a mental health system that largely doesn't exist.

And you know what happened?

People believed them. I can't even begin to tell you all the things I saw flying through my newsfeed yesterday in the wake of his death. Proclamations that he was selfish, that he was a waste, that he should have been happy because he was rich and famous. People who decreed from the mountaintops that if he would have just tried harder, he would have been better. That it's his fault that he died.

In reality, he struggled with depression most of his life. He got clean. He was recently in rehab.

Addicts don't want to be addicts.

Addicts don't want to die.

Addicts don't want to throw their lives away.

Addicts don't want their children to grow up without parents.

They just want to feel better. They just want to feel normal. They just want to stop feeling everything else for a little while.

Addicts are people, just like you and me.

Addicts come in all forms, dependent on many different things, drugs just being one version of dependence.

The problem is that our system is limited, laboring under the illusion that drug addiction is a criminal issue, a medical issue on the fringes that can be fixed with proper rehab. That all ignores the fact that drugs aren't the problem...what led that person to drugs in the first place is the problem. The drugs are just a means to an end.

Rehab doesn't fix addicts. It primarily treats the physical symptoms of withdrawal.

Prison doesn't fix addicts. It just puts them in a cage for a while.

Even death doesn't fix addicts. It just leaves the people who love them here, forever wondering how different things might have been.

The only way to really deal with addiction is one that is multi-faceted, one that makes us uncomfortable. It is messy and complicated and takes a lifetime of effort. It sometimes involves relapses and second chances and third chances. It involves support, sometimes sponsors. It involves therapy and counseling until whatever the root cause is has been revealed and addressed. It involves consideration of not just the physical withdrawal, but the emotional withdrawal, the social withdrawal, the psychological withdrawal. It requires a mental health system with adequate resources, which clearly doesn't exist. It requires us to do better. It requires support instead of judgement.

And sometimes, even when all those things exist, it fails. It fails because addiction can take people and swallow them whole. It can rob them of everything they value, everyone they love. It can strip them of everything they care about, rob them of reason and logic. It can convince them that they aren't worthy, that they have failed not just themselves, but everyone else. It tells them that they are broken and irreparable. Then it shoves them back down and does it again.

Our society says it failed because they didn't try hard enough, because they were selfish, because they were stupid.

How exactly is saying things like this going to help anyone?

The short answer - it isn't. It just allows us to believe that if we try hard enough, if we care about other people enough, if we are smart enough, we can avoid addiction. Our false sense of security hurts those who need help the most.

Never mind the damage done to the people they leave behind.

To those who claim Philip's death isn't tragic, I ask you to think about his children. I'm sure they would disagree with you.

Until you've been there, you can't know what it is like.

Until you've watched someone you love try and claw their way out only to be dragged back in again, you can't know what it is like.

Until you've seen someone throw everything away just to feel better for a moment, you can't know what it is like.

Until you've dealt with someone desperately in need of help who turned to self medicating instead, you can't know what it is like.

Until you've had to tease out where the line between believing in someone and enabling them is, you can't know what it is like.

Until you've had to make choices no one should ever have to make, you can't know what it is like.

Until you've done all you can to help someone who doesn't want it, you can't know what it is like.

We all have our demons. We all have our issues.

Many of us are closer to being addicts than we would ever admit out loud.

Some of us know how easy it would be to turn.

Some of us are addicts already.

Some of us already walk the line.


Rest in peace, Philip. I hope you've found some now. My love to all those who loved you. 

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Before anyone makes assumptions or accusations about what I will and will not post as comments, please know that my site will only load a certain number of them. I can't even see all the published ones at the moment. I do post comments from people who disagree, however, if you are rude or disrespectful, it's not getting posted. 

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the fear of being happy

Posted by Unknown Kamis, 23 Januari 2014 0 komentar
so when you are me and you are in therapy for a while and you sit and you think about things, you realize some stuff that sucks.

this thing i am realizing, which i began to understand last year, but finally understand fully now is this:

i'm afraid to be happy.

and i'm afraid to admit it.

how completely messed up is that?


it takes everything in me to fight this fear back, to contain it, to keep it subdued and tell it that it won't be allowed to tell me how to live my life.

i think it stems mostly from the ptsd. the anxiety sure doesn't make it better.

it's like they get in my head together and make out sometimes. 
i swear.

for a while there, my life was crazy. like beyond insane. like there is no way that i could have made up the things that happened. like someday i will finally tell those stories and then a whole lot of the things that are wrong with me will start to make sense to other people.

anyway.

during that time, i was just surviving. literally. getting from one day to the next day however i had to do it, hoping that something else wouldn't go wrong, knowing that it probably would, wondering what the hell was happening when it did.

the other shoe dropped so many times that every shoe store in a fifty mile radius was fresh out.

that many times. 

it was never just one thing either, never just one person, never just one situation. 

i was being hit with things from every direction almost constantly.

in between those attacks, though, there were these moments. flashes of time and space where nothing bad happened for a hot second and i remembered how to breathe again.

a few times in those moments, i found something to be happy about. something that was more than just my motivation to keep going. something that was just for me. something that i could tuck in my pocket and keep. something that eased my pain and soothed my soul and reminded me how great life could still be.

each time, back then, my pockets were turned out and whatever morsel of happy i thought i had tucked safely away was ripped from my grasp again. 

and so i learned to stop thinking it could be.

i learned to stop wanting to be happy.

i told myself that it would never last, it would never stay, that it would just hurt me all over again to have it and lose it, that it would just be better not to bother.

and so i did.

i stopped bothering. 

i told myself that whatever this was had to be enough because i couldn't live with the idea that there could be more and then it could be gone. i wasn't going to set myself up for failure and loss again. the anxiety took over and the ptsd layered on top. 

i could just not be happy.

i convinced myself.

if i just avoided it, if i didn't let it in, i couldn't lose it again.

i was wrong. 

i let the fear win, i let the anxiety and the ptsd control me.

i was afraid to be happy. i am still afraid to be happy. 

the difference between then and now is that i'm doing it anyway because life is short and i deserve the chance. 

it is a conscious choice every day, something that i have to wake up and decide. 

my default, at least right in this moment, would be to just stay in my hole of misery and wallow. as long as i stay down here, i might avoid the highs, but i would definitely avoid the fall again.

that's my default.

this is what it is like to be me.

my default would rather stay unhappy than risk happiness.

that's who i am now. 

i don't like default.

i don't like that this all has changed me.

i want to be happy.

i will be happy, even if it scares me, even if it terrifies me.

i can do this.

i will do this.

so forgive me in advance if it seems like i'm overcompensating.
i am overcompensating.
i have to.

now, if you'll excuse me...i have some happy to make.
namaste.

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A Desperate State of Affairs, a Guest Post from Anonymous

Posted by Unknown Jumat, 20 Desember 2013 0 komentar
In this strange and beautiful online world, I have had occasion to meet some truly amazing people. This writer today, one of them. She needed to let these words out of her head, and she needed a safe place to do it. She asked if I would be willing to share her story here. 

With my deepest love and respect, a tale of what it's like to live with and love someone with mental illness, with physical illness, and how hard it is to keep what affects them from defining who you are.

Thank you for sharing your story, my friend. I sincerely hope that you gain some peace by setting the words free.


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A Desperate State of Affairs

I once made a friend the most incredibly stupid promise. Back when I was naïve, ignorant and pompous. I truly hadn’t the experience to make such a promise, and yet, with righteous indignation in my heart (and not one CLUE in my mind) I went ahead and made it: “I’ll never locate my self-esteem in my husband.”

What. A. Dickhead.

I had absolutely no business to be making such idiotic pronouncements – at the time, I wasn’t even married, for goodness sake! I was engaged; young, stupid, in love and yet still full of that sense of self which (semi)confident single-dom can bring.

