Suicide Without Dying

Suicide without dying.  It happens more often than you might think when someone is suffering from depression.

I have suffered from depression my entire life.  I was born with it.  Due to a genetic mutation, my liver was never able to metabolize a usable amount of a simple substance my brain needed to function properly.  The chemical my body could not metabolize is needed for the manufacture and transportation of neurotransmitters such as serotonin, dopamine, and norepinephrine. Because my body could not make the substance my brain needed, my own body struggled to make the neurotransmitters it required and the paltry amount my body was able to make had no way to get where they were needed.  Even antidepressants did not work because my brain lacked the substance required to transport them where they were needed.

The discovery of my genetic mutation is fairly recent.  For most of my life, I struggled with a depression that appeared untreatable without ever knowing why.  Over the years, I have seen multiple doctors for the treatment of my depression.  I have rotated through a myriad of combinations and dosages of antidepressants and anti-anxiety medications.  Nothing worked.  I was labelled treatment resistant.

I have never experienced a single day without depression looming over me.

Nothing any of my doctors did seemed to help.  They would increase dosages until the side effects were unbearable or until I was a nonfunctional zombie.  Then the process would begin anew with different doctors, different medications, different combinations, different dosages.  It was a living nightmare.

No one around me understood.  They were all confused by the fact that I had been in treatment for years and had taken all types of medications without any results.  Their questions were hounding and relentless.  How was I not better yet?  Was I even trying to get better?  Was it really THAT bad that I was struggling to function and needed help?  Was I even being honest about how I felt or was I exaggerating or faking it?  What did I even have to be depressed about anyway?  So many people in my life who I tried to turn to for assistance were unsupportive and quickly became tired of dealing with my depression.  The nightmare just kept going and going.

Life felt unbearable.  Nothing my doctors did helped.  I had very little support system or assistance.  Every single day, it felt like I was not only fighting against myself and my own brain, but the rest of the world as well.

I couldn’t keep living like I was.

So I gave up.

I didn’t kill myself.  Instead of ending my life, I just stopped living it.

I stopped going to see doctors because nothing they did helped anyway.  I stopped turning in or following up on paperwork for assistance for my depression because it all felt futile.

I was too tired to fight anymore so I just gave up.  I began shutting down and isolating myself.  I put off responding whenever anyone reached out, tossing out apologies for not seeing their messages sooner and making endless excuses to friends about being busy or being sick.  I kept everyone away so they could not see how bad things had become.  Avoidance was easier than explanations.

I stopped talking about how I was doing and feeling because there was nothing anyone could do to change things anyway.  I’d mutter something about being fine then clam back up or changed the subject.  In truth, I was the farthest from fine a person could get.  I had given up.  I didn’t have the energy to explain how I felt or to defend myself from their judgments.  I didn’t want to burden anyone.  I didn’t think anyone would want to be there anyway if they knew how much of a mess I had become.

As I spiraled farther down into the dark abyss of depression, I began avoiding things that used to spark even the slightest happiness.  Why bother partaking in anything that used to give me joy when my numbness would only serve as a painful reminder of how bad things have become?  I cleaned up less often around the house, hiding dirty dishes, clothes and clutter if anyone was coming by.  I put off even basic self-care, showering once or twice a week instead of daily and keeping my hair pulled back so I wouldn’t have to tend to it.  I’d stay in pajamas for days because it wasn’t like I had anywhere to go, anything to do or anyone to see.  After all, my friends all thought I was sick or busy and going to my doctors was a waste of time.

I spent whole days laying in bed crying.  Even more days, I sat or laid around feeling completely numb, bingewatching shows I barely paid attention to or remember, puttering around the house doing nothing in particular and just napping on and off, letting the days pass me by.  I often didn’t bother eating because it felt like too much effort to even move.  I would ignore the growls of my stomach for hours much like the cramps in my bladder until the pain became too much to bear.  What I did eat was usually chosen for ease and convenience not desire.

Days and weeks blended together in nothingness.

I tried to put on a brave face, a smiling face for my children on the portion of the week they were with me, but it was just going through the motions.  Instead of fun outings, we had more and more family movie nights at home.  Instead of the bigger meals I used to make, I would throw together quick and easy cheater meals.  I made endless excuses to them for the funk I was in.  I was tired.  I just wasn’t feeling well.  But I was fine.  But I wasn’t fine.  I had given up.  As much as I tried to shield them from it, looking back, I have no doubt that on some level they knew.  That my depression had such an impact on their childhood will always be one of my biggest regrets.

I have gone through this cycle where I have pulled away from everyone, isolated myself and stopped living numerous times over the years.  It always seemed to happen the same way.  Treatment wasn’t working, getting assistance began feeling impossible, nothing felt like it was ever going to get better and no one else seemed to understand or truly care.  I felt completely broken and all alone in the world.  It was not a world I wanted to live in so I just gave up and stopped living altogether.

Finding out about my genetic mutation and its role in my depression has changed my perspective on many things and has sparked a new journey in self-reflection and self-improvement.  It has also forced me to accept many hard truths.  Perhaps one of the biggest is the fact that every time I gave up, every time I pulled away and isolated myself, every time I stopped living my life, I was committing suicide without dying.

Yes, I was still technically alive but I was barely doing anything more than existing, going through the bare minimum of motions to get from one day to the next.  I had stopped living my life, stopped finding reasons to enjoy life, stopped taking care of myself and shut myself off from the rest of the world.  I may have been breathing and had a pulse, but I was not living.  I had given up just as surely as if I had taken my own life.

I was also putting those I cared about in the position of having to mourn me again and again, to deal with the loss of who I used to be and the bonds we used to have.  I was removing myself from their lives, forcing them to face that loss again and again.  Every time I would resurface and reenter their lives, I considered it a victory that I had climbed back out of that hole, never stopping to consider how much they must have struggled to reconcile with the endless roller coaster I had put them on, being slingshot repeatedly between mourning my loss and having me back to varying degrees.

I know there are some who will question my comparison of severe depression to suicide without dying.  There will be others who will angrily declare they are nothing at all alike, swearing that they know because they have lost loved ones to suicide and I am still here, still breathing, that it is not at all the same.  Please know that I am in no way diminishing the tremendous loss that comes with suicide.  I have been on both sides of that fence, having been both suicidal myself and having lost people I loved to suicide so I would never trivialize it in any way.

People ask so many questions after someone commits suicide.  Why would they do this?  How did this even happen?  How did their life get so bad that they felt giving up was the only option?

