Republished on The Mighty on 5/4/20.
Republished on Yahoo News on 5/4/20.
Republished on The Mighty on 5/4/20.
Republished on Yahoo News on 5/4/20.
After struggling with mental illness my entire life, a couple years ago a miraculous thing happened. I found my voice and finally began opening up about my mental health struggles. Talking about living with such a debilitating illness has altered my life in so many positive ways, as well as changing my outlook on life itself for the better. For the most part, I have been met with wonderful support, not only from others who are struggling as well but also by those who, though they have never experienced mental illness firsthand, yearn to understand and empathize with the plight of others in their lives.
And then there are the trolls.
Those lovely people who relish commenting on other people’s lives for no other reason than to accuse and attack.
They inform me that my mental illness “is all in my head”.
They tell me that “everyone has problems”, say I “should stop having a pity party” and “just get over it”.
And they suggest that I’m just looking for attention and wanting others to feel sorry for me.
Though I always try to remind myself “water off a duck’s back”, those comments honestly eat at me because I have never seen myself as seeking attention or wanting anyone to feel bad for me.
As a matter of fact, for most of my life, I kept my struggles largely to myself. I did not want to burden anyone else with my problems, especially problems they neither caused or would be able to solve. Many of my friends were genuinely surprised when they finally heard about what I’ve been through because I kept so much to myself. I’ve been described as one of the happiest, sweetest depressed people that most will ever meet because I refuse to let my illness defeat or define me.
I also personally have never wanted anyone to pity me. Yes, I have been through a lot of trauma in my life. And yes, I am struggling with a life-long debilitating mental illness as well as multiple meningioma tumors on my brain. But you know what? I’m still here. Still fighting. Every single day. I fight to stay healthy and to stay positive, despite my own brain constantly trying to convince me otherwise.
Yet I am quick to tell others not to feel sorry for me for the simple fact that I am still here. I am a survivor. If you must feel sorry for someone, feel sorry for all those who have lost their battle with mental illness. Feel sorry for all those who suffered in silence and died never finding their voice.
The question remains:
If I am not looking for attention or for pity, why am I writing?
I write so others can better understand an illness that affects millions of people every year yet is still widely misunderstood and stigmatized.
I write because I know there are others out there who are struggling but don’t have the words to fully articulate the battles they are fighting every single day.
I write because I should not be ashamed of my illness or forced into silence due to other people’s ignorance, misinformation, lack of compassion or any other stigma they carry regarding my condition.
I don’t write for a pat on the back from anyone either. I don’t need a “good job”, a certificate of merit or a gold star. I need others to know they’re not alone. I need them to be okay, to keep fighting, to not give up. If my words can help even one person or five or ten, then I have made a positive difference in this world and that is enough for me.
Imagine silently struggling for years with an illness that nobody else can see. The entire time, friends and family are repeatedly asking what is wrong with you, why you seem so different, so distant, why you’re not able to do everything you used to be able to do. Imagine spending your life being expected to apologize just for being ill.
If your best friend invites you along for a 5k run and you decline, explaining that the chemotherapy your doctors gave you to fight your cancer has you too worn out and drained to go along, your friend will most likely show compassion, support and understanding. They will accept that you are struggling with an illness you neither asked for nor have any control over and that you are trying your best to heal and get healthy again.
Your family would not question if you spent whole days in bed while struggling to beat cancer either. They just want you to do whatever you need to do to get better. Nobody would accuse you of looking for attention simply for describing what you are going through and explaining that you currently don’t feel capable of joining in.
Replace cancer with many other debilitating illnesses and conditions and the story remains unchanged.
Can’t go running because you have a heart condition and you physically cannot handle it in your current state? Not a problem.
Spent the day in bed because your diabetes has flared up and struggling to balance your sugar again has you exhausted? Asthma acting up and you’re struggling to even breathe so you need to rest? Rheumatoid arthritis flare up and you can barely stand let alone run? Get some rest and feel better. It’s okay. Everyone understands. Take care of yourself.
However, if you are struggling with a mental illness, compassion often goes right out the window.
You’re told to “suck it up”.
To “stop feeling sorry for yourself”.
To stop making excuses, get off your butt and get over it”.
“Stop being a baby”. “Stop looking for attention”. “Just stop altogether”.
The truth is – we shouldn’t have to stop acknowledging our existence or our reality.
Our medical condition is just as valid as any other one. It, too, was diagnosed by a doctor. It, too, needs medical treatment. And it, too, deserves to be acknowledged. We deserve the same compassion and empathy that you’d show to anyone else who is sick with any other debilitating illness.
I spent forty years apologizing. “I’m sorry I can’t do more”. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess”. “I’m sorry I’m so broken”. “I’m sorry I’m having such an off day”. “I’m sorry I let everyone down”. “I’m sorry for existing”. “I’m sorry for being sick”.
But you know what?
I shouldn’t have apologized all those times. I had done nothing wrong. I was, and still am, struggling with a valid and verifiable medical condition. I did not ask to be sick nor did I do anything to cause this illness. I was born with it hard-wired into my genetics.
And these days I am completely unapologetic for my condition.
Am I looking for attention?
All I want, and feel I rightfully deserve, is the same acknowledgement, compassion and understanding as people would show anyone else with any other serious medical condition.
Do I want anyone to feel sorry for me?
I don’t wallow in my condition but I don’t minimize it or sugar coat it either. I am unapologetically and blatantly honest about what it is like living with mental illness because the only way to fight misconceptions and stigma is with the truth.
I’m a fighter. I am so much more than my illness and I refuse to let it define me or beat me. Don’t pity me. Cheer me on for the fact that I am still going. Be proud of the fact that I am taking the lemons life has given me and transforming them into something positive to help others.
I talk about my struggles with mental illness because I refuse to stay silent any longer. I refuse to pretend I am fine when I am not or to apologize when I have done nothing wrong. Most importantly, I write about what it is like because there are too many others out there struggling who need to know they are not alone.
Trolls are going to troll. They attack what they don’t care to understand. It is easier for them to pass judgment than to show compassion or try to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes.
But I don’t write for trolls.
I write for that teenager sitting alone in a dark room feeling all alone, convinced nobody else could possibly understand. I write for that widow, sitting in an empty house, struggling to find a reason to pull themselves out of bed. I write for that person who keeps eyeing that bridge on their drive home each night or who sits at their table, gun in hand, weighing whether or not to eat a bullet and put an end to their misery. I write to add my voice and my story to the collective of everyone struggling with mental illness.
I write to let them all know they are not alone and that others understand. I write so that they know they, too, are more than their diagnosis and they don’t have to let it define them. I write to remind them that they, too, are fighters and survivors and to help them find the courage and the words to tell their own stories. I write to encourage them to get the help they desperately need.
I also write for that parent who desperately wants to understand why their teenager has begun isolating themselves and never smiles anymore. I write for that husband who needs to understand why his wife just hasn’t been the same since she had the baby. I write for everyone who has lost someone to suicide or has sat there dumbfounded after a loved one’s failed attempt, unsure of what to say so that their world would make sense again. I write for everyone who desperately wants to understand this illness though they have never experienced it themselves.
I don’t write to appease trolls because I have no place in my life anymore for those who spend their lives spreading negativity, judgment and hatred. They are not my target audience. Not my circus. Not my monkeys. Not my problem. I will spend just as much time caring about their opinions as they have spent empathizing with my condition.
For those that I am hoping to reach – please don’t give up. Don’t lose hope. You are so much more than your illness. You, too, are a fighter. A survivor. You, too, can get through this. Know that you are not alone. Don’t be afraid to reach out, to speak up. There is no shame in asking for help, for needing to see a doctor for your medical condition. Stay strong. You’ve got this.
Republished on The Mighty on 5/27/19.
Republished on Yahoo Lifestyle on 5/27/19.
Republished on Yahoo Finance on 5/27/19.
Republished on Yahoo News on 5/27/19.
Republished on The J. Wheeler Group on 5/27/19.
Republished on Core Wellness on 5/27/19.
*Ever since I created my Anxiety Chart, I have been asked by readers to create a similar chart for depression. After much thought and consideration, this is the chart and accompanying graph that I designed.
Many people do not understand depression, assuming it is just random bouts of sadness and crying. Unless someone has suffered through their own struggle with depression, it is near-impossible for them to truly understand how debilitating it can be to live with that diagnosis.
One of the hardest parts of explaining depression is that it is neither rational nor is it predictable. It is hard to provide relatable examples because the feelings connected with depression would feel wildly irrational to anyone not experiencing them at that moment. It is also impossible to predict or predetermine depression because it often comes unexpectedly in waves.
Therefore, instead of providing a chart with relatable examples, the chart I devised shows the increasing intensity of this mental illness. My hope is that the statements provided at each level, combined with the descriptions included, will help those who have never struggled with depression understand how our frame of mind is magnified as our condition worsens.
It is also important to note that depression is not all sadness and hopelessness. Instead of providing a chart listing levels 1-9, I have split this chart in half. There is a 1-4N to designate worsening stages of numbness and a 1-4D to describe stages of downward spiral. This chart is extremely simplified, yet illustrates how, as depression worsens, the intensity of the condition increases. However, unlike conditions like anxiety that worsen in one direction, depression can and does frequently occur in both the realms of numbness and hopelessness to varying extents.