We got married, and in my blinkered state, I managed to ignore that he was stressed beyond all reason. I was irritated at him, but chalked it down to the challenges of his job and the amount of organizing required by the mere act of getting married. We were both looking forward to married life. And its benefits – one above all (and yet untried by either of us).

Sex.

Through the historical strength of our individual convictions and our joint agreement to save ourselves until we had tied the knot, the limits of our temptations were tested and we waited.

The Wedding Night loomed. And in spite of all the stress and tiredness, it was good. I mean, it was nice. It was a very steep learning curve. But, ya know, the earth moved and we both had fits of the giggles and all was well. We congratulated ourselves on our first time being with each other, and reiterated how much we wanted to share the learning on this journey into a hitherto unexplored area of adulthood. We were happy.

I was dumb.

Because shortly after that, things began to go pear-shaped. Or at least, (if we’re using fruit analogies) not ‘nice, big, banana-shaped’. And gradually the realisation that having a spouse with relatively freshly diagnosed Type 1 Diabetes was a bit of a pain in the ass. It impacted HUGELY on his ability to function. Blood sugar too high? Say goodbye to sexy-fun-time. Blood sugar too low? Say hello to shaking and panic and urgent guttling of sugar while the furthest thing from anyone’s mind was their loins.

But there was more to it than even the diabetes. And as our (sadly already meager) sex life waned, illness and depression kicked in, and a long, awful slog towards an eventual diagnosis of autoimmune disorders gone mad and a broken endocrine system, leaving my poor husband with clinical depression, no energy, no spirit, and no spunk.

And because of the pressure (real? imagined?) of sex, he managed to develop a nasty little psycho sexual disorder into the bargain. When he (so, so rarely) was up for it, the chances of everything working as it should were so slim that the frustration of that expectation and the unhappiness of previous ‘failures’ would likely nix any chance of him achieving his happy place.

We began to argue more, and became distant from one another. I started to seek him less, taking matters into my own hands.

I nearly left him just before his diagnosis, and once we found out what was wrong with him, I thanked my lucky stars that I hadn’t gone off to seek a life of hedonism elsewhere, because in spite of my loneliness and wandering mind, deep down, I wanted him fixed – I wanted him back to the guy I fell for. I wanted us to grow old together.

Alas. The diagnosis held horror in store. His condition was treatable, but (because of the nature of the hormonal feedback loops, which are the mechanics of the endocrine system) the treatment would render him permanently infertile.

The doctors stayed the final medication to allow us to try for a child. I wavered, pondering the common sense of bringing a child into a world where his father was so unstable he’d already tried to kill himself twice (as I found out, one chilling day when I accompanied him to a doctor’s appointment to lend moral support). And yet…the idea of not having a child at all trumped everything, and we got busy (now cursing all former ideas of ‘having some time just to ourselves’ and anyone who’d ever told us ‘don’t start a family straight away’).

I found out that I was pregnant. And lost the baby mere weeks in. I was devastated. And he didn’t understand at all. To him it was a loss of potential. To me it was our dear child, whom we had longed for. I was so angry at him, and so hurt. And he so didn’t care, because the depression had taken root deep in his soul.

Eventually I got over my panic that sex might lead to another loss, and we tried again. With the same stumbling, awkward, pressurized, sometimes-ending-in-failure-and-tears methods we’d been used to. And four months later I was pregnant again. And then I wasn’t. Again.

We danced another dance of devastation and depression and wedges driven between us. And all the time, the deadline of that enforced infertility was moving ever-closer. When all of a sudden it hit us amidships, ahead of schedule, when a sperm count found one. solitary. sperm. No medication required. Just brokenness.

We both fell apart, but individually, and turned on each other instead of being able to offer comfort. I couldn’t tell him how upset I was because his guilt at making me upset would overwhelm him, and then my sorrow was transformed into a perceived attack on him and I lived in constant fear that he would try to kill himself again. He immersed himself in computer games, inappropriate amounts of sleep, and endless toy soldiers. No babies were getting tried for, and I could barely stand the sight of him.

The feeling was apparently almost mutual, because on the rare occasion I did feel that insistent yearning for some intimacy and the chance to ride the crest of our union into oblivious bliss, he was disinclined to participate. I vividly remember buying some new, vaguely sexy underwear and showing him, desperately hopeful that his interest would be piqued, but he murmured something vaguely placatory, then got all excited showing me his latest painted man-dolly; not caring – not able to care - that I was missing him or craving his
touch or falling rapidly out of love with him. The depression ruined all of it. We’d not been together for so long I wondered if my virginity was growing back.

And the rejection began to sink in, tapping into deep hurts from childhood, where my self-esteem and my physical appearance were consistently, wilfully, maliciously undermined by my father, who suffered the same brand of mental illness as had my husband in its grasp. The internal voices began rearing their vicious heads again “You’re so ugly. So fat. So disgusting. Even your husband doesn’t want you. No-one could ever desire you. No-one could possibly find you attractive – you’re repulsive, just give up. Don’t even try; there’s no point. Just LOOK at yourself in the mirror? Why would anyone ever fancy you? You’re vile.”

On and on and on they played, driving me near to the brink of succumbing to the depression myself! I admitted some responsibility and started trying to get healthier, slimmer, stronger (and hopefully, more attractive – at the same time feeling terrible about how vain and shallow I was being). Alas, even my shrinking figure was not enough to tempt him. It wasn’t about my size – it was about me. I was a terrible, unattractive, crap wife, and even when I made an effort, I couldn’t get him in the mood.

When you get married, you truly do hope that the one person who will always (or at least most of the time) find you desirable is the one who’s promised to love you forever. And when that person consistently would rather be dead, than alive and married to you, no matter what stupid-ass promises you made so flippantly all those years ago, your self-esteem will be BURIED. My sense of self-worth, already low, plummeted.

I gave up trying to get him in the mood. I focused on getting fitter for myself. So that I felt happy with the way I looked. Whenever one of my friends congratulated me on my success, or paid me a compliment, I brushed it off, but stored the words in my heart, beginning to think that perhaps I’d cracked it – maybe I was finally becoming the person I wanted to be – an attractive one. And slowly, the impetus of those friendly compliments increased, and my self-confidence began to grow.

But alas, the success was double-edged, and my slimmer, fitter self was still not enough to get him interested. It did get someone else interested though, which was in equal measures flattering and unsettling; because it was a friend who was very dear to me, and when she wrote me a letter simultaneously coming out to me and declaring that she had ‘far more than just a crush’ on me, my world got very confusing.

The guy I wanted had only indifference for me, and the girl I never sought, had anything but. And I was caught in the middle, pleased to have been found attractive (if by the wrong person) and wondering what on earth to do.

I shut them both out, unable to cope, and went seeking my validation in (marginally) less harmless ways, becoming an incorrigible flirt; enjoying the thrill of suggestion without promise and the return of the same. Meanwhile I was still awash with grief at my losses, the impending membership of the ‘Can’t Have Kids’ club, the lack of any kind of movement on the ‘Trying To Have Kids’ status and at the train wreck of my marriage, and I continued trying to get fitter (more beautiful? nah.), allowing myself to run in the dark, alone, deep in my tortured thoughts.

Because there was no way I could justify an affair. Even if I wanted one; craved one; was desperate to be desired and found womanly and attractive. And there was no way I could allow my desire for a baby, coupled with my need to be found desirable, to ruin the marriage I’d vowed to stay faithful to. But what if *something* happened to me, one night, in a dark corner of the city, which wasn’t my fault…which lifted all responsibility from me…which left me pregnant…what then?