As someone who has struggled with suicide myself, I can tell you – it all starts with giving up.  It starts with that feeling that you just can’t go on anymore like you are, that everything is hopeless and that nothing is ever going to change.  It starts with that feeling that you just don’t want to live anymore so you don’t.  You pull away from everyone, you stop taking care of yourself or seeking out help or treatment, you turn your back on anything that used to bring you joy.  You sink so deeply into depression that you just don’t see the point of doing anything anymore.  From that low point, it isn’t a far leap to physically ending your life because you have already stopped living it anyway.  After you’ve already mentally and emotionally committed suicide, you can rationalize physically letting go, as well, because you believe you have nothing left to live for.

I can also tell you that it is a slippery slope.  At first, it’s easy to consider withdrawing and isolation as a kindness to others because you’re still around in some way.  But isolation often leads to thoughts of others being better off if you were completely gone, if perhaps you never existed at all.  While not everyone who pulls away due to depression is actively planning to physically kill themselves, that isolation makes it easier to rationalize taking that final step.  When someone has reached the point of wanting to give up and stop living, it’s not a far stretch to decide to stop breathing, too.

What starts as feelings of hopelessness and despair transitions easily into suicidal ideation, where you don’t want to die but you don’t want to keep living like this anymore either.  Many people suffering from depression experience suicidal ideation from time to time, sometimes frequently.  When thoughts of suicidal ideation turn to action or inaction, and someone stops living altogether, it is not a hard transition from not going through the motions of living anymore to deciding to stop living anymore altogether.

Even consciously knowing and acknowledging the cycle, I still find myself pulled down towards it again whenever my depression gets bad.  When things in my life aren’t going as planned or they begin to fall apart, everything starts to feel hopeless again and I struggle to pull myself up, keep myself going, to not give up.  It is a dangerous edge to walk on and one I fight daily to distance myself from.  I fight a constant battle to stay vigilant and self-aware, to catch myself whenever I start to spiral down and begin to withdraw from life.  Whenever someone is struggling with depression, it’s important to watch for those markers of isolation and giving up because once someone has decided life is no longer worth living, it becomes so much harder to justify continuing to live it at all.

If you see someone in your life start to withdraw, talk to them.  If you notice they are lessening their self-care or beginning to cut everything they enjoy out of their lives, talk to them.  Don’t buy into their excuses and allow them to isolate and pull away.  Be there.  Be persistent.  Listen even if you don’t have any resolutions to offer.  Listen just so they’re heard.  Chances are their feelings might feel uncomfortable or overwhelming to you at first, but know that they need to get them out.  Better out than in.  Encourage them to get help and stay positive but don’t judge them for their struggles to do so.  They need support and encouragement not judgment.  Be a consistent presence in their lives, a counter to the negativity trying to pull them down.  Just be there because them being alone and isolating themselves is the worst place they can be.

If you’re struggling to find reasons to keep going yourself, let those feelings out.  Don’t hold them in.  Talk about them even if they don’t make sense to you just to get them out.  Talk to someone whether it’s a friend, a doctor, a clergyman – anyone.  Just don’t sit home alone in the dark and let those feelings fester because they will only continue to grow and get worse over time if you never let them out.  Don’t push away people that care enough to ask whether you’re okay or lie to them that you’re fine if you’re not.  Don’t worry about scaring them with everything you are going through – if they truly care about you, they would rather deal with some discomfort and worry now than to lose you entirely down the line.  Don’t give up things that make you happy.  If anything, keep seeking out other things to make you smile, even if you have to force yourself to multiple times a day.  Surround yourself with positive things, good things, things that remind you that the world is not completely dark, ugly and hopeless.  Take care of yourself the best that you can.  Eat.  Go to the bathroom.  Shower.  Even if the only thing you manage to do today is take care of yourself, that is enough.

When someone commits suicide, it is permanent.  There is no bringing them back, no changing anything.  It is final.  When someone takes those first steps and decides to stop living, it is often a precursor to suicide.  We need to be more vigilant, with ourselves and with others, when we see those signs of withdrawal and isolation, when we see ourselves or someone else starting to give up and stop living their lives.  We still have the power to change things before they reach that point of no return, before that loss becomes permanent.  I have stopped living a few times before and am still alive to tell the tale.  It is possible to die inside, to give up on life, while still breathing.  It is also possible to come back and live again even after you’ve mentally and emotionally given up.  It is not an easy task but it can be done.

Please know that I understand how hard, lonely and hopeless life can feel.  I know how low depression can pull you.  I know all too well that feeling of not being able to take anything anymore, of just wanting all the pain, all the stress, all the struggling to stop.  I know how unbearable it can all feel.  I understand how someone can reach a point where giving up feels like the best option, the only option.

But it doesn’t have to be.  Please stay strong.  Choose to live.  Choose to keep going.  Even if you can’t do as much as you’d like or as much as you feel you should be able to do, do whatever you can do.  Just don’t give up.  Don’t give in.  Don’t stop living.  Don’t allow any part of yourself to die.

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“..Must Be Nice..”

Whenever my ex and I used to fight, one of his favorite go to mudslings was always that “it must be nice to..”, usually followed by something like “sit home and do nothing but wallow in your own misery” or “sit on your ass feeling sorry for yourself while others actually work for a living” or a hundred other potshots that minimized my struggles with mental illness.

Sadly, it’s not an uncommon sentiment when it comes to mental illness.

“Boo hoo.  You’re sad?  Lots of people have problems. Guess what? Everyone does.  You know what everyone else does when they have problems? They get off their ass, deal with them and keep going.”

“You think you have it bad? What do you even have to be depressed about?  Plenty of people have it worse than you do.  You need to stop making excuses and get your shit together.”

“Everyone has shit they’re dealing with.  What makes your problems and your feelings so special that you should get to sit home while everyone else has to bust their ass?”

I have heard those words, and many other sentiments like them, for years.

I have struggled with mental illness, more specifically depression, anxiety and ptsd,  my entire life.  A good portion of my diagnosis is based upon a genetic mutation which has, in essence, been starving my brain for the chemicals it needs to moderate my moods.  I cannot remember a time when I didn’t struggle, didn’t suffer from severe bouts of anxiety and depression.  My mental illness does not come and go.  It is a battle every single day.

I fought for years to be semi-functional, collapsing again and again into mental breakdowns as the compounding stress of trying to keep myself together proved time and again to be too much to bear.  I became a pro at wearing a smiling mask so that everyone else wouldn’t worry even though I felt like I was dying inside.

“..Must be nice..”

I can tell you, without a doubt, that no it is not.  I would not wish this on anyone.

I spend my life smiling through the tears, lying to everyone I love that I’m okay because I don’t want anyone to worry because I know there’s nothing they could do even if they wanted to.  I’ve learned it’s just easier to pretend I’m okay than try to explain things I know they could never understand.