It is also important to note that depression is not linear. It comes in waves and spikes. It is not uncommon to struggle with days of increasing numbness, only to wake up the following day in the midst of a downward spiral. Depression randomly alternates between the two, with no rhyme or reason to the length or intensity on any given day. Some days you feel nothing at all, other days you feel everything too strongly. There’s no way to predict when you will be pulled in either direction or how long either will last.
There will be days when someone might even feel fine, or even just more functional. On other days, you might be unable to pull yourself out of bed or might seem to cry over everything. There are days that feel like a struggle and others that feel completely impossible, days where you find yourself crying a little bit more and days you just want to give up.
When describing increased emotional pain, the best example I can think of is to compare it to the pain of loss. Milder stages of depression might be akin to losing something that matters to you, perhaps something of sentimental value. As depression increases, imagine the pain of losing a beloved pet, your parents, your spouse or your child. Imagine the ache and the pain, the feeling in that moment of things never being okay again, of wanting to give up, to crumble under the weight of that pain.
Except the person you are mourning is yourself. Your happiness and who you used to be. And the loss comes again and again in waves, sometimes mild, other times so severe that the tears and the pain feel like they will never stop.
At the same time, you loathe and disgust yourself. You feel worthless, a waste of space. Your own mind lies to you, convincing you that the world would be better off without you in it. That is where rationality parts ways. Everyone can understand loss, pain and grieving. But it is hard to wrap your head around losing yourself, let alone hating yourself, unless you have spiraled down to those depths yourself.
Yet those feelings are there, along with a tremendous amount of guilt. You feel guilty that you are such a mess. You feel guilty for subjecting everyone else to your mess, as well. Often, you are also ashamed of your illness because you feel you should be stronger, more capable, better than you are. That shame often leads you to lie or minimize the intensity of your suffering for fear of being judged. Depression makes you feel like a failure just for being sick.
When someone is struggling with depression, their very perceptions become distorted. It is common for everything to feel much worse than it actually is. Think back to when you were a little child. Things on the counter felt up way too high, the door knob out of reach. Even simple things like tying your shoes were a struggle and felt like a monumental task that took maximum effort and concentration. That is how everyday tasks feel when you have depression. Everything feels harder. Every problem feels bigger. You feel small and helpless.
Think back, too, to when you were a young child and were upset with your parents, when you felt completely misunderstood and all alone in the world. Think back on the time when your four or five year old self was convinced you should run away, that nobody would care if you were gone. Think back to any other point in your life, as well, when you felt completely alone, when you had no help, nobody there. With depression, those feelings are ever-present. Your mind tells you that nobody understands, that you are alone in the world. Depression isolates you by telling lies that you do not matter.
Think back to the last time you were sick, laid up in bed with a bad flu or stomach bug. Remember how physically and mentally exhausting it felt to even move or pull yourself out of bed? How easily you found yourself worn out, just wanting to lay back down and sleep? How you put off going to the bathroom for hours because you didn’t even want to move? How you ate frozen waffles or canned soup for three days because you just did not have the energy or the desire to cook a real meal? That is what depression is like, too.
The numbness, however, is hard to explain to anyone who has not experienced it firsthand. If you’ve ever had someone or something upset you so much that you no longer cared, magnify that lack of concern tenfold. It is similar to that catatonic shock following an accident or trauma. You feel nothing, lost, blank, numb. Eventually, you mentally shut down. You are immobile, held hostage, trapped in your own mind. You have no interest or motivation to do anything. You see no point in even trying.
I wish there were more relatable examples I could give but it is impossible to rationalize the irrational. There are some examples that are somewhat similar in one way or another, but even those don’t quite equate. The best I can do is to illustrate the directions depression can go and to quantify how bad it can get.
When trying to explain depression, the best someone who is struggling can do is to explain how close we are at the given moment to either shutting down or wanting to give up. The worst part is that the status can change in a moment’s notice on any given day. There is no way to predict when it will veer off in either direction, let alone the severity of the bout. You cannot even predict what will cause your condition to worsen, or whether it will even be something large or small. Something as tragic as a great loss is just as likely to cause a period of numbness as a simple broken plate is to cause a severe downward spiral. There are times we are honestly not even sure why we are feeling the way we do, only that the depression is there. There is no rhyme, reason or rationality to any of it.
It is not something that a person can control in any way, either, let alone simply snap out of on their own accord. Depression is a mental illness. It is a medically-diagnosed condition that severely affects the ability to cope with life, negatively impacting and impairing both thoughts and behaviors. Having a mental illness is no different than having any other type of illness. Much like a diabetic has a pancreas that is malfunctioning, when a person has a mental illness, their brain is not working correctly. The only difference is the organ affected. Both conditions need medical treatment.
I understand how difficult it must be for someone who has never suffered from depression themselves to understand. Depression seems irrational because it is. It doesn’t make sense, even to those of us struggling with it every day. We find ourselves on a roller coaster ride that is speeding out of control, flying up and down every which way, with no way to stop or slow down. Nobody asks for a mental illness. Depression is not something anyone has done to themselves or is causing because they are not trying hard enough. We don’t understand how we even ended up on this ride, let alone how to get off. How can we adequately explain something we don’t even understand ourselves?
The confusion surrounding depression is also in part due to the stigma attached to mental illness in general. For years, anyone with a mental illness was labeled as lazy, crazy, dangerous or a joke. Either way, they were not taken seriously. Mental illness was a dirty word that wasn’t discussed openly. People fear or mock what they don’t understand. The lack of education about medical conditions like depression led to wide-spread ignorance and misinformation. Unfortunately, once that cat is out of the bag, the damage is done and it will take much longer to properly educate people about mental illness than it took to originally spread the falsehoods and misconceptions.
I understand fully that depression makes no sense to someone who has never experienced it themselves. It honestly makes no sense to us, either. But please know that depression is much more than just merely feeling sad from time to time. With depression, you sometimes feel everything so strongly that it is completely overwhelming, the emotions feel agonizingly painful and never-ending, and the world feels utterly hopeless. Other times, someone with depression is completely numb, feeling absolutely nothing at all. Either way, everything feels much harder, more intense. Depression is exhausting, both physically and mentally. Perhaps worst of all, you feel helpless to do anything, like you have no control over your own mind. And depression is not linear. It goes up and down, every which way, changing direction and intensity on the drop of a dime.
I wish I could provide a chart that was more relatable for those who have never experienced depression, but, as I have stated before, there really is no way to rationalize the irrational. The best I can do is to lay out what depression is like in a very simplified form and hope for your empathy, compassion, understanding and patience.
Republished on The Mighty on 2/18/19.
Republished on Yahoo: Lifestyle on 2/18/19.
Republished on Yahoo: News on 2/18/19.
Republished on Yahoo: Finance on 2/18/19.
Republished on Core Wellness on 2/18/19.
Republished on MamaMia on 2/23/19.
Republished on MSN on 2/24/19.
Not everyone understands what it is like living with a mental illness. I get that. Most people, at their core, mean well and are trying to help in one way or another. Whether they are attempting to be supportive or trying to snap someone back into their perceived “reality”, they just don’t know what to say. I understand that completely, too. But using tired old cliches about life that don’t apply to living with a serious illness does not help at all. Nor does it help to offer outdated advice that has been proven to be both ignorant and ineffective. They do much more harm than good. It not only minimizes our condition and our struggles, but it also tells us that you neither understand what we are going through nor do you take our illness, or us, seriously.
Please do not tell us that “everyone has problems sometimes“, “into everyone’s life a little rain must fall“, or that “nobody said life was fair“. Likewise, please don’t tell us “it is what it is” or “everyone gets depressed sometimes“, as if our diagnosis is an everyday, trivial, meaningless bit of happenstance that is unimportant and should be paid no mind. A mental illness is not an average, run of the mill problem, a typical bump in the road of life that everyone faces at some point and is easily cast aside or overcome. It is a medical diagnosis, a medical condition that drastically affects every aspect of our lives. You wouldn’t tell someone with cancer that everyone has problems sometimes, laughing it off like it was nothing. You would show an appropriate level of concern over their health and well-being. You would encourage them to see a doctor and take care of themselves. You would be supportive. You wouldn’t dream of minimizing their condition because, left untreated, it could have deadly consequences. So could my mental illness and it deserves to be treated in the same regard.
Asking us if we’ve “just tried being happy“, telling us we “need to just learn to focus on the positives” or otherwise suggesting we’re not trying hard enough misplaces the blame on us for our diagnosis. The patient is never to blame when their body goes haywire and runs amuck. We understand that sometimes our bodies malfunction, become unbalanced, and horrible things like tumors occur. You can’t will away cancer with a positive outlook and trying harder won’t make tumors disappear. The same goes for mental illnesses. We don’t tell someone with cancer that it is “all in their head“, “mind over matter“, and expect them to become healthy again by sheer willpower alone. We encourage them to see a doctor immediately, get everything taken care of and treated so their body can work properly and be healthy again. Untreated cancer can eat a person alive from the inside out, deteriorating their health and destroying the quality of their life in every way. So can mental illness. The only difference is cancer mainly attacks and destroys the physical body while mental illnesses primarily attack the mind.