Such shame. Such anger, that those kinds of thoughts were even entering my brain and at the same time, the idea of a completely guilt-free dalliance was alluring. I kept running alone, knowing all the while that the reality of that situation would be vastly removed from my sanitized fantasies. Fortunately, it never happened.
I went back to flirting with other people, instead. And things still weren’t fixed between my husband and I. But gradually, slowly, they began to improve. He finally got some much-needed help and the depression lifted ever-so slightly. I was 50lb lighter, far more pleasing to the eye (even to my own) and much fitter. But there was still the matter of sex, which is meant to bring such joy and unity in marriage, and which was so missing from ours. He was offered psycho sexual counselling to help overcome all the hooked-in negatives which accompanied the act for him. But he declined, unilaterally deciding that if he was beginning to be less depressed, he wouldn’t need it.

Except that I think he does.

And our baby deadline is February.

And I just don’t think it’s going to happen. And guess what, folks, there’s a whole vicious cycle right there – because if I’m stressed, I’m less likely to conceive. I’m also less likely to be ‘in the mood’. And as it frequently still takes a great deal of input on my part to get the mood going, guess what’s not happening…

We are truly (un)fucked.

And in spite of things (and one rather important one) being largely ‘on the up’, to quote a rather good movie – “It will all be alright in the end, and if it is not alright, then it is not yet the end.” - I know it’s not yet the end…because it’s really not all alright.

And I’m not sure I can see how it’s going to be.

But at least I look good.

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Mental Health Awareness ~ Welcome to My Crazy, by Dinner and a Nervous Breakdown

Posted by Unknown Rabu, 30 Oktober 2013 0 komentar
This post has been a few weeks in the making, and it all started when we were still in the middle of Mental Health Awareness Week. This very talented woman reached out to me and asked if she could share her story. Please check out her blog and Facebook page
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I thought I would share my story. Or rather, stories. Maybe it will help someone, or maybe I will just feel better after purging all the bullshit. Either way; welcome to my crazy

Before I had even hit middle school, I was diagnosed with the following. Although some of it kind of smooshes together, and some of it didn’t have such tidy, convenient names back then, here they are in all their glory along with MY definition of each. *IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER* I am NOT a doctor or an expert in any capacity, and each of these may be experienced differently by different people.

Social Anxiety Disorder – Social anxiety disorder is not about being shy, socially awkward, or uncomfortable at your new boyfriend’s cousin’s wedding. Everyone experiences social settings with varying degrees of discomfort. SAD goes beyond awkward and uncomfortable into excruciating and impossible. The thought of being placed into a social situation in which they are expected to be normal and carry on conversations and mingle, sets the SAD sufferer into a tailspin of dread, panic and thinking of any possible way that to get out of it.

Seasonal Depression – Apparently also called Seasonal Affective Disorder, Seasonal Depression strikes its sufferers, well, seasonally. As fall sets in and the weather gets colder, the days get shorter and the dark gets darker, the bleak also gets bleaker. Winter is approaching and it feels like the days of sunshine and summertime are never, ever going to come back and you’re doomed to wander this cold world, dark and alone, forever. And no, I’m not exaggerating.

Generalized Anxiety Disorder – GAD is an affliction that is the most counterproductive of all, in my opinion. It’s a cycle. Worry causes stress, stress causes fear, sleeplessness, soreness of body and mind. The constant and overwhelming worrying about something makes it impossible to productively focus on, let alone fix, whatever you began worrying about in the first place. Problems set off the GAD cycle, and, The GAD causes its symptoms, which cause more problems which give you more to worry about. It’s never ending and completely exhausting.

Claustrophobia – Everyone knows that this is the fear of closed, or small, spaces. While no one particularly likes being closed in small spaces, claustrophobics simply cannot handle it and will alter their life in whatever ways possible to avoid it. At all costs. They cannot handle the thought of being trapped in an airplane, so no trips. Elevators are absolutely not acceptable, so lots of stairs. Doctor’s offices - small rooms, closed doors, - cause panic so we usually just don’t go. Hospital? Surgery? Ha! Prescribing an MRI or a CAT scan is like prescribing death.

Agoraphobia – The actual definition of agoraphobia is “fear of open spaces.” It comes from the greek word agora, meaning market. And no, the irony is not lost on me. From a mental health standpoint, agoraphobia has basically come to mean the fear of any situation that may cause panic. Large crowds, tall buildings, unfamiliar surroundings for some. Being lost, not knowing where to find a bathroom or being somewhere by yourself for others. Agoraphobia is an all encompassing disorder and affects everyone differently. And it’s my least favorite.

Panic attacks – For me, and for many, any of the above situations can cause panic attacks, and are in turn worsened by panic attacks. I know that’s confusing, but I will get into it more later. A Panic attack never looks or feels the same for different people, or even for the same people in different situations. I’ll do my best to explain the way a panic attack most often feels to me:

I usually feel it coming and it usually starts with a heightened awareness of everything in the room. All of the noises and voices are suddenly closer, right in my ears and echoing in my head. The walls close in, while any chance of escape seems nearly impossible. I am sure everyone is looking at me, if not talking about me. And no, I don’t give a half a fuck what any of these people think about me, but why are they doing this? I’m sweaty and crampy, or nauseous. Extremely hot or extremely cold. I may be sick, or I may shit myself (seriously) and oh my god I am going to die. If I were being rational I would know that I am not actually, but panic replaces rationality. So no, not exactly literally, but I am still going to die. Or I am not going to die, instead I am going to feel this way forever and wish I would die. Why is this happening? Why can’t I just be normal dammit?! Fuck this, get me out of here. Now. No, I can’t leave, then the panic wins. I have to fight it. Why do I have to fight it? Why can’t I just stay home, where this won’t ever happen again and I don’t ever have to feel like this again and oh my god just please make it stop. It’s never going to stop. I am going to die. Where’s the door? Where’s the bathroom? When can I leave without it being awkward and making them all look at me and talk about me more than they already are….

That’s the best I can do and it doesn’t even come close.

Now, before I get into my personal experiences, I have to say something. I’m sure this is going to piss some people off, but I’ve been pissed off about it for a long time, so suck it up. If you feel like you have some kind of a disorder, please, please talk to somebody and get help. Please. But it you don’t – shut the fuck up. Allow me to explain; if you don’t like spiders, you do not have arachnophobia. You just don’t like spiders. Now if you refuse to go into some places, no matter how badly you need to, or alter your life in dramatic ways in order to avoid any situation in which you may possibly encounter an 8 legged asshole, then you may actually have arachnophobia. In the same sense; shy people do not have SAD, people who worry do not have GAD and people who prefer summer do not have seasonal depression. In order for any of these to be an actual condition, they have to be extreme, usually irrational and cause excruciating consequences. Not be simply uncomfortable. Uncomfortable is life. Everybody is uncomfortable. It seems like it has become trendy as of late to claim some sort of mental disorder or another. Everyone and their little sister has Generalized Anxiety Disorder now, or gets Panic Attacks. These are not things I would wish on my worst enemy, let alone want to have myself. Believe me, you DO NOT WANT this! Why pretend, or exaggerate, so that it looks like you have this? Seriously? Why? I think it is a result of drug companies and doctors. Someone has to be labeled in order to be medicated, and the more prescriptions they write the more money they make. But the whole thing makes me sick. The result is that those of us genuinely affected are not taken seriously. Try to tell someone that you suffer from a disorder that has exponentially hindered you in your life, and have them say, “Oh, me too.” Really? No.

Okay, rant over. You’re still here? Awesome. Lets continue.