I spend my life going through cycles of numbness where I feel immobilized, incapable of functioning at all, and downward spirals where my own brain urges me to destroy myself, to tear myself apart, because it says I am useless, worthless, a good-for-nothing waste of space.

I spend my life struggling to find joy in anything.  Food often tastes bland, music nothing more than background noise.  Things that make others smile and laugh are often met with apathy because I am so mentally and emotionally drained just from existing that the pleasure centers in my brain often don’t even respond to happy stimuli.  I am not being a Debbie Downer – I honestly often am so numb I feel nothing at all.

I spend my life fighting with myself, with my own brain, because when even the slightest thing goes wrong, I blame myself and my brain begins another tirade about how worthless I am, how I am a burden to everyone in my life and the world would be better without me in it.  No matter how many times I’ve told myself that it’s all lies, that voice never shuts up, never goes away.  It began as other people’s voices but over the years, it has become my own.

I spend my life teetering on the edge of not wanting to die but not exactly wanting to keep living like this, either.  Everything feels too hard, too much, too overwhelming, too agonizing.  All I want most days is just for the pain, the pressure, to just stop long enough for me to catch my breath.  I often curl up in a ball and cry because I just can’t take anymore.  Through my tears, I beg “no more”.

I spend my life worrying constantly about everything that has gone wrong and every scenario in the future that might go wrong because they all feel not only plausible and possible but probable.  My mind is always racing, always thinking, always calculating, always warning me of everything bad that could ever happen.  It never shuts off, never shuts up, going on and on for hours.  It’s the reason I have so much trouble sleeping.

I spend my life taking everything personally because I honestly believe it all must somehow be my fault.  Somewhere deep in my subconscious, I believe I am fundamentally broken so I always seek out my blame in everything, even when my common sense reassures me that I am blameless.  I apologize constantly, even when I’m unsure what I may have done wrong, or if I know it was something I had no control over, because there always has to be something or someone to blame and it might as well be me.

I spend my life in fear of every dark corner, every raised voice or hand, because my past has shown me that nothing is safe so I wander through life like a deer caught in the headlights, jumping at every little thing and withdrawing at the first sign of danger, real or imaginary.  I’m obsessive about many things like locking doors and keeping my shower curtain slightly open because I never feel safe, not even in my own home where nothing bad has ever happened.

I spend my life struggling to love myself enough to do basic things like eating and showering because there’s a constant booming voice in my head that asks “why bother?” and tells me I’m not even worth the effort.  Though I would bend over backwards for others or give them the shirt off my back if they needed it, I have trouble some days even justifying “wasting food on myself” because someone else might enjoy it more.

I spend my life feeling alone no matter how many other people are around.  My illness isolates me, convincing me that no one else could possibly understand, nor would they even truly care.  I feel like a constant burden, a bother, that it would be better for everyone if I just stayed away.  Even in a room full of people, I feel alone in all the world.

I spend my life afraid to open up to anyone I care about about all I am going through because I do not want to scare them away.  I do not want them to see me as too broken or too damaged, not worthy of their time or their love.  Whenever any of my mental illness surfaces around others, I am sure it will be the straw that broke the camel’s back, the reason that they, too, go away.  The worst part is that I wouldn’t blame them if they did.

I spend my life going through cycles of physical ailments like severe chest pains and throwing up blood because my mental illness keeps presenting itself in physical ways.  I’m not honestly sure whether I might have other digestive or heart issues because they’ve been so often linked to my anxiety in the past that I don’t even bring them up to the doctor anymore.

I spend every single day of my life in a constant battle with my own mind, a battle nobody else can even see that I am fighting.

..and I can thoroughly assure you, it is NOT nice at all.

There is a reason my doctors have listed me as disabled.  There is a reason they say I cannot work.  They are among a very few people who I have been completely honest with about my struggles because I opened up to them knowing that they were trained to deal with cases such as mine.  Admittedly, though, there have been times I have minimized some of my struggles even with them because seeing their eyes water at my pain is heart-wrenching for me.

No, I do not have a physical disability that you can see.  I am not in a wheelchair nor am I hooked up to machinery to keep me alive.  No, I am not wearing a cast, a brace nor have lost my hair to chemo.  I have no physical signs to point to that would illustrate my disability for those around me.  But that doesn’t mean that I am not disabled.  It doesn’t mean that I am not suffering, not struggling, not in need of help.

I am not being lazy nor am I sitting home taking it easy.  I wish I didn’t have a mental illness.  I wish I could do more, contribute more.  I wish I could even take better care of myself.  I wish a lot of things.  But I would not wish this diagnosis or this struggle on anyone.  I am trying my best to take care of myself, trying to keep living, trying to make it to each new day.  I am fighting to survive, whether anyone else can see it or not.

I am not looking for anyone to feel sorry for me because of my diagnosis.  It is what it is.  Pity won’t take away mental illness any more than it will cure cancer.  All I truly hope for is compassion and understanding.  Acknowledgment that, even though you might not be able to see it, it still exists and deserves treatment just as much as a physical ailment would.

..and please don’t say “it must be nice..” that I am at home dealing with my mental illness because I can assure you, it isn’t nice at all.

Living on the Corner of Functionality and Falling Apart

For years, I was a barely functioning depressive.  I struggled to at least appear like I had myself together, living panic attack to panic attack behind the scenes.  When my facade of togetherness would begin to crack and show wear, I would pull away and isolate as I slapped on layers of concrete to hide all my breaking points.  I lived in a land of make believe, pretending I was okay while I fought against my own mind to keep functioning.

Over time, however, as is usually the case with anyone residing on that precarious perch of functional depression, the cracks continued to grow and expand.  What I once was able to find ways to get through with a manageable amount of struggle began to feel more like insurmountable obstacles.  Bit by bit, it became harder and harder to continue to function.

It is not that I wasn’t trying as hard anymore.  If anything, I was trying harder and harder to hold things together.  The weight of each added stress, each added emotional pain just kept building up over time.  You often hear people describe the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.  I never had a camel.  I carried my mental illness on my own shoulders and eventually found myself broken under the weight of my own problems.

One of the hardest things I ever had to do was admit that I needed help, that I could no longer manage to do many things on my own.  Even harder still was trying to explain to others why I was no longer capable of working through things like I had somehow managed to do for years.  Many people seem to believe that once you have done something, you’ve set a precedent and you should then always be able to complete that task again.

It is easy for people to accept that, over time, a person’s body cannot physically do as much as it once did.  On average, a physically fit person in their forties cannot lift as much as they could in peak fit condition in their twenties.  They cannot run as fast or as long and they tire much faster.  It just makes sense.  Bodies get older and wear down over time.  Aging takes a toll.