Please don’t judge us on our appearance, telling us that we “don’t look sick” or that we “just need to smile more” as if our diagnosis is even remotely dependent on our outward appearance. Also, please don’t tell us that we “don’t look all that sad to you” or that we “looked just fine the other day” because we have briefly managed to put on a brave face or wear a mask to hide our pain. Having a good day here and there does not negate all the bad ones. Invisible illnesses are still illnesses. Like many other serious health conditions inside the body, you cannot often or easily see mental illness with the naked eye. Not seeing a tumor growing inside someone does not make it any less real or dangerous. Not seeing a diabetic’s pancreas malfunctioning does not mean it is not happening or that they do not need treatment. Someone with cancer or another serious medical condition occasionally smiling, laughing or briefly enjoying life does not mean that they are instantly cured and tumor-free. Just because you cannot see our mental illness does not mean we are not suffering.
Asking us “why can’t you just be normal?” or suggesting that we “need to stop feeling sorry for ourselves” not only blames us for our diagnosis but treats us as if we’re somehow broken or flawed and it is all in our head. Nobody asks to have a mental illness nor does anyone want to be sick. We are not doing this to ourselves. We are not having pity parties. Please don’t suggest we’re just looking for attention or tell us that “the only one we’re hurting is ourselves” either, as if we’re intentionally sabotaging our own happiness by entertaining the absurd idea of some make-believe malady. Mental illness is a very real medical diagnosis, one that is often completely beyond our control. Our behavior did not cause it any more than a person’s attitude or imagination can cause tumors.
Please do not suggest we should just “snap out of it and get over things already“, either. A person cannot snap out of a mental illness diagnosis any more than they can snap out of diabetes. There is no set time frame that someone should be better, or even show marked improvement. Like diabetes, a mental health diagnosis often lasts a lifetime. And the healing process with most illnesses is not linear. A diabetic can alternate between periods of stability, and episodes of sugar spikes and crashes, dangerous highs and lows that drastically and dangerously impact their health. Similarly, even when in ongoing mental health treatment, a series of good days can be interrupted by periods of downward spiraling or numbness, and worsening symptoms as we attempt to balance medications and work through both past and new traumas. Along the same lines as the fact that we refuse to take the blame for our illness, we are also under no obligation to heal on anyone else’s schedule or whim. It is our illness, our treatment, and we will take as long as we need to take to heal fully and properly, even if it takes a lifetime.
Do not remind us that “every cloud has a silver lining” or tell us to “look on the bright side“, suggesting that we need to look for something positive at the core of our struggle. Likewise, please never tell us that “what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger” or tell us that “it is God’s will“, as if our suffering was some divine gift or that it will be worth it in the long run. Again, it is an illness, a medical diagnosis. You would not confront a diabetic who must have their feet amputated due to their condition and suggest that they would somehow come out stronger for their loss. You would not imply to a patient who cannot keep down any food because they are undergoing chemotherapy that the silver lining is that they always did want to lose a few pounds. You would not tell anyone that their illness was a blessing in disguise, that they should be grateful for their suffering and pain. Comments like those would be not only wildly inappropriate but also extremely insensitive, as well. You would offer the person suffering your compassion, sympathy and support. People with mental illnesses deserve the same. There is nothing positive about our diagnosis or our struggle so please don’t insist we look for a silver lining or a bright side that is not there.
Please don’t tell us that “other people have it worse“, as if our struggle is insignificant because someone else has struggled more. Don’t ask us “what do you even have to be depressed about?“, expecting us to justify our diagnosis or quantify our suffering so you can determine its validity. A mental illness is a bonafide medical diagnosis that deserves acknowledgement and actual medical treatment regardless of its severity in comparison to someone else’s. It is always a serious health condition that can continue to worsen if left untreated. You wouldn’t shrug off anyone’s cancer diagnosis as trivial or be so unsympathetic as to suggest their tumors were insignificant because someone else had larger ones. Cancer is always taken seriously. Mental illness should be, as well.
If we trust you enough to open up about our diagnosis, please don’t shut us down by telling us “there are just some things you just shouldn’t talk about” or reminding us that “some things should be kept private“. That is ignorance and stigma talking. Yes, we understand that mental illness is uncomfortable to discuss. So is any other serious medical diagnosis. The difference is that families and friends will discuss other illnesses and the impact they will have on everyone’s lives. We sincerely apologize for any discomfort our diagnosis might give you, but please know that we are not confiding in you hoping you can solve it or make anything better. We are sharing our diagnosis because we consider you an integral part of our lives and we want you to be aware of everything that is going on. Don’t tell us that we shouldn’t talk about mental illness as if it is something we should be ashamed of having. The biggest reason this diagnosis has become so rampant in society today is because no one talked about it for far too long. No one talked and nobody sought treatment. But silence won’t make the problem go away. Health issues don’t vanish because you refuse to acknowledge them. It will only make it worse.
Please stop shaming us for our diagnosis altogether or our efforts to seek treatment. Don’t tell us that “all we really need is some fresh air and some running shoes” in order to feel better. Don’t tell us that “only weak people rely on medication” or suggest we try vitamin regimens, scented oils or other homeopathic remedies instead of what we have been prescribed. We have seen actual doctors. Medical professionals have given us a verifiable medical diagnosis and prescribed us the appropriate medications to treat that diagnosis. You wouldn’t shame a diabetic for using insulin to balance their body so please stop shaming us for taking our prescriptions to balance our minds. You wouldn’t tell a cancer patient that they didn’t need chemo, to just go for a brisk run or take a nice, long bath instead. That is because it is widely accepted that chemotherapy is used to treat cancer and insulin to treat diabetes. If you are willing to accept other medical diagnoses and treatments as valid, please accept ours, as well.
Please don’t attack us, demanding to know “what have you even done with yourself lately?” or otherwise question why we are not able to function as well as a healthy person. Don’t interrogate us about what we have and have not accomplished recently, either, as if our level of productivity must meet your standards or our activity must be on par with yours. Having a mental illness takes a lot out of a person, both mentally and physically. It is perfectly acceptable for someone who has just undergone chemotherapy to spend a day in bed if they so need it. If a diabetic has a sugar crash and feels under the weather, others will suggest they go lay down and feel better. Healing and recovery time is acceptable for all other illnesses. It should be for mental illnesses, too.
For so many years, mental illness was treated as something shameful, something you just didn’t discuss, something whispered about in dark corners. With the continuing rise of suicides, addictions and other mental health crisis in our society, mental illness is being spoken about today on a scale previously unimaginable. I understand that it might take some time for everyone to fully understand how to openly discuss our diagnosis with both compassion and respect after being shrouded in secrecy and stigma for so long. When unsure how to proceed, many people turn to old cliches and outdated advice that they believe have stood the test of time. However, many of those statements and sayings are not at all appropriate or applicable to mental illnesses. If you are unsure what to say to someone with a mental illness, a good place to start would be to ask yourself if you would say those words to someone else with any other serious illness. If you cannot imagine saying it to someone with cancer or diabetes, for example, it’s a good bet that it is not an appropriate response to our diagnosis, either.
After all, people with mental illnesses are not asking for special treatment. We are just asking to be treated with the same courtesy you would treat anyone else who is ill.
I have struggled with depression my entire life, in part due to a genetic mutation passed down to me from my parents that affects the way my body metabolizes specific chemicals my brain needs to moderate my moods. I regularly go through horrendous downward spirals where I feel completely broken and worthless, where life feels utterly hopeless. I struggle with long periods of numbness where I have difficulty functioning or even finding the motivation to get out of bed. On bad days, I will cry until my face is sore and my voice is hoarse, and it is unlikely I will be able to accomplish much more than basic self-care. I am battling an illness that warps my very perceptions of life and continuously exhausts and pains me both physically and mentally.
But I am happy.
I have an amazing fiance who is very supportive of me and my diagnosis. I have healthy, kind, smart and all-around wonderful children who have grown into incredible adults. My fiance’s children are both amazing, as well. Together we have all formed a beautiful, blended family that I love with all my heart and am proud to call my own. I have a team of doctors who actually listen to me and a treatment plan that is slowly but surely helping improve my quality of life. And I have a blossoming writing career that has given me a true sense of purpose and an ability to help others in need. I have many wonderful blessings in my life to be grateful for, many reasons to be happy.
Yet I have been diagnosed with depression.
That is because a mental illness like depression has nothing to do with happiness. Depression is not caused by being in the wrong frame of mind or just not trying hard enough to be happy. Having a depression diagnosis has nothing to do with feeling sad, a little blue or under the weather. People with depression aren’t being Negative Nancys or Debbie Downers who just need to learn to lighten up and look on the bright side. My diagnosis wouldn’t just disappear if I just tried to smile a little harder or maintained a more positive outlook on life. My depression has nothing to do with whether or not I am happy.
I have trained myself to find reasons to smile everyday. I am usually the first to look for something positive in even the roughest of situations. No matter how hard my own day might feel, I always try to show compassion and kindness to others. If nothing else, I am grateful each day I wake up and thankful of all the loving and supportive people in my life and share that sentiment regularly. I am hopeful for the possibilities the future may have in store for me, as well. Some of my friends lovingly joke that I am the happiest, most positive little depressed person they know.
Yet I continue to struggle with my depression diagnosis.