Now, medication is usually viewed as the first and sometimes only treatment. Xanax, Valuim, Paxil, Effexor, Ativan and on and on and on. You’ve heard of them, I’m sure. You may take them. You may love them. I do not. I am on no medication. My opinion is that we are, as a society, completely over medicated and that these drugs do more to mask the problems, and zombify us, than to fix anything. While in some cases, medication may be a necessity, behavior modification, thought control and therapy are much more effective and may actually treat the issue instead of chemically covering it up. Though I do feel that medication has its purpose, that purpose is NOT in me. It’s not because I’m so strong, I don’t need drugs, I am going to fight this on my own. Nope. Most of the time I would so much rather pop a pill and have it go away. But I can’t. I literally cannot handle drugs. You know that little insert that comes with all the prescriptions? The one with the tiny print that lists all of the things that could possibly happen as a side effect? All of the things that could possibly go wrong? That list might as well be titled ALL OF THIS SHIT IS ABSOLUTELY GOING TO HAPPEN AS SOON AS YOU INGEST THIS PILL on anything prescribed to me.

I took Zoloft once. The doctor had been begging me to get on it for months,, and he finally convinced me by saying that it would likely lessen my panic attacks and my migraines. “I am going to get sick” I told him. “Just take it for 3 months and we will see” he responded. Okay. Here goes nothing. He gave me 25 milligrams, and I broke them in half. 12.5 milligrams a day. I was in bed for 2 weeks. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t really sleep, but couldn’t get up. I was nauseous and puking. It was like the worst flu AND hangover I had ever had, combined with not being able to grab onto any one thought for too long. I muscled through those miserable 2 weeks. By the third week I could get up, I could eat a little, but I was still all fuzzy, not really present. After a month I was almost normal, just felt a little disconnected. But if I forgot a pill, took one too early or too late, I was sick again. I sucked it up for 3 months, because I said I would. It did reduce my panic attacks and my migraines, but at the end of it all, I just couldn’t take it. My body does not like drugs.

So I’m pretty much on my own here.

All of these conditions that I have, essentially like to come out and play with each other and cause a clusterfuck for me. I’m going to try to keep it all straight, but sometimes you can’t. And by the end of this piece, you will see that they are all pretty much one big mess anyway.

I had my first panic attack in kindergarten. Of course, I didn’t know at the time that I was having a panic attack; I just thought that the entire world had flipped the fuck out and attacked me for a while. I told my mom about it and she brushed it off, said it was nothing and wouldn’t happen again. Mama didn’t respond this way to be heartless. You see, my 5 year old self had just explained to my mother her own worst nightmare. She had been suffering from her own panic disorders, to the point where she had been unable to leave the house for a period of years, and she thought that if she didn’t give it a name for me, didn’t give it any credibility, didn’t “feed the beast” I guess, then it wouldn’t happen to her baby as it had been happening to her. Mama was wrong.

I was too young to process it all really. The horrible thing had happened when I was in school. I loved school, but the horrible thing happened while I was in school, so I didn’t want to go ever again. But I had to. It wasn’t as simple as school being the problem though. For the first time ever I was being asked to socialize, and I was discovering that I just couldn’t. This talking and playing together thing that all the other kids were just effortlessly doing, was absolutely not working for me. I couldn’t. Welcome Social Anxiety Disorder. I was being asked to accomplish new things and follow new directions. I was a very smart kid, and certainly capable of all that they were asking me to do. But suddenly I was worried. What if I didn’t make my letters right? What if Suzy was better at coloring than me? What if I actually wasn’t smart, and I was doing it all completely wrong and everyone knew it? Welcome Generalized Anxiety Disorder. And as a result, welcome the Panic Attack. See how they all smoosh together?

As a kid I learned that I couldn’t go to sleepovers – I’d make it until about 2 am before I called mom to come get me. I couldn’t do the afterschool functions like parties or dances – I literally made myself sick with the nerves of trying. I couldn’t raise my hand in class, join any clubs or play any sports – I would be expected to talk. Out loud. While everyone looked at me. No. Oral presentations were an absolute nightmare. I skipped school, talked my way out of it with the teacher, or just took the E even though I was a straight A student. All the things caused the panic attacks, and the attacks caused me to avoid all the things. Simple. Fast forward a few years to when I was a young teenager and throw in hormones and seasonal depression. Then I had all the things plus an overwhelming desire to not get out of bed. Ever again. My poor mother had to physically pull me out of bed more than once. And every year I missed so much school that they threatened to fail me.

At some point my mother accepted the fact that I was suffering from many of the same things she had been suffering from. She took me to a doctor, they put some names on some of my crazy and discovered that pills hate me. My dear, well intentioned mother gave me some advice. Again, she was doing the best that she could with what she had. It went something like this;

“It’s a mental thing, honey. The panic attacks are going to happen all the time. Anytime there are too many people or too much noise, or sometimes for no reason at all. Try to fight through it. You’re not really going to die. It just feels like it. And sometimes makes you wish you could. But you can’t.”

Really, really bad advice. “It’s going to keep happening no matter what” and “just fight through it.’ Worst advice ever. But it was the best that she had, and it then became all that I had.

Now the funny – not at all funny – thing about all of these conditions is that they feed off of each other, cause each other to kick in and worsen one another. That’s confusing, I know, but here’s what I mean;

1. You go to Kroger, worried that you’ll have a panic attack

2. You have a panic attack and you either

a. Fight through it hoping to God it goes away once you’re out of the building

b. Get your ass kicked by it and abandon a full cart of groceries in isle 6 as you run for the door hoping that the screams that are inside your head don’t escape until your inside your car

3. But you survive it

4. You realize that you cannot go to that Kroger anymore because you will have another panic attack

5. Repeat steps 1-4 with every fucking place else.

That’s how my mama ended up staying not leaving the house for years. At my worst I made it 6 months before my then husband literally picked me up and deposited me (kicking and screaming unfortunately) in the middle of our front yard and held me there until I stopped. Actually, I pretended to be okay with it and ran back inside as soon as he let me go. But I didn’t want to end up like this, I didn’t want to be this, I didn’t want to do this. So I fought it.

I did avoid certain places and things that I knew would bring on an attack. Certain restaurants where I had experienced particularly nasty attacks, driving somewhere for the first time by myself (Before Siri could give me turn by turn, obviously), and small intimate gatherings were a no go. Everything else, I tried. Usually had an attack, sometimes fought through it, sometimes was beaten by it. I learned some tricks, though. My baby sister was born when I was 14. It didn’t take me long to discover that I didn’t panic when I had the baby with me. I don’t absolutely know why, but my guess is that my subconscious knew that I had a little person depending on me and wouldn’t allow me to lose my shit. So I brought the baby with me. Everywhere. Poor kid is 15 now and absolutely hates to be idle, she always wants to go, go, go. Oops. I learned that smokers had a very convenient, legitimate reason to periodically remove themselves from the situation. Looked like a great idea. And, it’s much easier to say “Be right back, gonna grab a smoke” than it is to say “If I don’t get the fuck out of here RIGHT NOW I am going to snap and this may be the one time that I don’t come back from the crazy.” I still smoke a pack a day and wish I had never started. I learned that if I was drunk, or even buzzed, I could almost handle a social situation. I still worried about it before, freaked during, and replayed it over and over in my head finding everything I did wrong after. But if I was not sober, I could participate some, it was a little less painful. I learned that if the attack didn’t go away when I left the situation, then I had to go home. Back to mom’s. Even after I moved out. Home was my safe place and mom was my safe person. I learned that relationships are even harder when you expect your boyfriend to put up with all of the things that you can’t do, all of the places that you can’t go, and all of the times that you have to go home (especially if you feel like you don’t deserve someone who will. But that’s a whole different post, isn’t it?). But I generally did better with a boyfriend around, so I pretty much always had one. And when I found one that would deal with all of my issues, I put up with whatever kind of treatment I got, because I’d likely never find anyone else willing to deal with the crazy anyway.