The same is widely accepted with other physical attributes.  A person’s metabolism slows over time so it becomes harder to maintain a healthy weight when eating the same diet.  Eyesight and hearing are both dulled over age and often need extra aids in order to perform as well as they did in our youth.  Added stresses on our bodies build up over time, compounded with age-related issues such as arthritis.  These are all accepted facts.  Bodies physically wear down over the years.

Yet very few people seem to grasp that mental and emotional health might decline over time, as well.  Many people assume that a mental illness is a temporary thing that will fade away over time as people just “learn to cope better” and “try a little harder to get over it and be happy”.  If I had a nickel for every time someone looked at me, befuddled and bewildered by the fact that I can no longer function even as well as I did five or ten years ago and that my mental health has instead deteriorated in many aspects, I’d be able to take a very nice extended vacation somewhere sunny and warm.

I have days where my depression leaves me in a thick mental fog, struggling to remember basic facts and information that I know is in my head somewhere.  I have days where my anxiety has reached such heights that I cannot reasonably verbalize simple or complex thoughts or information, stumbling over my words like a child learning to speak a foreign language.  I have days where my PTSD has flared up, all my senses become heightened and everything around me feels unsafe and dangerous.  There are days I cannot stop crying and days I feel like more of a mess than anyone deserves to be saddled with.  There are days when life itself weighs down so heavily on me that I pull away from the world and isolate, all the while assuring everyone that I’m fine, that they don’t have to worry, because I just don’t have the words, or the energy to adequately explain everything I am feeling.  My mind and my emotions are often all over the place.

The worst part of those feelings and many others I experience due to my mental illness, though, is that I cannot plan for any of them.  I could wake up one day numb, feeling nothing at all, or wake up completely frazzled as one or more conflicting emotions battle themselves out inside my head.  There’s no knowing, either, whether any state of mind will last an hour or a day or a week, whether it will exist on its own or build upon other emotions already wreaking havoc.  Every single one of those feelings has increased both in potency and frequency as I have gotten older. Every day feels like a game of Russian Roulette in my brain where the game is fixed and, no matter what the outcome is, I know I am going to lose.

Over the past year or so, I have begrudgingly accepted that I’m struggling more than I used to and that I need extra help, that I sometimes need others to intervene on my behalf and to work with me to get the care I need.  I’ve begun building a safety network, a support system of people who can advocate with me, for me and speak on my behalf if I find myself struggling too badly to adequately do it on my own.

I had a home visit recently to go over some paperwork.  Instead of being proud of myself for holding myself somewhat together that day, though, I found myself stressing that I might have seemed too together.  You see – that day was a good day for the most part.  I was able to think of important and relevant questions to ask, I was able to constructively contribute to the meeting and didn’t collapse into tears over all the stress hanging over my head.  I really should have been proud of myself.  Yet, after they left, all I could do was worry that I might have appeared more together than I actually am on a regular basis, leaving them to determine I no longer need the assistance I have had to fight so hard to receive.

I panic and I worry about having even a somewhat functional and manageable day because society automatically puts people with mental illness on the defensive.  It isn’t enough to say that you simply cannot manage to function on a reliable schedule anymore or function on some days in particular at all.  You’re always put on the spot.  Why can’t you do it?  Why some days but not others? Are you even trying?  What do you even have to be depressed about? That’s especially true if you used to be able to function better in the past or if your level of functionality varies day by day.  Physically, the body can deteriorate and nobody questions it but mentally, it apparently is a different story.  And heaven forbid you have a good day where you’re able to contribute more than expected.  If you’re semi-functional today, people will demand to know why you might not be able to function as well, or even at all, tomorrow.  Your diagnosis is often irrelevant, not even taken into consideration.  If you’re able to do something today, you must always be able to do it.

I live on the corner of being able to somewhat function and falling completely apart.  Sometimes I go slightly down one direction before boomeranging back to my corner again.  I have good days and bad days.  I have days that I might genuinely smile and laugh when, even though my depression is present, I still feel like I am running the show.  I have moderate days where I’m still able to pretend I’m okay and do enough for myself that others don’t readily worry.  And I have days where I desperately need help if I have any hope of getting anything constructive done, otherwise I would just sit there in an agonizing numbness, staring blankly into the abyss.  But to be fair, I’ve seen people who struggle with painful afflictions such as arthritis that have good days where they are able to get out, go for a walk and run errands, powering through the pain, and other days where it is difficult to even pull themselves out of bed.  The difference is that mental illness presents itself in the mind instead of the body and is not as easily seen.

Over time as I get older, my completely functional days are becoming less frequent.  I find myself struggling more and more as my mental illness compounds upon itself.  I honestly need to give myself a break on my functional days and learn to count them as blessings instead of worrying what others might think or how they might judge me.  Being able to function again, albeit for a short unexpected period here and there, should always be celebrated as a good thing.  After all, I’m right on that corner and could go either way.

I’m Sorry But It Doesn’t Work That Way…

Not too long ago, someone who used to mean a lot to me tried unsuccessfully to re-enter my life.  Though they wholly admitted to treating me horribly for the last year or so that they were previously in my life, they then tried to minimalize the pain they had caused, claiming that all the good they had done for years before that should outweigh the bad of that last year.

We talked briefly for that one night that they dropped that bombshell.  I was beside myself with shock and honestly wasn’t sure even what to say to that sentiment.  I knew, however, that they had become a toxic presence in my life so I chose to pull away completely, blocking them and ceasing all contact.  I had begun my journey towards a healthier and happier life and refused to let them derail me.  What they said, though, took up residence in my head, a little kernel bouncing around, waiting to pop and expand into something more.

As is often the case, that kernel got pushed aside to a back burner.  Life happened.  Family happened.  Love happened.  Holidays happened.  But I knew that eventually, no matter how much was happening around me, that kernel would reappear.  And just as expected, late this evening, it finally did, fully formed and realized.

As I sat there considering it all, that one line from that commercial with the old lady posting pictures onto the wall in her living room came to mind.

“That’s not how this works! That’s not how any of this works!”

There was just no way that a prior decade of good times and happy memories could erase, overwrite or minimize that one final year of cruelty.

That is not to say that I was not grateful for all the good times that I shared with this person or that I didn’t value all the times they were there for me when I had no one else to lean on.  I will always cherish all those memories and will truly appreciate all that they gave of themselves over the years.

That is not to say, also, that relationships aren’t comprised of ups and downs, highs and lows, good and bad.  People don’t always get along.  Conflicts happen.  People disagree and argue.  When someone truly matters, you try to take the good with the bad, for better or worse.  There is a fair amount of forgive and forget in friendships and relationships.  It all comes with the territory.

However..