My brain does not care whether or not I am happy or grateful, whether I am hopeful, compassionate or kind. My mental illness is caused by my brain not working properly, much like a diabetic’s pancreas malfunctioning causes their condition. I have no more control over having a mental illness than someone else having diabetes, heart disease or another medical condition they may have been passed genetically. Yes, events in my life may have further exasperated my mental illness, much like having excessive sugar might worsen a person’s diabetes or having foods high in cholesterol might affect the severity of heart disease, but my condition preceded any of the traumas and abuses I have endured over the years. I have even sought treatment to help resolve those issues to the best of my ability, yet my depression has remained.
Because depression is an illness, a medical diagnosis with both mental and physical causations.
It is not all in my head.
It is not a state of mind or an emotion.
Depression isn’t about being sad.
The cure for depression is not happiness.
Like any other illness, depression needs ongoing medical treatment. Doctors need to not only diagnose the condition, but also to isolate and treat both the mental and physical reasons for the illness, as well. Though doctors often utilize psychological treatments like therapy, meditation and mindfulness, they usually also include psychiatric methods and medications to help treat the physical causation. That is because doctors recognize mental illnesses such as depression as a verifiable disability that deserves a comprehensive, multi-pronged treatment.
In cases like mine where my depression has a genetic causation, my diagnosis is permanent. I was born with it much like some children are born diabetic. You would not blame a child for being born with a pancreas that was incapable of functioning properly so please don’t blame me for the fact that I was born with organs that malfunctioned, as well. The only difference in my case are the organs affected. No matter how happy I am or how positive my outlook is on life, my liver will never be able to metabolize the substances my brain needs in order to function properly. I will have this medical diagnosis and need ongoing treatment until the day I die.
If I confide in you that I am struggling with depression, please don’t try to encourage me to try to be happier and more positive, or point out all the blessings I have in my life. I am happy and grateful already. You do not need to remind me to be hopeful for the future because I already am. Please don’t blame me for my diagnosis either, insinuating that I wouldn’t be ill if I just tried a little harder. I did not ask for this diagnosis, nor did I cause it. What I need from you is the same compassion, understanding and support you would give anyone else with any other medical diagnosis.
Because, though I am already happy, knowing you were doing your best to be supportive and treat me with the same respect you would someone struggling with other illnesses would make me even happier.
Republished on the Mighty on 4/4/19.
Everything had been building up for months, years.
It was not that I didn’t have wonderful things in my life to be grateful for. I had healthy, compassionate, intelligent children that were growing into incredible adults before my eyes; I had reconnected with my first crush ever who has turned out to be the love of my life and we have a wedding to plan; I had finally found my calling as a mental health advocate and had the start of a promising writing career; I finally understood my struggles with my mental illness, having found a clinic that not only helped me to find the answers I needed, but also actually gave me hope for the future. In so many ways, my life was finally looking up.
However, it was overshadowed by a lifetime of struggling. I had been battling my own brain my entire life. And in recent years, the government and my insurance company, as well. It felt like all I ever did anymore was fight everyone, again and again. It seemed never-ending. I was so exhausted from fighting all the time, never getting to catch my breath, never getting a break.
Add to that discovering not one but two meningioma tumors on my brain. I had survived years of abuses that left deep scars that would never fully heal. My fiance and I were facing a possible pending eviction caused directly by the government’s prolonged inaction in my case and direct refusal to comply with a judge’s previous fair hearing decision in my favor.
The straw that broke the camel’s back, however, was the fairly consistent presence of someone toxic in my fiance and my lives under the guise of one of his childhood friends who was hell-bent on causing problems in our relationship, repeatedly trying to split us up.
To give a little background on the situation, she had known him since she was thirteen and had a crush on him for close to thirty years, bordering on stalkerish. When he was staying with his parents following the end of his marriage, she would intentionally show up hours before he was due home from work and say she would wait in his bedroom for him as an excuse to sleep in his bed. Though they never had any type of a relationship because he never saw her THAT way, for years, she regularly borrowed hats and shirts from him and kept them, much like a girlfriend would normally do. Despite having a crumbling relationship at home she should have been devoting her attention to, she tried repeatedly over the years to supplant herself into my fiance and his family’s lives in any way she could whenever she could, often causing drama in the process. Though he later forgave her to an extent, she even played a crucial part in the break up of his first marriage.
From the time we got together, she had been trying to cause problems between us and split us up. The first time I met her was a month into our relationship, shortly after his father went into hospice. She pulled me aside and tried to convince me that I had no idea what I had gotten myself into or the mess he was going to be so I should just walk away before I got in over my head. She told me he was mentally unstable, that she knew him well enough to know I could not handle what was in store. She seemed thrown aback when I told her I had known him longer than her and I was in it for the long haul.
When she could see I was not going anywhere, she switched tactics. Over the course of the next year, every single time she came over she would make negative comments about me and my mental illness, lecturing me that I needed to stop being lazy and do something with myself and my life. Whenever my fiance and I would both jump in to defend me and attempt to explain the disability diagnosis my doctors had given me, she would interject that she worked in mental health, too, and she “knew what she was talking about”. She worked in a mental health care adjacent position, as a glorified overnight babysitter at a facility that housed mentally or physically disabled adults, a job you didn’t even need a high school diploma or any certification to get, yet she swore repeatedly that she knew better than all my doctors over the years. She frequently trivialized my mental health writing as a waste of time and criticized everything from the cleanliness of my apartment to my cooking, as if nothing I did even remotely met her standards.
As if the constant attacks were not enough, she also was constantly attempting, albeit admittedly very poorly, to blatantly flirt with my fiance in front of me. She would try to run her fingers through his hair and insist he let her cut it, to which he would pull away and say I will cut his hair when he needs it done. When he stopped shaving for no shave November and the couple months afterwards, she commented repeatedly that he should shave because he looks so much better clean shaven, that she prefers him that way, even offering to do that for him, as well. She was forever reaching out to touch him, swat at him or rub him with her hand while she talked, trying to take sips out of his drinks like a girlfriend might do and regularly found excuses to lift her shirt or drop her pants in front of him under the pretense of showing off numerous bug bites and bruises. She would often announce wildly inappropriate things that people wouldn’t normally discuss with friends, like she had just shaved her nether regions or talk about having sex, watching porn or masturbation when she came over.
We tolerated much more than we should have because honestly we felt sorry for her. She was always desperate for attention and, according to her, her problems were always ten times worse than everyone else’s. For example, when we attempted to explain about my doctors finding my brain tumors, she cut us off by saying, “That’s nothing! Did I tell you I had to bring my car back to the shop again?!” as if car problems were somehow worse than brain tumors. She was loud, obnoxious, crass and crude with no concept of respect or boundaries, always saying or doing whatever she could think of to get all eyes on her. She was always talking badly about someone when she came over, usually my fiance’s ex-wife, even though she was supposedly still good friends with her, to the point where we began watching everything we said around her to avoid becoming part of her gossip. She also had severe substance abuse issues. In a year and a half of seeing her once to twice a week on average, I never once saw her even remotely sober regardless of the time of day – she was always drunk, high or both. We knew from everything she had talked about that things were bad for her at home, that her relationship was in shambles. A lot of people had written her off already over the years for her behavior but we understood that she had a lot of issues so we tried to cut her some extra slack.
I had tried my best to be kind to her. On more than one occasion, I took the time to show her sons my sugar gliders and explain more about them. I even watched her youngest once for over an hour while she ran an errand. If we had leftovers when she stopped by on her way to work, I would send her with a plate or bowl. She would regularly fill her purse from treats I had put out in snack bowls. I baked her family Christmas cookies and sent her with extra for both home and work. I once even lent her an old pair of pants that were too big on me so she had something clean for work when she stained her own. I listened sympathetically when she complained of relationship issues, health problems or other stresses, trying to extend an olive branch of friendship. I even did my best to overlook her steady barrage of flirtation with my fiance because I realized it must have been hard to see someone you crushed on for decades happily with someone else.
But despite all my attempts at kindness, both her attacks on me and her inappropriate flirtation with my fiance not only continued but steadily increased. What originally may have been one off-handed comment about her believing my disability was nonsense became full-fledged rants. She began making snippy and snide remarks and telling us to stop whenever my fiance and I were affectionate to each other as if she resented anyone else showing him attention or love. Over time, it had all became too much to bear. When my fiance and I began contemplating marriage, she declared we were not ALLOWED to both get married a second time because she had never even been married a first. When we officially announced our engagement, she responded by referring to me as (please excuse my language) his “fuck buddy”, saying outright that the only thing I did for him was give him my “roast beef curtains” and insist that he deserves better than me. That was the last straw and we agreed she was no longer welcome in our house or our lives.
For two weeks afterwards, she did not come around. Then late one night, well after one in the morning when we were already in bed, we heard a drunken knock at our kitchen window. We both knew exactly who it was because she was the only one we knew with the audacity to think that would be acceptable. I was livid and wanted him to tell her to leave immediately. He wanted to quietly let her in to avoid her making a drunken scene in our apartment building, to wait to tell her she was no longer welcome here another time, during more reasonable hours when she might be somewhat more sober and perhaps slightly more reasonable. Everything quickly escalated.