I went on like this for years. Missing out on so much, not enjoying the things that I couldn’t miss out on, and barely surviving things that other, normal people did every single day without even a thought. Constantly fighting panic and feeling extremely powerless and defeated anytime I let it win. Always tremendously, crushingly, unhappy and stressed out because I had to deal with all of this. Why the fuck couldn’t I just be normal? Everyone else could mingle at a party, even actually have fun, ride elevators, put gas in their cars for fucks sake, without issue! But not me. I was broken, and everything, all of the normal things, would always be hard.

I was doing it WRONG.

Once my fiancé and I started dating, I started dreading the obligatory I-have-issues-and-here-are-all-of-the-ways-that’s-going-to-suck-for-you conversation that was approaching. I never looked forward to this conversation. At best it was uncomfortable, at worst it put an end to whatever relationship was starting. But with this guy? I absolutely dreaded it. I didn’t know how he would respond, but I was pretty positive I wouldn’t like it. And I wasn’t wrong.

“…so that’s all of it,” I finished “I cant go some places, do some things, I have to leave in the middle of stuff a lot. And it sucks. What do you think?”

He then proceeded to say every single wrong thing possible.

“There’s no such thing as all that. Panic attacks? Its all in your head.”

Cue thunder and lightning, shocked face, middle finger, the entire array of nasty emotions available to a human being. Well, that’s pretty much done, I thought, so much for this guy. I still tried; I argued with him, tried to explain it, to make him see that it wasn’t all in my head, it was a very real thing, it wasn’t rational, I wasn’t rational once lost in it, I had no control over it . He didn’t buy it.

Until he saw a panic attack hit me, saw what it did to me. Then he believed it. And then he got pissed. He became angry that I had to deal with all of this, that I had been dealing with all of this for so long, frustrated that he couldn’t flip a switch and make it go away and kind of sad too I think, for all that I had missed. He understood, but he wasn’t willing to accept it. He was going to cure it. He was going to fix me. He told me this one day.

“Bahahahaha,” I laughed.”There is no fixing this babe, I’ve been dealing with it for more than 20 years! I do the best I can, but it’s not going to just go away.”

But the fiancé is stubborn. He’s also smart, has the patience to do extensive research, and has a passion for psychology and human behavior. Shortly after I laughed in his face, he approached me with a solution.

“Just decide you aren’t going to panic anymore.” He beamed. Like he had just solved fucking world peace and poverty all in one shot.

“Just decide, huh?” I asked. “Well, fuck! Why didn’t I think of that years ago?!?”

He tried to explain to me what he meant, how his solution would work. He talked about conditioning, behavior modification, conscious thinking. What in the actual fuck? Just what? He was psycho-babbling me, and really thought it would fix what had hindered my entire life. I quickly lost patience with it and insisted again that it wasn’t fixable, and that I as dealing with it the best that I could, and this was the best I was ever going to be.

He was patient when I lost my shit, stayed calm when I got frustrated (Totally opposite of the norm for us, by the way), and then he decided to take a different approach. “Just trust me.” He said. I knew that it would not work, but I went along with it. Mostly to shut him up.

That was almost 3 years ago. My panic attacks are down about 75% in frequency since then, and I am capable of doing 3 times as much shit as I could then. It’s not gone, fixed or cured, but it’s all so much better.

I’ll try to explain the process, try to minimize the psycho babble, and pray to God that I am able to get this across and that maybe someone else can benefit from it.

Before the fiancé decided to fix me, I started off every outing with “I am going to have a panic attack” running through my head like a mantra. I knew I was. I had been here before, and I had one then, so I would again (There’s that conditioning crap, y’all). Well, that was stupid. Human, but seriously stupid. Of course I am going to have one if I decide before I even leave the fucking house that I am going to have one. If you wake up in the morning and think “today is going to suck,” well then guess what? It probably will. I had to change that thought (There’s conscious thought). Well I immediately resisted that idea. I can’t control my fucking thoughts! What do you think I am? They just happen! But I tried. And it was ridiculously hard. It took a long time.

I started off thinking “I will probably have a panic attack.” Eventually it became “Maybe I will.” But about then, an amazing thing happened, and this is key; I went somewhere where I had always panicked, and I DIDN’T! I don’t know if it was a coincidence, or if it was that conscious thought shit working, but it was a huge fucking victory. And I grabbed it with both hands and ran with it. I started to be able to think “Maybe I won’t,” and sometimes even “I am not going to.” The whole conditioning thing, like the cycle I referred to earlier, had been working against me my whole life, and I was turning it around. I was making it work for me. I was making it my bitch!

What was previously:

All the things caused the panic attacks, and the attacks caused me to avoid all the things

Was becoming :

I can do stuff and not have an attack, so I can do stuff again and not have one again!

I know it all sounds kind of simple, but I promise you, it wasn’t. Its hard to change a thought pattern that is so ingrained. But every successful non-panicking thing fueled me. I gained confidence in myself. More importantly, I gained the desire to be not so damn afraid all the time, the desire to continue to accept this bullshit life with all these restrictions.

The fiancé helped me, tremendously. At first simply by distracting me while we were out, and it was sometimes enough to keep the panic away. And eventually, he saw the improvement, and the resulting confidence and so he challenged me.

“Drive out to this place tonight. I’ll meet you inside,” he said one night.

“Are you out of your mind?” I asked. “I can’t drive there by myself; I don’t know where it is. What if I get lost? And walk in by myself? To a place I’ve never been? What if I can’t find you? NO.”

“You can do it baby,” he assured me. “Remember last weekend? You made it through a whole afternoon at that crazy busy art fair!”

And he was right. I could. And I did! He played on my confidence, added to it and used it. More often than not I found out I could do it, and it was amazing. I was using that fucking god-awful cycle to my advantage. I was turning it around. Each new accomplishment allowed me the next one. It was like the best high of my life, every time I earned a victory.

They weren’t all victories, they still aren’t. I sometimes still slip into the old thinking. I just have to catch myself and pull out of it. And if I’m having a particularly crappy, weak day, and I have a panic attack, it still sometimes sets me back a bit. It’s still a battle. It’s still there. It always will be. But I have some of the control now. I just have to pay attention and keep it. It’s still a fight y’all, but now it’s a productive one, and one I can win.

And so can you. I’m not anybody special. I’m not super brave, or super strong. I was just super tired of it all, and I was handed a little piece of hope for change. And I took it. I built on it, I fought for it, and I refused to let it go. And now I’m handing it to you. If I can get better, even a little bit, you damn sure can.

And guys? Please try to keep in mind; no one ever knows what anyone else is going through. Be compassionate whenever you can. The world needs it.

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Mental Health Awareness - Anxiety and Depression, a guest post

Posted by Unknown Selasa, 29 Oktober 2013 0 komentar
This was shared with my by a very brave woman named Carla. She asked if she could tell her story so that others out there wouldn't feel alone. With love and respect, her words.
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It really starts with my parents divorce when I was 17. I began to feel anxious and depressed then, but was ashamed to say anything to anyone. It wasn't until I was about to get married, nearly three years later, that I was diagnosed with anxiety and depression. Since that time, I've been on and off medication. I was always very ashamed about having to take meds for it, therefore when I started "feeling better", I often stopped taking them.

Then the whole cycle would begin again. It was very hard to find something to fit all of my symptoms. So I began feeling like I could handle it myself. It wasn't until I had my second miscarriage that I finally got the courage to talk to my doctor about it again. By then I was 27. 