There are some actions that rise above and beyond the normal wear and tear of relationships, actions that exist outside the realm of random daily disagreements and headbutting. When someone, in an essence, declares war on another person’s heart, emotions and trust, disregarding their feelings and intentionally going out of their way to repeatedly, without qualms or remorse, lash out and hurt someone else, it is no longer a matter of forgive and forget, for better or worse.

All the good does not negate or erase the bad in those cases.  When he made it his mission to hurt me repeatedly over the course of that last year, it forever changed things between us.  There is never an excuse for intentionally lashing out, trying to damage and break someone that you supposedly love.  All the good he may have done previously does not take away all the heartache in those final months.  All the prior good does not excuse all the times I was ignored and mistreated, all the cruel words and actions hurled my way, and all the times I was ghosted and discarded at the end.

Though with his words he swore I meant the world to him for years, his actions over the last year spoke volumes in the opposite direction.  No matter how good he used to be to me and how sweetly he used to spin his words, none of it can erase the fact that he treated me like garbage for that last year.

That’s not how it works.

If a person lays their hands on another person, they cannot then say “what about all the years before I beat you?  Don’t they count for anything?”

If a person cheats on another person, they cannot then say “what about all the years I didn’t sleep around?  Why aren’t you taking them into consideration?”

If a person tears you down again and again, discards you repeatedly and treats you like you’re worthless, they cannot then say “what about all those years before I showed you what you truly meant to me, before I treated you like you were nothing? Shouldn’t that balance everything out?”

If someone who claims to love you is repeatedly and systematically cruel and uncaring towards you, it does not matter whether or not they used to be sweet and loving once upon a time.  A broken heart is still a broken heart just as much as a broken bone is still a broken bone and a split lip is still a split lip.  Once you abuse that trust and break my heart, I cannot push it aside and pretend it did not happen.  Though it does not erase all the good, it changes things irreparably.

A decade of kindness and love, no matter how wonderful, cannot erase that final year of heartache and heartbreak.

Many people preach forgiveness.  I’m sure that will come in time.  I can honestly say I do not hate him, nor do I wish him any ill will.  But all the trust is gone.  I cannot have him in my life to any extent.  Walls are up.  The place he used to have in my heart has been boarded up and is closed for good.  I’ve reached the point of no return.  There is no going back to how things used to be.

Broken trust and a shattered heart, much like a fractured bone, is not easily mended.  And even when everything does eventually fuse back together, that damage beneath never disappears.  It is always there, just under the surface, forever evidence to the damage that was done.

Perhaps if the order had been reversed, things might have been different.  If the years of kindness had followed after the year of cruelty as a sincere attempt to make amends for prior bad acts, it probably would have counted for more.  That way, at least, there would be an act of contrition and penance for being unnecessarily cruel.  But to expect to be given a free pass for a year of wanton and reckless heartbreak on the basis that you used to be better to me is beyond ludicrous and unreasonable.

Actions speak louder than words and his actions over that final year he was a part of my life spoke volumes about just how low I ranked in his life and heart.  Having an “Oops my bad” moment of admission, especially without any real action of remorse to back it up right after the fact, could not even come close to touching or resolving any of the pain he caused over the last couple years.

Don’t get me wrong.  I am grateful for all those years of friendship and love that were given.  I’ll always cherish the times that he was there for me.  It just doesn’t erase or negate any of the hurt of that final year.  It doesn’t work that way, at least not for me.

Christmas – Not Always the Most Wonderful Time of the Year When You Suffer from Depression

Most people assume that the holiday season is the happiest time of the year for me.  My tree is always up and my house decorated by the day after Thanksgiving, sometimes even a week or two before.  From Thanksgiving straight through to New Year’s Day, there’s often Christmas carols or movies playing in the background in my home.  Every year, I can be found building snowmen and making snow angels out in the cold.  I’m quick to point out all the holiday displays we pass and to like all the festive pictures friends post and share online.  I always try to put a lot of thought into meaningful gifts for loved ones and dedicate half a week every year into making scores of cookies, fudge, caramels and popcorn balls to share with family and friends.

I would be lying, though, if I said I was happiest during the holidays.  Please don’t get me wrong.  I’m not secretly a Grinch or Scrooge in disguise who hates the whole Christmas season.  I don’t go around Bah Humbugging the festive cheer of others.  In truth, it is the favorite part of my year.  This season is just also very hard for me.

I struggle with depression.  It is not that I’m being an eternal Debbie Downer, trying to ruin everyone’s holiday and rain on their parade.  It’s not that I’m just not trying hard enough to be positive or look on the bright side of things.  It is a medical diagnosis.  I often have no control over my moods.  Despite whatever wonderful things might be happening around me, my mind often betrays me, pulling me down into that dark abyss of hopelessness and despair.

There is a lot of pressure for everyone to always be happy around Christmas.  Most people seem to expect others to be jolly throughout the holidays and to take part in all the seasonal fun.  My depression often gets in the way of that.  Many days, it is a constant struggle to not break down and cry or go in the other room, crawl back into bed and isolate.  Even on regular days, I carry within myself that ever-present fear that my diagnosis will ruin other people’s days.  That fear is doubled, if not tripled, around the holidays.  The last thing I ever want to do is ruin anyone else’s Christmas with my depression.

So I decorate early to prepare myself for the upcoming festivities and to try to get myself into a Christmassy mood.  I fill the air with the sounds of carols and the scents of the season.  I watch hours of Christmas movies while sitting under the glow of lights on the tree.  I try to continuously remind myself of all the reasons to be joyful during the holiday season and to refill my cup of Christmas cheer to overflowing.  I do my best to distract myself as much as humanly possible from the depression dragging me down inside.  I want everyone around me to continue enjoying the overabundance of festivity, even if I am unable to feel the warmth of Christmas spirit at the current moment.

Over the years, some people have teased me that I do far too much and try way too hard,  that everything I do around Christmas is excessive and over the top.  That is in many ways the truth but it is also how I manage to survive through to the New Year.  I am extra festive because that is how I cope with the holidays.  I surround myself with as much happiness and festivity as I can, hoping some of it might sink into my subconscious and that it might ward off my depression just a little bit more.  My depression constantly surrounds me with so much negativity that I need holiday joyfulness in droves just to balance it out and feel remotely cheerful throughout the season.

But that festive happiness is not always possible.  When my depression rears its ugly head, as hard as I might try to power through, painting on that smiling mask for the benefit of others, there are times it will crack under pressure.  As much as I hate disappointing family and friends, there will be days I just cannot bring myself to feel jolly no matter how hard I try.  There will be moments when tears well up in my eyes and I need to sneak away for a little while to let it all out and recompose myself.  More likely than not, it isn’t that anyone has done anything wrong to upset me.  I’ve done nothing wrong either.  My depression has a tight grip on me that even the happiest of holidays cannot break.