We were both beyond stressed at the time, not at all with each other but rather with life circumstances in general, topped off by our unwelcome, uninvited guest. Beyond all my own issues, he had been struggling terribly, as well. He had a lifelong battle with his own mental illness. In the last year, he had lost first his father then his job. The family dog that had been his parents’ for well over a decade had to be put down and he was struggling to keep his truck, one of his last physical connections to his deceased parents, on the road and in working order. We were both well beyond our breaking points on many fronts and the culmination of everything with her pushed us right over the edge. We fought terribly, something we don’t often do even in a mild sense. It may have been the worst fight of our entire relationship. Afterwards, I retreated to the bedroom to cry, locking the door so I could be alone.
I did not have any plans to commit suicide. The thought honestly had not even crossed my mind. I was not trying to hurt myself in any way. I loved my fiance and my children more than I could ever put into words and would never have wanted to hurt them in any way, either. I was hurt, angry and distraught over our fight, disgusted that we had tolerated someone so blatantly toxic for so long, and I was exhausted and overwhelmed with life in general. I just wanted to be alone, wanted to try to calm down, to catch my breath, to stop feeling like I was free-falling through a world where I was never allowed to just be happy, never allowed to just rest and be at peace.
I dumped the basket of pills out on the bed and fished out various bottles of my take-as-needed anti-anxiety medications. In between sobs, I took a few. Then I vomited.
Seeing the pills floating there on top, I took a few more to replace the ones I had lost. I continued to sob and to vomit. To vomit and to take more pills to replace the others.
At this point, I was no longer thinking clearly, caught in a nightmarish loop, wanting desperately just to calm down, to stop feeling like this, and to get some much needed rest.
Eventually, sleep came. I started to feel dizzy and thought to myself, “..finally.. they are starting to kick in..” It is the last thing I remember for almost two days.
I woke up a day and a half later in the hospital. He was seated at my bedside, looking ragged, like he hadn’t slept in days.
Baby! You’re awake! Oh my god I love you. I am so sorry about everything. How are you feeling? What do you remember?
I was confused and disoriented. On oxygen. Had a bunch of tubes and wires all over my body. It took me a few minutes to realize where I was and what was going on. I could not remember anything since taking the pills, crying and throwing up repeatedly. I was not even sure what day it was.
I can’t believe you don’t remember any of it. I had to kick down the door, to call the police.
My chest hurts.
I can only imagine. One of the cops did a sternum check, pushing really hard on your chest, hoping for a reaction to the pain. You were completely unresponsive.
My throat hurts.
You had tubes down your throat. They had to restrain you for a bit because you started to flail and grab at the tubes. You have no idea how much you scared me baby. What you looked like, laying there hooked up to all those machines, all those wires and tubes. I thought I was going to lose you. Please don’t ever scare me like that ever again.
I wanted to talk about it all, to explain, but my voice was raspy, my throat raw. It hurt to talk. I couldn’t stop coughing. I wanted to insist I hadn’t meant for any of this to happen, to swear I wasn’t suicidal like I had been all those years ago before we were even together. I wanted to apologize for scaring him, for fighting over stupid things like people who were inconsequential and irrelevant. All I could do though was cry as he held me close, my tears flowing freely with his.
I had lost a day and a half.
But more importantly, I tarnished our relationship in a way I can never take back. The sight of me laying there unresponsive, of being carted out on a stretcher, of my laying there as the doctors frantically worked to revive me, will forever haunt his nightmares.
I spent the next day in intensive care as they closely monitored my heart, followed by three days on a secure floor on suicide watch. Again and again, I tried to explain it all to whoever would listen, to insist I was not suicidal. However, protocol required a few days of observation no matter what was said.
My heart was constantly monitored, my vitals taken every few hours. My IV was moved numerous times as my veins collapsed and fresh bruises appeared up and down my arms. I was stuck in bed for the first couple days upstairs while I waited for nurses to find me clothes other than hospital gowns. The clothes I had arrived in had been cut off me in the emergency room when I arrived. I could not wear other clothes from home until after I was cleared for discharge.
I was not allowed many other items often taken for granted such as a phone charger or silverware. Well-intentioned staff reached out repeatedly to try to convince me life was worth living. Meanwhile, they rushed to confiscate any cans or other sharp items from meal trays and to take endless notes on everything I said and did to assist with my psychological evaluation. I had a constant companion, a nurse or aide to sit with me at all times to prevent me from possibly further harming myself. Though I was never by myself during those four days, I had a lot of time to lay in bed alone and think.
I was not suicidal but I have been in the past. I did not intent to harm myself, but I had in the past. Intentional this time or not, I found myself in the same place and, like my previous attempts in the past, it had not solved anything. On the contrary, it made everything much worse. It hurt the people I love, scared my fiance and my children to death.
I didn’t get any time to calm down, didn’t get that moment of peace I had desired so badly. The majority of the problems had not gone anywhere. I lost a day and a half, woke up in pain and discomfort only to face new problems created by my own actions.
I was extremely lucky just for the fact that I am still here to tell my story. I could have just as easily become a statistic that day. My story could have just as easily ended with my obituary, the words and questions of others left unanswered, adrift in the wind.
I cannot apologize enough for what I put everyone through. I feel stupid, ashamed, that I should have known better. There are no words that could adequately express my remorse. I would do anything to take back that night but there is nothing I could ever say or do that would erase the past.
I would love to say there is no excuse for my actions but when my depression and anxiety reach certain levels, I no longer always think clearly. I become increasingly overwhelmed, the world feels largely hopeless and I am no longer able to cope. Even when I am not actively suicidal, which I have not been for years now, I struggle regularly with suicidal ideation, not exactly wanting to die but no longer wanting to continue living my life the way it is, either. Though I never meant to fall apart like I had that day, unfortunately once I reach a certain point, I react before rationalizing the repercussions of my actions.
I would love to say there is an easy solution to this, that I could take a magic pill or think some happy thoughts and my mental illness would just fade away and disappear. I wish I could say it was a temporary phase even that I would eventually get over. My mental illness is caused in part by a genetic mutation. I was born with it and I will have it until the day I die. There is no cure for me. It is permanently hardwired into my genetics. I can receive therapy for past traumas and current issues, I can take medication to provide my brain with the chemicals my body cannot make itself, I can fill my coping toolbox with techniques and strategies for dealing with harder days and attend things like tai chi and yoga classes until the day I die. Yet I will always have a mental illness. It is a lifelong, permanent diagnosis for me.
Mental illness is my cross to bear. Though I truly appreciate that my loved ones are willing to stand by me and support me through my struggles with my mental health, it is not fair or right for them to suffer like they have for my diagnosis. Although I never intended to do so, I severely hurt everyone that matters to me. They all have tried to be compassionate and understanding, to forgive me for an illness that often wreaks havoc in my life, for a condition frequently beyond my control.
However, I am not sure I will ever be able to forgive myself.
Since getting out of the hospital, my fiance and I have not talked much about the incident beyond him being thankful that I am okay and asking me to please never scare him like that again. I have reassured my children that I am okay, as well, trying to minimalize the severity of it all to lessen their fears. Again, I wish there were some magic words I could say to take away the pain and panic in their eyes. I fear no apology will ever be enough.
It took almost a week before we could even sleep in our bedroom again. While I was in the hospital, he slept on the couch when he could sleep at all, the spilled pill bottles, vomit and towels still sitting where they were when the ambulance carted me away. I insisted on cleaning it up myself when I came home, my mess, my problem, but going into that room felt like crossing into an alternate nightmare dimension. Nevertheless, I fought my way through a bevy of anxiety attacks and breakdowns to clean it all up. Even after everything was cleared away, no trace remaining, we opted to sleep in the living room for the next week on our air mattress. We knew what had happened in there, we had lived through it, yet we were still not quite ready to fully face it.
The first couple nights that we returned to the bedroom, I couldn’t sleep at all. He continued to cling tightly to me all night while he slept, as he had done every single night since we returned home from the hospital, as if he was terrified that I would disappear forever if he let go for even a moment. I laid awake both nights, silently crying for the pain and fear I had placed in his heart. A month later, my anxiety still rises whenever I enter that room, my sleep restless and plagued by nightmares old and new.
I know I need to change many things, to put safeguards in place to prevent something like this from ever happening again. I cannot change the fact that I have a mental illness, but there are other things I can address, precautions I can take. I never want to hurt my loved ones like that ever again. For instance, no more locking myself away when I am upset. No more taking extra dosages of medication early, even if I have thrown up the dose I just took. No more tempting fate when I might be too emotionally irrational to think clearly.
I have a constant pressing need now to reassure him that I am okay, that he doesn’t have to worry. I catch him looking at me, watching me, more frequently now, and checking in on how I am feeling. We are trying to heal from this, to move forward, though I’m not sure we can ever completely move past it. He almost lost me that day. He is always going to worry just a little bit more now.
We have also agreed to remove certain toxic people completely from our lives, those who prefer to add drama and conflict rather than happiness and support. We learned the hard way that some people will take advantage of our kindness and tolerance, repaying us tenfold with cruelty and drama. The nail in the coffin of that childhood friendship was hearing from mutual friends that she had been going around laughing and bragging about “putting me in the hospital”, proud of the part she played in my breakdown. We will never again allow anyone like that into our lives. Whatever it takes to never find ourselves in that situation again.