Since then, I've been on several different medications, but only two have really worked well. This summer I was on one, and it in particular gives a "black box warning" of signs to watch for. I took it for only two weeks, and I can tell you I never want to feel that way again in my life. 

I called people and had conversations with them that I don't remember having, and was inconsolable even by my own husband over something I had no control over. He can always redirect me, and calm me, but he couldn't then. It was two of the scariest days of my life, because it was like I couldn't stop myself, and had no control over my behavior. 

I can always tell when I'm getting more anxious, because I have a really hard time concentrating. My skin feels like it is crawling almost. Going out in public, to Walmart or the grocery store, is an ordeal. I have to make myself get up out of my recliner. It may take me a couple of hours to get to the point where I'm mentally ready to go. I'm an avid reader, but when I am dealing with increased anxiety it's hard for me to even focus on a book or tv show. 

If I am really honest, I don't even feel like talking to anyone besides a couple people while going through this. I've often thought I'm pretty good at "faking it". There's not more than a handful of people who can tell when anything is really wrong with me, I think. It's because I have gotten so good at putting on a mask.

I've currently taking different medication, and it works great. I can function, and even though I still have periods of ups and downs, it's no longer a living nightmare. Bottom line? Anxiety sucks, but I refuse to let it rule my life. 

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Mental Health Awareness ~ The Creative Beauty of the Bipolar Mind, by Anonymous

Posted by Unknown Rabu, 16 Oktober 2013 0 komentar
Today's post is being generously and courageously shared by someone I've come to know over the past few months through the wonders of Facebook. She is a tremendously creative spirit, and she reached out to me last week about possibly sharing a piece of her with you all. I was thrilled for many reasons, not the least of which is my own personal fascination with the artistic mind.

With much love and respect, her words and her art.

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I always thought it was just “mood swings”…. I didn’t think I needed a diagnosis, but… I got one in my mid-twenties. I wasn’t really surprised, in fact… I expected SOMEthing to be “wrong” with me. I knew that the rapid state at which my mind spun wasn’t very healthy, and I wanted someone to recognize that.

I have been in therapy for much of my life, it has been a life saver for me- in so many ways. I started SERIOUS therapy for my “issues” when I was….somewhere in my mid-twenties. I saw her for 3 years to cope with my behaviors, stress, kids, life, school, and anything else that came up. I knew SOMEthing needed to change with me, therapy was an option- so… I took it.

My therapist, Pam, was a nice woman. We clicked. I trusted her, and I opened up to her. She didn’t push meds, I liked that. I didn’t WANT meds, yet…anyway. During the time I was seeing her (sometimes twice a week) I was actively single. I had already been through a divorce at 22, and my fair share of relationships that weren’t working, this being one of the reasons I initially called her. I wasn’t emotionally healthy, and I wanted to be. I typed up a “cast list” for her, it was a compilation of people who were in my life, affect my life and otherwise need to be mentioned. Most of the people on that list I had slept with at one point. They were all my friends, so… why not? I wasn’t kidding when I said actively single, I dated (a lot). Don’t know what you like until you try it, right? (boy, does that open up a can of worms….)


I started classes at my local community college when I turned 25, I needed to wait until my boys were in school fulltime before I could quit my job and turn over a new leaf. I don’t remember the first time I heard the diagnosis bi-polar disorder in a psychology class I was taking….but- the more I read about it the more it resonated with me. I knew I had “issues”, but… I didn’t realize that “they” had a name.


After 3 years (at the ripe age of….29ish), I decided that it was too much for me. I was experiencing fits of rage, agitated depression, sleepless nights, a sexual appetite that made me think I was a sex addict, and a range of other crap. Pam was on board with me and my decision to try medication. It was never NOT an option, I just wanted to get my own shit together first before I actually walked down that road. So, now it’s time to look for a shrink…..ever tried looking for a shrink that listened to you? (for more than 10 minutes?). My first taste of meds (and a shrink) was a nightmare…. Wellbutrin, they had diagnosed me with…. (not bipolar)…. Something. They weren’t listening to me…. And, it annoyed me. Wellbutrin turned me into a totally different person, a zombie. I didn’t laugh anymore, life wasn’t FUN and EXCITING anymore…. I needed a change. So, I found a new shrink, one that came highly recommended, and… he listened.


Since 2001 I have been painting. That was the year after my brother passed in a very tragic car accident. That was the year I picked up a paintbrush, some oil pastels and a canvas. For 12 years I have been expressing myself though art and writing (however, I haven’t written much since being medicated), but the visual art…. That part I have never lost. Some days I have to fight for it, but… I always won. Or shall I say, the creative side of me always won.

Everyone loves the work I did in 2005. 2005 was one of many emotionally charged years…. Somewhere in the middle of the chaos. I loved the work that I was doing, but… it came at an emotional price. I wasn’t medicated then, my art was coming right out of my head… I lost myself in it every time. I can remember the manic nights- acrylic paint and pen & ink- back and forth, dancing with the media.


Soon after, I began medicating with pharmaceuticals. I was somewhere around 30/31 when I started taking the meds that made me “better”. Lamictal and Abilify. That was my cocktail. Seroquel when I got too manic or had too much anxiety (usually, hand in hand)…. And pot smoking always made me feel better. It also enhanced the creative side of me. Not only did I create art, I also modeled for photographers and fine art classes. I was always looking for a creative outlet, and I opened every door I could. I was just beginning to find ME.

For a few years, the meds did their job, I guess. I was still coping with some emotional issues in my life, luckily, I was still in therapy. I was looking for myself, I didn’t know WHO I was…. I just knew who I didn’t want to be. I had failed in 2 relationships after I stopped being “single”, and was looking for that “healthy” one.

I could tell stories of my role as a as a single mother, as a model, as an artist, as a survivor of domestic violence, or as a crazy as bat shit loon. But… I am here to talk about bipolar. Oh wait, those ARE all parts of me… my past has helped to define me. I have grown tremendously over the past 8 years of meds. However, it’s time. Time for me to remove that aspect of my life, and TRY to cope without them. I am tired, tired of a pill making me feel “better”, I am not sure how it will affect me. I have already (with the help of my shrink) taken myself off one. Now, it’s time for the other to go. However, I am both anxious and worried about how removing myself in the middle of grad school will affect my life.

I used to write incessantly, throwing up on the page, thoughts free flowing from my fingers. Sometimes I barely even stopped to see what I was writing. I didn’t edit, I just let it go.

2001

At the edge of the water- I sit- listen to the cracking of the waves....

the sky filled with grey- and the wind picking up speed. I can feel

dampness in the air- ready to explode down like a sheet of broken glass.

I can feel the moisture on my skin- it feels good- as the air is so

heavy- it needs to be cut. Patiently I wait for the rain to come, all

the while- I hold a stone in the palm of my hand. Projecting all of my

worries into it, feeling the energy of the dusk in my hands cascading

around the magick that I am creating.



At last- the rain falls... I raise my head to feel it fall on my face-

like warm tears... and then- a drop falls as if I was crying- and it

reminds me of my loss- and how I should heal. It felt as if my brother

were crying alongside of me - holding me- and keeping me strong.



With all of the energy I could muster- I lunge the stone into the

ocean, letting the current take all the worries away... and to deal with

them as it must.



I step away from the sea- looking into her- and all her glory....

feeling the rain in my clothes.... and smiling..... a small bit of sun

peeks through the clouds- and for a moment I could see beyond them- into

what I had been searching for....



I walked in the rain.... feeling a sense of clarity about what I must

do... and how I must achieve it- and knowing that I will always have my

brother at my side to guide me.



His death brought out my life... and the lives of so many others... and

as much as it hurts to say- had it not been for his spirit finding his

path - I would still be sitting on mine, instead of walking it with

pride.