It honestly isn’t even that my depression is terribly worse during the holidays.  Yes, things like the loss of both my parents weighs on me around Christmas, but I feel those pangs of grief throughout the entire year, not just at Christmastime.  It’s that it is the season of togetherness, where family and friends want to get together to celebrate.  It’s the season of holiday shopping and running into each other at crowded stores and malls, chatting and catching up.  It’s the season where there’s so much going on that it is hard to participate in it all without my depression seeping in.  It isn’t that my depression is worse during the holidays as much as others expect me to be more present and involved, more jolly and festive.  My depression is always with me throughout the year, however I usually have more down time to cope privately the other eleven months of the year that aren’t as chock full of festivities.  The more holiday events that are going on, the more likely my depression is going to come along for the ride, whether I want it to or not.

I do enjoy the holidays as much as I can, as much as my depression allows me to enjoy them.  I do love the carols and movies, the soft glow of lights on the tree, fresh baked Christmas cookies and fresh fallen snow.  I just also have depression, which sometimes does not allow me to enjoy the holidays as much as I’d like.  I’m not being a Grinch or a Scrooge if I momentarily lose my Christmas spirit and need to step away.  I am managing my mental illness the best that I can and trying my hardest not to let my depression ruin anyone else’s holiday or my own.

mightylogoRepublished on The Mighty on 12/7/17.

Some People Just Don’t Get It..

For almost a decade, I had someone in my life I considered my best friend.  We had bonded over similar experiences and shared pain.  I thought they understood me better than anyone else ever had.  Then, right when I needed them most, they disappeared from my life.

I did what I do best.  I continued on and I survived.  Miraculously, this time I even managed to go above and beyond that.  I rose above it all.  I began to grow and flourish.  And in the midst of all the rubble of my life, I found love.

The love I found was a thing of fairy tales.  A flame from childhood rekindled and a bond beyond anything I ever imagined possible.  We connect on every level and communicate with an openness and honesty I’ve always dreamed about but had always believed was beyond my grasp.  It took me completely by surprise because, though I am a hopeless romantic at heart, I had begun questioning whether a love like this even existed outside of storybooks.

After almost a year of ghosting, that supposed best friend decided recently to touch base, attempting to talk as if no time had passed and all was still well between us.  Though still hurt by their abandonment, for the sake of a decade-long friendship, I tried to have a civil conversation, catching them up on all that has happened and filling them in on how I had been.  After all, I was proud of myself pulling myself back up, holding myself together despite facing so many difficulties alone.  I was proud for all I had accomplished in such a short time and amazed at the love I had managed to find for myself.

To my astonishment, instead of being thrilled for me, he declared that I had “won”.  Apparently, I had, in his eyes, done better in life in some way than he had done.  Even more apparent, he resented it.  He made numerous passive-aggressively snide comments and even attempted to guilt-trip me over my newfound love because he and his partner, though together longer than I had been with mine, were not at all in love.  It saddened me to hear him describe his relationship as an arrangement and a convenience, devoid of emotion altogether.  The more he talked, the more it felt like he was probing, searching for a kernel of misery within my relationship, hoping to reconnect and bond again over a shared unhappiness.

In that moment, it was as if a switch had been flipped.  A light came on and I saw things so much clearer.  He and I had “bonded” for years because we were both residing in a shared misery.  It was not some magical connection.  We did not even have a friendship.  We had a codependency that revolved around leaning on someone else who understood our pain.  He had no problem discarding me when his situation began to improve because he fully expected me to still be there, brooding in the darkness alone, waiting for him to eventually need me again.  My love and happiness was an inconvenience that did not fit into his life so it was met with hostility.

He just doesn’t get it.  That is not friendship.  Friends don’t disappear or abandon each other when times get tough.  Friends also don’t resent each other’s accomplishments or happiness.  They give a shoulder to cry on when times get rough and celebrate each other’s successes as if they were their own.  Though what we had may have been friendship at one time, it had since warped into something unrecognizably negative and self-serving for him.  It had been a long time not only since he had treated me as a friend but also since he had considered my feelings, my well-being or my happiness at all.  Everything was completely on his terms and always all about him.  That is not friendship.

He really does not get it.  There was no reason to attempt guilt-tripping me because I had found happiness.  It isn’t that I somehow magically “won” anything because I’m currently in a better place than he is at the moment.  It isn’t a competition with him.  It never has been.  The only person I am ever competing with is myself, hoping to improve my life whenever I can.  I was not living my life trying to “one up” anyone else, least of all him.  I was living my life just like everyone else, trying to find my own happiness and purpose.  I wasn’t striving to “beat” him.  I had always hoped for his happiness and well-being, as well as my own.

He just didn’t get it.  Finding a genuine love was a very big deal for me.  I’ve spent the majority of my life believing I was inherently unlovable, wandering in and out of abusive and dysfunctional relationships. Again and again, I allowed others to treat me poorly because I believed I didn’t deserve any better.  Having someone finally treat me with love, admiration and respect was an enormous thing for me.  I had always been made to feel like I was either not good enough, never measuring up, or as too much, too needy, too clingy, too much to handle.  This was the first time in my life anyone had made me feel not only like I was enough, but that I was perfect just the way I was.

I finally get it.  I am unapologetic in my happiness.  Though it saddens me that his life has not been turning out as well as he had hoped since we parted ways, I owe him no apologies because I have done nothing wrong.  I was not the one who walked away from our “friendship” or discarded him.  I deserve happiness in my life.  I am not going to downplay the good in my life or reject it altogether, either, just to wallow in misery with him so he has someone else to bond with in shared negativity.

I finally got it.  I had to walk away from the conversation and block him.  It had not been a true friendship.  I haven’t been able to count on him to be there.  He was there only when it was convenient to his life and when he needed someone as equally low as he was feeling to help lift himself back up.  My newfound happiness was met with pettiness, anger and spite by him because I was no longer capable of being what he needed me to be.  My happiness was not allowed in his life.  It did not fit.  He made me feel like I had to choose between having him in my life or having happiness and love.  It was an easy choice.

I am okay with it.  I don’t need any more dysfunctional relationships in my life.  I need to surround myself with people who not only offer support when I’m struggling but who also cheer me on when I succeed.  I need people I can trust to be there consistently instead of discarding and abandoning me periodically on a whim.  I need more love and happiness in my life and less negativity.  After far too many years, I finally get it now.

Allowing Love and Happiness Into My Life

Recently, in one of the online support groups I am in, I stumbled onto someone who was experiencing something very similar to some of the struggles I have gone through.  As we began to talk in earnest about our lives, it felt more and more like I was speaking with my former self, the person I was not so long ago before I began my journey for mental wellness.