Some people say that suicide is selfish because all it does is pass the pain onto others. Other people attempt to explain that those who make attempts just don’t want to hurt anymore themselves. Many nowadays recognize that suicide is often a tragic byproduct of mental illness. I have been suicidal. I have been in those moments of desperately wanting the pain to stop. I have had suicidal attempts in my past and now an unintentional attempt because I was upset, irrational and not thinking clearly. I have lost loved ones to suicide, and known others who have lost people they loved deeply, as well, so I understand all too well how devastating it can be from the outside looking in. Regardless of where you fit in the equation, suicide is always heart-wrenching and tragic.
One thing I can tell you, whether you are suicidal or not, whether your attempt is intentional or not, the result is always the same. Pain. Pain for everyone you love, everyone who loves you. Pain for yourself should you survive. And not just physical pain from tubes and tests and IVs. Emotional pain as you see that haunted look in their eyes, that kernel of doubt that appears every time afterwards that you insist you’re okay. Pain that will continue for years, that will likely never go away, whether you’re around to see it or not.
Pain and overwhelming loss for everyone who has ever cared for you. They will never be the same. You might carry physical scars from your attempt, but theirs will run much deeper and never fully heal. Those close to you will retrace all your interactions, looking for signs, real or imaginary, to explain what happened. They will question whether they should have said this or should not have said that. People who you have not seen in ages will question if they should have reached out, as if they could have magically known things were bad and somehow made a difference. They will all blame themselves for your actions and choices. Whether you die or not, they will be forever haunted by that one choice you made, something completely beyond their control. Yet, in their pain, they will embrace that blame, caught in a cycle of imagining every scenario that could have prevented it.
To those contemplating suicide or just on that edge of not being able to cope with life anymore, please know that I understand completely how hard it can feel, especially when you’re struggling with mental illness. You are not alone. But I wouldn’t wish the kind of pain I caused on anyone, not my worst enemy, not my loved ones or yours. Once it has happened, though, you cannot ever take it back. Even if they don’t lose you, your relationships will never be the same. I cannot change the pain I’ve caused, but perhaps, by sharing my story, you can spare your loved ones from the same fate.
Please be careful. Be careful with yourself and be careful with your loved ones. Life is a fragile thing, a light that can be snuffed out in a moment. It may be hard sometimes, downright unfair. But life is also precious. As is love. Don’t take either for granted.
I know all too well that mental illnesses are rarely rational. When we are upset, we often react based on pure emotion. So take precautions now, during the calm before the next storm. Do not leave ways to harm yourself readily accessible when you might find yourself too emotional to think rationally. Don’t set yourself up to fail or to hurt yourself or those you love.
I thankfully am very lucky to still be sitting here, able to share my story. Many others have tragically lost their battles with mental illness without ever having a chance to tell their tale. Their stories are told in yearly mental health statistics and on memorial pages created by those they left behind. We’re all in this boat together and we only have two choices. We can either become a statistic or we can keep going, keep fighting, and find some way to make a difference in this world, even if only to show others that it is possible to survive our diagnosis. There are too many mental health statistics and enough pain already in this world. If we have to choose anything, let’s choose life and love.
Much love, compassion, hope and faith that even if this does not find you well, it finds you strong enough to keep living. ❤
Everywhere you look nowadays, you see stories about Ariana Grande’s whirlwind romance with Pete Davidson. And almost everyone seems to want to put in their two cents on the matter, claiming everything from the fact that they’re too young to they’re moving too fast. So many opinions abound.
More than anything, though, I keep seeing people chiming in about the fact that they both have mental illnesses that they have spoken publicly about, as if their illnesses play a large part in their relationship in some negative way. Ariana Grande has spoken out about her struggles with anxiety and post-traumatic stress disorder. Pete Davidson has shared his experiences with borderline personality disorder. Yes, they both have mental illnesses but they also have found love. And two people loving each other is not a bad thing.
There are many people that buy into the stigma surrounding mental illness, assuming that everyone struggling with one is crazy, unbalanced or even dangerous. Some assume that nobody can have a healthy relationship while they have an unhealthy mind and that two mentally ill people coming together is a recipe for disaster.
I once even had a friend tell me specifically that “two unhealthy people cannot have a healthy relationship”. Based on their premise, because I have a lifelong mental illness diagnosis that has its roots in my genetics, I have no hope of having a healthy relationship, especially if I fall in love with someone else who is struggling with an illness, as well. If he were to be believed, I was destined to be alone.
As someone who struggles with mental illness who is in a relationship with someone else who is mentally ill, as well, I can tell you from my own personal experience that is not the case.
I have depression, anxiety and PTSD. He has been diagnosed with bipolar disorder and PTSD. We have both struggled with our illnesses for years, even being hospitalized for breakdowns at different points in our lives. Yet, in each other we have found a love unlike anything either of us had ever experienced before.
We knew each other years ago as children. He was my older brother’s best friend for a time and my first crush. In our teens, life sent us in different directions and we lost touch for many years. We found each other again a year and a half ago, after twenty five years apart, and sparks flew.
Like Ariana Grande and Pete Davidson, we’ve had people look at our relationship with judgment because we moved so fast. He found me online again, listed as a friend of a friend he might know and we reconnected. For two days, we talked non-stop whenever we had a moment to spare. On the third day, we arranged to get together in person. We’ve been together ever since. As they often say “the rest is history”.
A month and a half later, we found ourselves living together. We hadn’t planned it that way honestly. His father had inoperable end-stage cancer and was placed in hospice. There was no way I was going to leave his side for even a moment and make him endure that alone. I had lost my own father to cancer a few years earlier, following his own brief stay in hospice. Going through that together brought us even closer.
All the people from the outside looking in saw were two people who jumped ridiculously fast into a relationship. They don’t realize that we knew each other as children and had a pre-existing familiarity and closeness that was brought back to the surface again. The don’t accept that facing hardships together as we had done brings people closer. They don’t consider that we have physically spent more time together in the last year and a half together than some couples have after dating for years. They don’t see how we are with each other behind closed doors and how close we’ve continued to grow with each passing day. Some people come directly from a place of judgment and automatically think it’s irrational to be so serious after such a short time. Or worse, they label our choices as “crazy”, as if our love was just another way our mental illnesses have presented themselves.
Because of our mental illnesses, we’ve both always felt different, broken, damaged. We both never felt we quite fit in or that anyone else could truly understand what we’re going through. We’ve both felt so lost and that life should not be this hard. We both have struggled for years to stay positive when it felt like our world was spiraling down into a dark abyss. We both had numerous people in our lives who just couldn’t understand, who told us it was all in our heads, that we just needed to get over it and suck it up.
The difference now is that we both have someone we can talk to about everything we’ve been through. Someone who truly gets it because they have been there themselves. Someone who listens without judgment because they understand all too well how much that judgment hurts. Someone who sees us not as damaged and broken, but for the big hearts and beautiful souls we have inside.
With that level of love and acceptance comes an incredibly strong bond.
We’re able to open up to one another and talk on a level that we never had before, to share experiences and traumas we’ve kept to ourselves for years. In each other, we’ve found the one person we can completely be ourselves with, say anything to, without fear of rejection.
We both have a portion of our mental illness that is unique to us. I have a generalized anxiety disorder and he has bipolar disorder. Though I have not struggled with his disorder myself, my mother had bipolar disorder so I had some experience with his illness, at least from the outside looking in. We have patiently explained to one another everything the other didn’t understand and offered tips to one another for how to support us when we are struggling. We listen intently to each other and are supportive to each other because we both know very well how it feels to have nobody there who understands.
The depression side of his disorder I understand all too well. The manic side not so much, though I had learned early on in life to spot the shifts in my mother because she shared his diagnosis. When he has a manic episode, I am always there to offer support and encouragement. He often becomes hyper-focused on one task or another and I intervene to make sure he does not lose himself, putting off self-care and disregarding his basic needs like eating. On the rare occasion that his mania presents itself as rage, I do my best to deescalate the situation in a non-confrontational way. No matter how his mania presents itself, I offer a calming presence to soothe him and bring him back down again, often rubbing his back, head and shoulders to help him relax.
When my anxiety makes me think irrationally, he is there to talk me down, to help me see reason. Following anxiety attacks, when I desperately just need the quiet presence of someone else, he holds me closely without judgment and reassures me everything is okay.
Depression hits us both pretty hard. In the past, we’ve both dealt with people who never understood and who insisted it was all in our heads. But we both know the signs. We can see in each other when our depression is raging strong. And we are both there for each other how we always wished someone would have been there for us for all those years. We are gentle, kind and compassionate with each other because we’ve been there ourselves and we understand how hard it can be.
We both are plagued by PTSD, as well. Nightmares of past trauma are especially hard for us both. When either of us is battling the demons of our past, the other can see the signs, intervene and offer comfort and support. When our pasts are haunting us, we can talk openly about it on a level that we never were able to with anyone else.
On days either or both of us are struggling particularly hard, we have learned to lean on each other without judgment. We each pick up where the other leaves off. We have developed an ever-shifting balance in our relationship. On days we both are struggling, we curl up together and lean on each other for comfort.