2002

inside

wanting to scream

loud

and cry

and fight

and want

and have



Outside

laughing

smiling

loving

being



I see what I want

I see what I need

I can hold it in my mind

and it's screaming to me

I can see it

almost touch it

but stop


desperately looking

for that place

peace

of mind

of soul

looking

searching

yearning

hoping



missing

something

feeling it inside

outside

always



solitude

from the chaos

the suspect

the bullshit



in myself

in the room

in the mind

in my life



almost touching

what I need

for inner sanctity

the essence

of my being

yet afraid to embrace

what it really means



chaos

dysfunction

eruption

without it



days

weeks

months

each day a step to it

each hour a thought of it

each minute a way to get it



too many thoughts

close the mind

to the voices

to the funk

to the dreams



reality

sets in

and

reality

bites



2005
Life is full of would ofs and could ofs and should ofs, that is where people begin to regret, and really, think about what is going on in their lives, at least, one would hope. It’s full of things that distract us from the big picture, the larger things in life that really do matter. Instead of focusing on the tiny details that get lost in the mix. Unfortunately. it’s the tiny details , hundreds of them, thousands of them, times infinity that snowball, to make up what we call the big picture.

Hundreds of seconds of moments in time that we either run through aimlessly with no real direction, but just trying to move forward, as if somehow we will have another glorious moment- that *one* we are looking for…the pot at the end of the rainbow. And, in all reality, once that one moment is gone, there is no taking it back, there is no rewind button in this thing called life, and we can only hope that we have used most of our moments wisely, and with thought and sometimes deliberation, to form our paths, to lay the stones that will rest under our feet as we walk.

The art of free flow writing, to drop your pen onto a piece of stark white paper , allowing it so glide across, forming letters and words and sentences, and maybe it’s not even legible, but, if you stare at it long enough, you begin to see the dance that ensued. The dance between your mind and your hand, the pen and the paper. It’s hardly a dance I’d be willing to abandon, not even if my fingers do seem to guide themselves as they tap around the keyboard. Sometimes my words come fast, and furious, those are the times I wish for an old fashioned typewriter, so that the rhythmic tones of the keys penetrate the air…other times, I am stuck looking at a blank screen, with nothing to say. You can’t doodle with a keyboard, and sometimes starting the process is much like cranking up an old engine using the action of the pen, the turning of the gears, to get it started.

I miss writing. I miss poetry and prose and real life meanderings on the paper. I hope to regain that again, but… without the chaos in my mind.


I am 38 years old this year. I have lived a full life. One of hope, joy and happiness. I have also lived lives that only one can dream of- of fury and rage and hopelessness. I am a survivor of many things, and first being the demons in my mind. I am creating happy art these days, full of hope and faith and love.

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Mental Health Awareness Week ~ I am Bipolar, by Anonymous

Posted by Unknown Minggu, 13 Oktober 2013 0 komentar
As part of mental health awareness week, I am sharing the stories of those who want others to understand what their lives are like, who want to feel like someone understands them, who don't want others to feel alone. 

Today, I share the story sent to me anonymously about what it is like living with Bipolar Disorder. With love and respect, her story.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My whole life I felt like I never fit in, I always felt like I was different somehow; my appearance, my personality, my outlook on life. From as far back as I can remember I have hated myself. Different reasons, some larger than others, some due to over-thinking, most due to negative self talk. 

I hate my body more than anything, physically, mentally, and emotionally. I live in the past and I won't let myself be free from things that have happened, good or bad. Everyday is a struggle for me and everyday I have to remind myself that this life is worth living. That I have family who cares for me, and finally have a group of friends that know my dirty laundry and love and accept me. It should be enough, most days it is, some days I bury myself so far into a hole that I can't see ever getting out. I have a backup plan, just in case I can't do it anymore. It's pretty foolproof, I think, it has to be so that my family can get my life insurance policy. I know this is all pretty morbid, but it's how I think, like I said... I'm different.

I have a horrible memory and I don't remember any specific circumstances before middle school, just general feelings. I remember all this starting my 5th grade year, my mom would probably tell you differently but it was something that I wouldn't talk about. I remember being the fat kid in middle school, the nerd, the girl who was always trying to get attention from other people. I was in a pretty strict school and got into a lot of trouble for my clothing, attitude, homework, etc. 

Under my doctor's recommendation my parents pulled me out of that school to move to a new school opening up in the city. It would be a fresh start. Everyone was pulled from multiple schools so there weren't going to be a lot of cliques or drama to start with. I was thrilled, I couldn't wait. I have an older brother who is amazing and as much as I love him, I was in his shadow. He was the perfect teenager. To live up to that expectation was hard. I already lived in his shadow at the church we went to, I couldn't do it in the same school.

During my high school years, it looked like I had everything together on the outside. I was very involved in my church, had a group of friends that I was constantly with from youth group. I found my place in high school, was in extracurricular activities, hated school but had a 3.0+ gpa. I didn't get into trouble for any sort of drug, alcohol, or sex related things, I felt like I was a typical teenager. 

In comparison to my brother though, I wasn't. I was the hard child for my parents, the emotional teenage girl. On the inside, I was fighting a battle much larger than anyone would ever realize. I don't remember exactly when it started, or what started it outside of the carry over of negative self talk from middle school. I decided even more that I hated myself. Nothing could change my mind on this. I felt like I was a failure to my parents, my friends, myself. 

My freshmen year of high school I started to cut. But it wasn't the "traditional" cutting scenario. I couldn't let anyone see what I was doing, and I was too paranoid to be always covering my arms, legs, etc. I would find sharp enough objects and use those instead of a sharp blade. Most times it was a needle, pushpin, or safety pin. That pain wouldn't be enough though so I would apply something alcohol based to make it sting such as hand sanitizer, perfume, something like that. I would always cut horizontally on my wrist so that I could hide it with a hair tie, and if I fell deep enough into a hole and wasn't in a position that I could cut, I would snap the ponytail. Throughout high school I was always trying to get attention from anyone who would give it to me (within reason) mostly boys that were within a couple years of my age. I always had a boyfriend or a boy I was interested in, always.

After high school and a year of college I got married to the guy I was with my Senior year of high school. It was fantastic. We were so in love, everything was perfect. Until I learned I wasn't as happy as I used to be. The honeymoon period was over and I wanted it back. I had an affair in order to get that feeling back. My husband and I survived this and he forgave me for it, but my mother begged me to go see a psychiatrist. I agreed to go, I knew something wasn't right with me. 

After one or two sessions he diagnosed me with Bipolar 2 and hypersexuality. It was a relief to get a diagnosis, but it wasn't enough. I was still going through my depression and my mania and I was still very much struggling despite being on medication. I didn't tell anyone though, not when most of it deals with hypersexuality. I went up into my mania and started flirting around with another guy, it didn't go far, but it went far enough for being a married woman. This time my husband and I separated when he found out. I temporarily moved out of the house, it was only going to be until we both had time to think things over. We continued to see each other at church and other things. We would still talk every day and every night. This isn't what either of us wanted, but I couldn't keep hurting him. One night after church, we ended up having sex in our car in a parking lot. It was thrilling and fun and we were doing the unmentionable in a spot where we could get caught - my hypersexual side loved it. We continued to "sneak around" until we decided to stay together. All of that was within weeks, not months.

A couple weeks after that, tragedy struck our lives. We were tested stronger than we had ever been tested before. We both learned a lot through it. Tragedy really can bring two people back together.

It has been a few years since then. We are still married to this day, we are happy as a couple. I am on medication that keeps the depression from completely burying me, the hypomania isn't really touched by it. I still struggle everyday with my battles and having to use self control. I still want attention from other people. I still have to everyday fight for my life and decide that it's worth it. I am almost always depressed. I have an incredible mask that most are not able to see through, thankfully. 