They talked about being unlovable.  Not FEELING unlovable. BEING unlovable.  It resonated with me because I have spent the majority of my life feeling the exact same way.  As I began responding to her, I found myself writing to my former self, as well, and to everyone else struggling with those feelings of worthlessness associated with mental illness.  I said:

… Please don’t believe even for one moment that you are unlovable.. trust me, I have been there.. lived with that feeling for years. Growing up, my mother (who suffered from often untreated, always undertreated mental illness herself and had a lot of abuse in her own life she never fully processed or healed from) was extremely abusive, particularly toward me..

The first time I remember her telling me she hated me and wished I was never born I was eight.. She used to tell me often that I was “inherently unlovable”.. that there were some people that, through no fault of their own, just did not possess anything truly good or lovable within them.. She used to tell me to never let anyone see or know the real me or they would see the truth of it themselves and leave.. I grew up thoroughly convinced I was broken, faulty, completely unlovable on a genetic level..

When you feel that way inside, when you convince yourself that it is an undeniable truth about yourself, you put up walls that prevent anyone else from ever being able to get in and love you..

I was the queen of walls.. I shut everyone out.. Even people who believed they were close to me barely even made it into the courtyard outside.. I was always there for others because I’ve never wanted anyone else to experience even a small portion of the pain I had been through in my own life.. but deep inside, I felt unlovable.. I felt unworthy of love.. so I never allowed myself to experience it..

It took far too many years for me to come to terms with my childhood and the abuse I endured.. far too many years for me to be able to even say I liked anything about myself let alone even consider the possibility of loving anything about myself or to accept that I needed to treat myself with the same kindness and compassion that I gave others..

Please know this though: You are NOT broken. You ARE worthy of love. And you MUST open yourself up to the possibility of accepting and loving yourself first and foremost because as long as you treat yourself as unlovable, you will never allow anyone else to fully love you, either.

I know the concept of loving yourself sounds improbable.. impossible.. baby steps.. Learn to acknowledge that there are things about yourself that you don’t hate.. things about yourself that aren’t all that bad.. Whenever you find yourself beating yourself up or being extremely harsh with yourself, stop and question whether you would ever say those words to anyone else.. Would you ever treat anyone else that way? if you wouldn’t be that hard and unforgiving to someone else, don’t do it to yourself.

Allow the possibility of happiness into your life. We are struggling with mental illness – a physical and mental disability that revolves around our brains not working properly – THAT DOES NOT DEFINE US. IT IS JUST OUR DIAGNOSIS. Having depression and anxiety does not mean we are forbidden from being happy.

We are going to have those blah days where we feel numb and struggle to do anything at all. We’re going to have those devastatingly negative days where our world spirals downward out of control and we feel the world will never be right again – they are all symptoms of our illness. But they are not reality.

We need to train ourselves to look for positives every single day, seek them out, embrace them. They don’t have to be big positives. Just little things to make us smile and remind us the world isn’t a hopeless, terrible, soul-sucking place where nothing good exists.. the feel of a snowflake melting on your nose.. cute fluffy little kittens.. the smell of freshly baked cookies.. We need to allow ourselves to smile.. allow ourselves to enjoy the little things in life.. the happy things..

Because that is a part of loving ourselves.. it makes it easier to consider allowing ourselves to have bigger things, better things.. to allow happiness and love into our lives.. We need to change our mindset.. refuse to let our illness dictate our lives.. I’m determined to be the happiest person with depression anyone ever meets because I refuse to let it control and dictate my life any longer.. It is an illness. It is not me. It is not you, either.

Reading over all I had written, I realized just how far I have come.  It wasn’t very long ago that I was in her shoes,  convinced that I was completely and inherently unlovable and broken beyond repair.  It wasn’t all that long ago that I was held hostage by my mental illness, convinced that my life was hopeless, unable to see any identity for myself beyond my illness.

I know now that life doesn’t have to be that way.  I cannot change my diagnosis or the symptoms that present themselves.  But I can refuse to let it control me or steal away any more of my life.  I AM going to struggle but I am also going to fight it every step of the way.  I not only deserve love and happiness in my life but I truly want it, as well.  I have taken one of the biggest steps towards truly loving myself: Giving myself permission to be happy.

Depression is NOT Caused by Circumstances or Lack of Effort.

Time and again, I have seen people who did not understand mental illness or who have based their opinions on stigma, accuse others of causing their own mental illnesses.  They assume that depression is simply someone being sad for having a bad day or that if they just tried a little harder, worked a little harder, to improve their lives, their mental illness would simply fade away.

Depression is a mental illness.  It is not someone just being too negative, refusing to look on the bright side of life.  It is not someone being lazy, not trying hard enough to improve their circumstances.  The onset of depression might be triggered for some by a traumatic event but the condition itself is a physical imbalance in the brain.  Correcting the situation will not instantly cease the symptoms of depression.  Depression is a medical condition that needs professional treatment.

Depression is also more than just simple sadness.  There are periods of numbness, where it feels almost impossible to function.  There are also periods of extreme negativity and self-loathing, when everything feels hopeless and you feel alone in all the world, you believe deservedly so.  Depression can be increased by difficulties in life but they are a catalyst, not the causation.  Removing those difficulties might help improve the situation but it is not a panacea.  The depression will not just go away on it’s own.  Again, it is a medical condition that needs professional treatment.

I have struggled my entire life with mental illness.  Yes, it has been drastically worse during the lower parts of my life, but even the better times were tainted by depression.  Regardless of whether my life had collapsed or things were finally coming together, the depression was still there.  Regardless of how hard I’ve tried to work on myself and improve my situation, my depression was still there.  Because depression is a medical condition that needs professional treatment.

I have begun taking steps to improve my mental health.  I have taken yoga, tai chi and meditation classes to help find an inner peace and calmness.  I have taken other more specialized classes that focus on mental wellness, like transforming anxiety through art.  Though each has given me new tools for my coping toolbox, none of it is a cure-all.  Working harder on my mental wellness will not make my symptoms disappear because depression is a medical condition that needs professional treatment.

My personal life has greatly improved, as well.  I am no longer in a dysfunctional, abusive relationship.  I am finally with someone who loves, appreciates and accepts me for who I am.  I have managed to rebuild friendships with old friends I had drifted apart from over the years.  I have wonderful children I love dearly and am very proud of who they have become.  I have a budding writing career and a new calling that gives me a purpose I had previously lacked.  I have so many blessings in my life, so many things that make me smile and feel true happiness.  Yet my depression still rages on.