We cheer each other on for our successes and support each other in our struggles. We encourage each other to stay strong, to keep fighting and to get the treatment we each need. Neither one of us judges the other for the ways our illnesses present themselves because we understand all too well and empathize with each other on every level. We not only offer each other support but we’ve become proactive in each other’s treatment, as well. We’ve attended doctors appointments with each other and helped bring up concerns the other may not have noticed or may have been too uncomfortable to discuss. We love and support each other in every way.
Yes, we jumped into a relationship that became serious relatively quickly. But it was not because our mental illnesses had us thinking irrationally. In each other, we saw someone who finally understood everything we had been battling our entire lives. In each other, we found that one person who could accept us completely for who we were, loving us not despite our mental illnesses but because of every single thing, mental illnesses included, that made us who we were. In each other, we discovered what we had been needing, what we had been missing, our entire lives. Pure unconditional love.
When you find something like that you don’t question it. You don’t hold back, think on it or weigh options. You thank the heavens for placing someone in your life and in your path that makes you finally feel not just that it’s okay to be you but that there’s not a single other person in this world you’d rather be. You run with it and you love them back completely because life is short. We have to make the most of it. And a love like this is too good to pass up.
Yes, we may lean on each other more than others do because of our conditions, but that doesn’t make our relationship unhealthy. We give each other exactly what we each need. We might both have mental illnesses, but we both are so much more than our diagnosis. And now we are both blessed to have found someone who can truly see that.
After all, mental illness is just another medical diagnosis and one that is largely treatable. The only thing that makes mental illness different from other illnesses is that it presents itself in the brain instead of the body so it’s not as easily visible. People with different medical conditions live their lives and find love every single day. Those with a mental illness are no different. People who have a mental illness are just as worthy and deserving of love as anyone else.
So please don’t judge others, or their relationships, based on the fact that one or both of them have a mental illness. Don’t let the overwhelming stigma surrounding mental illness turn you into a naysayer that pronounces doom and gloom on two people in love just because they both happen to share a similar medical condition. Instead, celebrate that, despite the fact that there are millions of people walking this earth, they were able to find that one person who loves them completely for who they are.
Republished on The Mighty on 6/28/18.
Republished on Yahoo Lifestyle on 6/28/18.
Republished on Yahoo News – Canada on 6/28/18.
Republished on Yahoo News – India on 6/28/18.
Anxiety is often irrational but the fact that it does not always readily make sense does not stop it from rearing its ugly head.
Sometimes all it takes is something going badly once. Every single time I’m in a similar situation afterwards, my anxiety is heightened and part of me fears that something bad will inevitably occur again. Other times, I can have something bad occur repeatedly and nothing is ever triggered. Each new time something bad happens again, I find myself honestly surprised at the outcome.
There’s no rhyme or reason to which will occur. It is not based on the severity of the bad result. It is not based on how pivotal the event was to my life. Though I have struggled for years to understand my anxiety and pinpoint what causes it, I have not been able to discern any common factors to make it easier to predict my anxiety in the future.
A recent example of how my anxiety presents itself occurred a couple weeks ago. While preparing to shave my legs in the shower, I found a tick on my leg just below my kneecap. Thankfully, he didn’t appear to have been there for long. I was able to get him out fairly quickly and easily. There have been no rashes or bullseye rings around the site since then to warn of conditions such as Lyme disease. All in all, I was pretty lucky. The whole situation was resolved quickly and without further or lasting complications.
This was my first experience finding a tick on myself in my lifetime. It obviously was an isolated occurrence, unlikely to be repeated again any time soon. I don’t spend a lot of time in wooded areas or anything where I’d be likely to pick up another tick. Yet every time I have stepped in the shower since then, my anxiety easily goes up two points.
Whenever I step into the shower now my heart starts to race. Though I begin an inner monologue telling myself that I am just being silly and paranoid, I can feel my chest start to tighten. I stand under the stream of water, close my eyes and practice my conscious breathing techniques trying to calm myself back down. I struggle to fight the urge to scour every inch of my skin again and again looking for other ticks.
I know it is irrational. I know my anxiety in this situation makes no sense. I know that, logically, I am highly unlikely to find another tick even upon a thorough inspection. I know it was an isolated incident. But logic plays no part in how my mind and my body begin to react in these situations.
I don’t even know if my anxiety in this particular situation will fade somewhat over time or if it will continue to grow. Sometimes my situational anxiety will dull somewhat over the course of time. Other times, however, it remains consistent or even grows and expands upon itself, merging with other anxieties over time. Again, I have never been able to find any rhyme, reason or pattern to how my anxiety presents itself. There’s no way to predict what lies ahead.
All I know is that, thanks to one random, errant tick, I have become increasingly apprehensive about taking my showers over the last couple weeks. And I know that as much as I try to be rational and reason with myself, I cannot rationalize with my anxiety. It comes and goes as it pleases, always leaving a mess in its wake.
That has always been one of my biggest issues with explaining my anxiety to other people. Everyone always attempts to apply logic to the situation to “help me see how ridiculous my anxiety is”. You cannot rationalize the irrational.
Though sometimes portions of my anxiety will eventually fade over time, I have carried others with me for decades. A good portion of my anxiety revolves around never truly feeling safe. In this aspect, it has merged with my PTSD because in my head security equates to safety. Due in a large part to the abuses of my past, I have noticed that I subconsciously react to my anxiety over not feeling safe in many ways. For example, I always leave my shower curtain somewhat ajar so I can see the pathway directly to the door. I often find myself jumpy and apprehensive when seated with my back to doorways because I carry within myself an ever-present fear of someone approaching me unaware. I check locks repeatedly, especially before going to bed, because I cannot relax, get comfortable or fall asleep if I am even the slightest bit anxious about my safety.
I have not experienced anything in the scope of sexual abuse or physical abuse since I was a child that would warrant such anxiety. There is no rational explanation for why I need to have a clear view of the door from my shower or why I must watch the pathways to my location like a hawk. It has been decades since I have had anything happen and I am no longer that little child who cannot fend for herself. But my body and mind will not accept that reality as fact. To this day, whenever I am presented with certain situations, my anxiety is automatically heightened. It doesn’t matter that it is irrational. It doesn’t matter that I can even clearly see that the situation is irrational and call myself on it. My mind and body still react as if there is something to fear.
I understand that others mean well when they try to reassure me that there really is nothing to worry about or make comments about my overreacting. I’m aware of that fact myself. But they might as well be telling me the sky is blue because I can see that, as well, yet I have as little control over that as I do over my anxiety. There is nothing anyone else could say to me that I have not said to myself a hundred times over. I know somewhere within myself that it is irrational. But that does not stop my mind and my body from reacting as if it was the most rational thing in the world.
I don’t need anyone else to tell me that my anxiety is often irrational. Trust me, I have those bases well covered. What I need more than anything is compassion and understanding, along with acknowledgement that I am doing my best to use everything I possess in my mental wellness toolbox to soothe myself and bring myself back down out of a panic. I know my anxiety is often irrational. Please believe my when I say I am not doing it intentionally to make my own life or anyone else’s harder. It is a mental illness. I have virtually no control over how my mind and body react in certain situations. The last thing I need is judgment or lectures about how I just need to be more rational and calm down. Because let’s face it – You cannot reason with something that is unreasonable. You cannot rationalize the irrational. All the common sense in the world will not negate anxiety. It is a medical condition.
This last week has been yet another stark reminder of how differently people view and react to mental illnesses versus physical ones, especially in medical settings like the emergency room.
Please bear in mind that I am by no means a frequent flyer in the emergency room. The last time I was in the E.R. was about two years ago when I had a large cyst and tissue growth on my left ovary that had twisted and contorted it, causing severe pain. I was in no way crying wolf or looking for attention. My E.R. visit resulted in a surgical referral and the removal of that ovary.
My mother was a hypochondriac. She had doctors for everything and scheduled appointments with specialists on the drop of a dime. Somewhere along the way in my journey to not become her, I became the polar opposite in that aspect. I avoided doctors and only sought medical treatment as a last resort. I once tried to walk off appendicitis for a few hours as bad stomach cramps. On some level, I know it is irrational and that I need to make my health a bigger priority, but I still struggle to go to the doctor unless it is absolutely necessary.
Last week, I had a bit of a scare. I had gotten upset after a spat with my partner and had gone for a walk to calm down and clear my head. Somewhere along the way, though, my head began to hurt and spin. I knew I was upset but the details felt distant and fuzzy, as if the facts were lost in my head somewhere yet I was unable to access them. The harder I tried to root out facts, the more my head spun and the more confused I felt.
While I do struggle often with losing numbers, words or specific facts as a result of my mental illness and have also had memory issues following anxiety attacks and PTSD flashbacks as well, I have never experienced anything like this before. When I realized I could not even recall my own name, it sent me into a panic. I knew something was seriously wrong so went into the first business I saw and asked the clerk to call 911 for help.
An ambulance arrived to take me to the hospital. Their initial fear was a stroke. They started running multiple tests and sent me for a CT scan. As tests began to come back ruling out the prognosis of a stroke, the demeanor of the staff treating me began to change drastically.