On the outside, I actually appear normal I've been told, people are surprised when they find out I am Bipolar. I am one of the most self-aware people I know, and have also been told this by my friends. I have to be. My survival is dependent on me knowing my triggers and how things will affect me. I no longer cut, I got a tattoo based off "To Write Love On Her Arms" to remind myself that I can't do it again. It was the last time I allowed myself to feel that much pain and hurt in the same place I cut myself. It was my final cut. I don't fear death in the least bit, to the point it's actually worrisome. I know people will move on, I don't mean that much, I am not worth that much. Sometimes the only thing that has kept me from attempting to take my life is the look that I see on my mom and dad's face. I can't do it to them.

This life isn't fair, it's not what I would wish upon anyone. Bipolar isn't a death sentence for me, but it does make my life a living hell. What I wouldn't give to think like a "normal" person. To not have such strong feelings and demons fighting me .all.the.fucking.time. I am jealous of those people who have never had to deal with a mental illness. But, there's nothing I can do except to be open and honest with my closest friends and family about how I am doing. I can't wish away this disease. 

At this point I pray everyday that my children don't get it. Science still doesn't know exactly what causes Bipolar, if it's genetic, etc. I don't know how I'll survive watching my children go through what I've had to. One of my closest friends say that if it does happen, that I'll get through that like I have gotten through my own personal battles. One foot in front of the other and try to lead them the best I can. That's all anyone can ask of me, including myself, just do my best and try harder everyday to overcome.

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Mental Health Awareness Week ~ All I can do is wait, by Anonymous

Posted by Unknown Jumat, 11 Oktober 2013 0 komentar
There are signs of her everywhere. All over the house. In her room. A favorite song we used to sing together on the radio. It feels so empty to not have her here with us. It feels empty inside my soul. Where and who is she you ask? She is my 13 year old daughter and she is sitting in a psychiatric hospital as I type this. This is her third admission in the past six months.

My first hint that something was not completely right about her was when she was about six. She would ride in her car seat while I was driving and think nothing of hitting me in the head with the nearest toy if she was upset. Or the times in the drug store when she would punch me in the back of the head for saying no to buying a new toy. I never got her evaluated back then because at the time I was making a lot of bad choices. I was a single mother who was trying my best to make it, yet I carried so much guilt with me about her not having a father. I thought for sure that her behaviors against me were direct results from me being a bad mom. Why was I a bad mom?

In all actuality looking back, I was actually a pretty darn GOOD mother. I always put my children first and made sure their needs were met before mine. ALWAYS. But, you see, I also suffered from pretty bad depression, and the guilty thoughts that I put in my own head just made me feel worse. Instead of getting us help, I would over compensate and try to be more of a friend than a mom. I look back at that now and you will never guess how I feel about that time period too.. Guilty! It is a vicious cycle that I am STILL working on breaking free of.

In 2011, I married my youngest son’s father. We all finally had a “real family unit”! She finally had a father figure that she could call “Dad”! My husband absolutely adores her and has basically adopted her as his own. Her real father has not seen her since she was about 9 months old. I think deep down in my heart I believed that this would heal a lot of her wounds about growing up without a father. And I believe that a lot of those wounds WERE beginning to be healed. But, as they were healing I was beginning to realize the problems were much more deep rooted than I ever could have imagined.

In 2012, I noticed her depression for the first time. She had all of the clinical signs that I knew all too well from my own battle; isolating herself, not doing things she used to love to do, barely talking to anyone, angry outbursts, and negative self-talk. So, I called our local mental health agency and got her wrap around therapy right away. 

It did no good. For nine months, this therapist would come over to our home and I would wait… Wait for her to begin to engage with the therapist.. Wait for her to begin to accept the help that I could see she so desperately needed.. Wait for her to wake up and stop being so angry at all of us. That day finally came! Or so I thought.. She was notably happier around the house. She was getting better grades, and she even joined the school softball team! I was getting my radiant girl back!

Then one day my whole world came crashing down.. In one single day, my breath was taken right out of my lungs and my heart was shattered in a million pieces. You see, I found them. I found the cuts. All. Over. Her. Body. How could I have been so stupid? Naive? Guilt came pouring back into my soul like a flood. Why did I not notice she was spending so much time in the bathroom? Why didn’t I think it was odd that she was covered in sweatshirts and yoga pants on days when it was 85 degrees outside? Why did I believe her the one time a few weeks earlier when she told me that the cats had scratched her? My cats are DECLAWED for goodness sake.

I counted 60 large cuts. Yes, I was told to count them to keep track of any new ones. My baby girl was hurting herself. On purpose! To be able to feel her emotions and cope with life. How could this even be possible? She looked me in the eye and told me how sorry she was and that she really was ready for help. I drove her to the hospital and she agreed it was time for inpatient treatment. She worked hard that first admission and participated in all of the therapies. They adjusted her medicine and diagnosed her with bipolar disorder. Ten days later she was discharged, vowing to never do it again. I naively believed her. I had heard that cutting was addicting, but I thought that I had caught it in time. So, we would be good to go from there on out. We had a new therapist coming to the house, one that I had hoped would mesh better with my daughter.

Then it happened again. She was burning herself this time. It was exactly one month from her discharge date and my daughter told me that she wanted to die. She was being bullied at school and wanted to die. So, back we went.. She was admitted for another fourteen days and again was a picture perfect patient. She participated in groups, was honest about the bullying so that the school could take action, and by the time she was discharged school was out for the summer. I assumed that we could have a great summer of doing fun stuff together as a family and she would really be okay this time. She would be okay by the time school started again if I just tried hard enough!

The summer came and went, nothing too eventful happened. It was nice and relaxing for the most part, aside from a few minor issues.

It was time for school before we knew it. I really believed in my heart that she was going to strut her new and improved self into eighth grade and not look back. But, the signs were coming back again.. At first she would go to the guidance office or the nurse for a few periods a day. Then, it got to the point where she could not even make it through a single period without getting up and leaving. I started the process of getting a psych eval at school so that she could have an IEP to receive emotional support services. I had multiple meetings with school staff to try to understand what exactly was happening at school and how I could help. We all were at a loss. There was no bullying happening, there was no real reason that she could not make it through classes except for her very own mind and social anxiety. It began to eat her alive and I could see it. But, there was nothing I could do to help her because she did not want to accept any help. I could not force her to want to get better.

Last week the violence came back. She was so out of control that we had to call the police. She tried to punch me in the face, but luckily I ducked. She threw a very hardwood chair at me and it left a nasty bruise on my leg where it hit. She also tried to throw herself down the stairs, but I caught her.

So, here I sit. Seeing and feeling her all over this house. Reminders of her are EVERYWHERE. I sit here and worry about her future. I sit here and beat myself up once again with that horrible guilt that loves to rear it’s ugly head. I sit here and replay all of the should haves, could haves, would haves of our life.

All I can do is wait once again. 


Wait for her to come home. Wait for her to allow me to love her. Wait for her to believe in herself and that her life is worth living. Wait for her to be whole again. And lastly, wait for my own self forgiveness.

Thank you for letting me share our story with you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Normally when I host a guest post, I write an introduction at the beginning, but this piece clearly did not need one. A fan reached out to me today after reading my post on postpartum depression and asked if I would be willing to share her story. 

This is what she sent me.

My heart breaks for her, for her little girl, for them all. 

All she can do is wait. 

Anyone who has been on this side of mental illness learns this truth eventually. We are powerless to help those who refuse it. 

I hope with everything I have that her daughter can get the help she needs. 

Find your way home if you can, sweetheart. Your mama loves you.

Love and light. xoxo

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