I am in treatment.  I see a therapist regularly and take medication.   I did not ask to be mentally ill nor am I sitting back complacently, refusing to do anything to improve my life or my circumstances.  I am actively fighting to be as healthy as I can be.  But that doesn’t change the fact that I have an illness that affects the way my brain processes my emotions.  Though the rougher times in my life have contributed to the severity of my illness, my depression was never caused by any situation or lack of effort on my part.  I am not to blame for my mental illness.  Despite what stigma and ignorance might lead some to believe, depression is a medical condition.  Medical conditions do not improve by changing situations or with sheer force of will alone.  Treatment is needed.

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Republished on The Mighty on 11/9/17.

#WhyIWrite

Admittedly, I’m not the most up-to-date person when it comes to my Twitter account.  I don’t usually follow all the trending hashtags.  Some days, I barely log in.  Today, however, one hashtag caught my eye. #WhyIWrite.

Without much thought, I began pumping out responses, one right after another.

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It was such an easy, simple statement, yet I found myself with so much to say.  For someone who had gone so long without a voice, I think I had taken for granted how vocal I had become.

When I began writing, I was suicidal.  My life had fallen apart yet again and I was honestly on the verge of giving up.  In order to keep going, things HAD to change.  I had suffered in silence for far too long.  I knew the only way I could move forward, the only way I was going to survive, is if I began to talk.

The floodgates opened.  I spoke out about my past.  Abuse.  Assault.  Rape.  Mental Illness.  Infidelity.  Suicide.  All those topics you’re not supposed to bring up in polite conversation because it might make others uncomfortable.  All those topics that were so ingrained and interwoven into my life that I held inside for far too long.  All those topics that were systematically killing me.

A miraculous thing happened.  I began to heal, to work through trauma that had been plaguing me my entire life.  Even more amazingly, my focus began to shift.  Suddenly, surviving was no longer enough.  I wanted to live, to grow, to change and to flourish.

People began reaching out about my writing.  Thanking me for putting into words how they were thinking and feeling, for letting them know they were not alone.  Just as suddenly, my focus shifted again.  I realized my voice was a gift.  There were so many people in this world, struggling like I had been, without a voice.  I had before me the opportunity to make a difference, to speak out about mental illness, to be a voice for change.

#WhyIWrite seemed like such an easy premise, with multiple answers that flowed from me seamlessly.  I could go on for days with tweet after tweet about all the reasons I write.  All those answers can be summed up into one, though:

I write because writing saved my life and I hope to pay it forward, writing to save other lives, as well.

My voice may be starting out small, but my heart is big and my intentions heartfelt.  I believe that, by speaking out openly and honestly about mental illness, we can add to the collective and together be the voice of change.

 

Are We To Blame For Our Depression?

Someone in a group I belong to recently posed the question “Is it my fault I’m depressed?”.

People immediately began chiming in on both sides of the fence, with the overwhelming majority stating a firm and clear “absolutely not”.  I hesitated to answer because I don’t think there is such a clear cut yes or no answer.  Life is rarely simply black and white.  There are many shades of gray.

I spent many years struggling with my own mental illness.  I saw many doctors, took a multitude of medications in all different dosages and combinations.  I tried changing my diet, exercising more, busying myself with arts and crafts, talking long nature-filled walks, everything anyone had suggested might work.  In my case, nothing helped.

Last year, my newest doctor sent me for a genetic test and we discovered that I had a genetic mutation that prevented my body from breaking down a specific vitamin my brain needed to function properly.  That broken-down vitamin is used by the brain to transport the chemicals, whether made naturally or in the form of antidepressants, where they are needed. Because my brain never received that substance, nothing my body made, no pill I took, even had a chance to work.

There is a pill version of that broken-down vitamin on the market.  My doctor prescribed it.  It took almost a year of fighting my insurance company to get it covered.  Now that I have it, there is a noticeable difference.  It is not a panacea, my depression is still here, but it is a start.  I have a long road ahead of me but at least I am finally on the right track.

It brings to mind a quote from Maya Angelou:

“Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.”

For years, I tried again and again to get help even though nothing worked.  I cannot blame myself for not knowing that, on a genetic level, my body was incapable of making what it needed in order for any treatment to work.  But now that I know better, I am doing better.

I do not believe we can blame ourselves when our bodies malfunction.  When someone is diabetic, their pancreas is not making the proper amounts of insulin and glucose.  People go to a doctor and get treatment so they can live a healthier life.  They are not to blame for their organ ceasing to work.  With mental illness, the only difference is the organ involved.  No one has any control over their brain not working properly.

But everyone does have control over whether or not they get the treatment they need.

I know some people will play devil’s advocate and say a diabetic wouldn’t have gotten diabetes if they hadn’t eaten so much sugar and likewise, someone who is mentally ill may have made poor life choices that put them in their predicament, as well.  However, that is not how it works.  Millions of people drink soda and other sugary drinks every day, yet not all of them have become diabetics.  Likewise, many people struggle with everything from drinking, drugs, bad relationships and dead-end jobs without experiencing depression.

There are many known hereditary and biological causes for mental illness.  Many people are predisposed to depression, having been passed through their family line.  For others, it can be caused on a genetic level from mutations.  In some cases, the onset is caused by an unforeseen tragedy or event that shakes a person to the core.  With me, it is a combination of them all.

Living a rough life does not guarantee depression any more than drinking a soda guarantees diabetes.  On the contrary, people from all walks of life, all socio-economic backgrounds, different races, religions, sexual orientations, upbringings all struggle with their mental health.  A hard life might contribute to a person’s mental illness but it does not cause it, much like drinking sugary drinks are a contributing factor to diabetes.  There is a big difference between causation, though, and a contributing factor.

Though we have no control over whether any of our organs are working properly, I believe there is a clear line here where we need to accept personal responsibility.  As Maya Angelou said “..when you know better, do better”.  Once we realize something is not working correctly in our bodies, it is our responsibility to take steps to fix the problem.  We need to do what we can to be healthier, live healthier.

Once a person has realized they are struggling with a mental illness, they need to at least attempt to get help.  I understand the frustration all too well when nothing seems to work, but we need to at least try.  Again, to quote Maya, “Do the best you can until you know better”.  Try therapy, meditation, medication, homeopathic remedies.  Something.  Anything.  Embrace whatever works for you.  But at least DO something.  Don’t suffer needlessly.  Take care of yourself the best you can. Then “..when you know better, do better”.

Nobody asks to be depressed.  No one has any control over whether or not they are diagnosed with a mental illness.  But you do have control over whether or not you treat your illness and you ARE to blame if you knowingly neglect yourself and your well-being.

Please take care of yourself the best that you can.  Get help when you need it.  Don’t let the judgment or stigma from anyone else prevent you from taking care of your mental health.  It is okay to need help, especially when your body is not working like it should be.  There is no shame in having a mental illness.  The only shame is in not getting the treatment you need.