Their next possible prognosis was that it was purely a mental issue or that I was lying about the severity of my condition, putting on some sort of act for attention. Despite the fact that I was visibly agitated and distressed at being unable to recall even basic facts, their demeanor changed. All of a sudden, they became outright accusatory and began to question whether I was telling the truth. One nurse went so far as to tell me point blank that they would have to start doing uncomfortable and painful tests, including taking my temperature rectally, putting in a catheter for a clean urine sample (though I had given them one in a cup not twenty minutes prior) or even putting a needle in my back to withdraw fluids for tests “unless I had something I wanted to confess”.
As I laid there in a state of panic not because of the possible upcoming uncomfortable tests but rather because my brain just was not working like it should, I could hear that nurse at the desk nearby laughing with her coworkers about how she was “going to get a rectal thermometer and make me talk”, the results of my CT scan came back.
It turns out that I have two meningioma on my brain, tumors between the surface of my brain and the inside of my skull. The larger of the two is in the falx region, in the front of my head, which deals with memory. The smaller of the two is in the middle, presiding predominantly over balance.
Neither was particularly large thankfully, but when housed in the small space between my brain and skull, even smaller tumors could cause issues. Apparently in my already agitated state following the spat with my partner earlier, there must have been just enough pressure put on the memory portion of my brain to cause a temporary memory loss.
The whole demeanor of the staff treating me shifted once again, becoming very serious and somber. They gave me some sedatives and anti-anxiety medication to calm me and slowly the fog began to clear. They began bringing in paperwork and test results for me to bring to my primary doctor to get a referral for a neurologist, stressing the urgency of the situation. Though they informed me that something like eighty percent of meningiomas are benign, even benign tumors continue to grow and could cause temporary or even lasting damage to my brain if left untreated. Ultimately, I’ll need surgery regardless of whether biopsy results conclude the tumors are benign or malignant.
The whole situation made me nauseous, even beyond the fact that I have tumors on my brain. Just the fact that I was only taken seriously when they feared for a physical condition like a stroke or when the tumors were found on my brain was appalling. As I had mentioned earlier, I have had memory issues related to my mental illness in the past, though thankfully never quite to this extent before. However, following PTSD flashbacks or severe anxiety attacks, my brain is always fuzzy and muddled, as well, and I often have periods of impaired memory afterwards. The fact that professionally trained medical staff at an emergency room would treat any condition they believed had a mental origin less seriously, let alone as a joke, is beyond disgusting to me.
I did not make a scene or call them out on their obviously shifting behavior, in part because the very idea that I had tumors growing on my brain left me in a state of shock. Even more so, like many others struggling with mental illness, I have sadly become accustomed to my mental health not being taken seriously. However, it is deeply disconcerting to me that emergency personnel at a hospital would be so openly cavalier about anyone’s mental health, treating their patients as a joke.
I walked away from this situation with a few distinct feelings and thoughts in my head. First and foremost, I have a newfound anxiety and wariness about going anywhere alone until this is resolved, particularly when upset. I was lucky that I was in an area with easy access to other people and was blessed to have maintained enough reason to know to ask for help. But I carry with me now an ever-present fear that next time I might not be as lucky, especially considering that I regularly operate under conditions of extreme anxiety and depression due to my mental illness.
I also am distinctly aware of all the unknowns in my foreseeable future. I am not sure exactly where I go from here. I understand the basics. Get a neurology referral, get an MRI, get a biopsy, have surgery, possibly radiation if needed. But I have no idea of the time frames of anything just yet and probably won’t until tests and biopsies start coming back. I don’t deal well with the unknown. Not being able to plan to any degree heightens my anxiety to dangerous levels.
There is a strange sense of underlying optimism, as well. Somehow I know I will get through this, that I’m a tough cookie. I come from strong stock. Both my parents survived multiple types of cancer and other ailments before they passed. My time is not up yet. I have too much left to do. I have a lot of fight left in me.
However, I am very aware of the fear growing inside me, too. Cancer scares me to the core. I remember going to the hospital day after day when my mother had part of her lung removed due to lung cancer, watching her fade in and out in the CCU, not sure whether she would make it or not. I remember reconnecting with my father just in time to watch cancer wreak havoc on his body, going through repeated cycles of surgeries and chemotherapy. His cancer always seemed to be one step ahead, reappearing again and again in different areas until it eventually killed him. I’ve seen cancer eat away at and kill multiple friends over the years, as well. Cancer is, by far, my biggest fear and it is now on my doorstep.
More than anything, though, I came away from this with a harsh reminder of the stigma that still surrounds mental illness, even in medical facilities. When they believed my issue was a mental one, I was a joke they saw fit to threaten with unneeded, uncomfortable and painful tests as a way to get me to “come around”, expecting my condition to magically cure itself and disappear under threats of unpleasantness. It took finding tumors on my brain, something they could physically see, for my condition to finally be taken seriously.
Republished on The Mighty on 6/17/18.
Republished on Yahoo Lifestyle on 6/17/18.
Republished on Yahoo Finance on 6/17/18.
Republished on Yahoo Sports on 6/17/18.
A couple years ago, right around my birthday, I began to write. My life had begun unraveling yet again and I clung to my words as someone drowning might cling to debris floating downstream, hoping something, anything, might keep me afloat and stop me from going under.
It began with a book about my own experiences. Sink or swim, live or die, I didn’t want the truth of my story going down with me. But a miraculous thing happened as I threw my words out into the wind – I was finally heard. For the first time in my life, I was heard. Even more miraculously, words floated back to me, telling me that others understood, others had been there, that I was not alone.
And it saved my life.
Knowing that I wasn’t broken, wasn’t crazy, wasn’t alone in all the world gave me renewed strength to fight, to keep going, to not give up. In that moment I was forever changed.
I suppose some could have dusted themselves off, walked away, and continued on with their lives, grateful for another chance at life. But I couldn’t. I had a lifetime of silence to make amends for, over forty years of pain to release. Once I got to the shore, I added my voice to the collective.
For years, I had drifted along seemingly alone, being pulled under, almost drowning, again and again. Those voices that reached out to me from the shore, other survivors who encouraged me to just keep swimming, showed me I was never as alone as I had believed. If there were others on the shore, there had to be others in the water, as well. Others who needed to know they were not alone, either. Others who needed encouragement and empathy to keep fighting and not give up.
I had this overwhelming urgency to pay it forward.
I began writing more often, sharing the gritty truth of what it was like to live with mental illness. I also began speaking out more and more about fighting stigma and discrimination. I was like Ebenezer Scrooge, awoken on Christmas morning to see the world in a whole new light. It was not too late for me. My story wasn’t over. I could still make a difference in the world.
How have I endured in regards to my newfound passion?
Though personally, I’d consider my venture into writing over the past two years a huge success, I know many would consider it middling at best. I have a handful of books about mental illness and mental health published and others in the works. I have an active blog, averaging 2-4 new pieces a month. Many of my blogs have been republished elsewhere, most notably The Mighty who has republished well over 35 to date with others sitting in a queue, earmarked and waiting to go live. I have been on my local NBC news station for an interview about my book. My pieces have been discussed by television and radio stations as far away as Australia and have been shared by advocacy groups, private practices, schools and government agencies in one hundred different countries around the world – that I know of, at least, according to the stats page on my personal blog. I have a milestones page filled with events in my short writing career I would have never dreamed possible a few years ago.
The majority of the people who have read my writing have read blogs that have been published and republished for free. I do sell a book or two here and there, as well as an occasional anxiety chart poster, but it is nowhere near enough to make a living from or to pay any of my bills. As much as I would love to make a living at this, doing what I have come to love, I am not sure whether it will ever be in the cards for me. Why, then, do I keep writing?
I write to make a difference. My voice might not travel far – mental illness is a very niche topic that is unlikely to ever truly go viral – but I have seen firsthand that my writing is reaching others. I see it in the messages sent to my inbox, thanking me for putting their own struggles into words. I see it whenever someone else tags someone they know on one of my pieces, trying to help them better understand. I see it every time any group, organization or agency who works with the mentally ill shares my writing.
Admittedly, even two years later, it all still feels surreal and makes my eyes water. I still feel honored and humbled every time anyone reads my words and relates, reads my words and shares them with others. I truly feel blessed. It has in many ways become my calling.
But still, in a day and age ruled by the almighty dollar, why continue devoting so much time and energy to something that can’t even pay the bills?
The answer is simple – I write because I know I can make a difference.
I don’t ever imagine I will be world famous and renowned. I am honestly beyond amazed that my writing has reached as many people as it has. I know I won’t be able to save everyone, to make a difference in everyone’s life, but I am making a difference in some people’s and that is enough for me.
I am reminded of a bittersweet story about a young child walking along the ocean shore after a big storm. It comes from a book called The Star Thrower by Loren C. Eiseley. This young child walked along the beach, one by one throwing starfish that had washed ashore back into the ocean. After some time, an old man approached the young girl, asking her why she was wasting her time, telling her there was no way she could ever save all the starfish that had been washed ashore. At first, the young girl was discouraged but that feeling only lasted a moment. Then she picked up another starfish at her feet, returned it to the ocean and proudly proclaimed that at least she made a difference to that one.
I relate so very strongly to that little girl. I cannot save everyone. I know that. But I am determined to keep writing, keep making a difference, continue to help others as much as I can. Even if my words only touch one life here or there, I have made a difference in the world. I have left an impact and made the world a better place than it was before. And that is enough for me.