My Fiance Reached Out For Help

My fiance set up a GoFundMe today.

While crowdfunding is commonplace today, and I know that everyone needs help sometimes, it eats at me because I cannot help but feel that it is, at least in part, my fault.

We are struggling because my depression is too bad to work. We are struggling because the tumors in my brain have me off kilter, forgetting things, losing my balance, struggling to take care of myself. We are struggling because I’m too much of a mess to help him.

I know on some level that is my depression talking.

I know that I have a bad tendency to blame myself for everything.

I know that I, myself, have trouble asking for help even when it is desperately needed, that I still delude myself into believing that asking for help shows weakness and loathe the feeling that his being with me has somehow sapped the strength from him to the point where he needs to ask for help.

I am struggling not to blame myself.

I feel the constant need to apologize. To apologize for letting him down, for being too much of a mess, for putting him in this position at all. I feel I need to apologize for not being enough, to apologize for being a burden, to apologize simply for being me.

He has not placed any blame on me himself.

He quietly listed things he loves for sale and somberly set up a GoFundMe.

All because he loves me and is trying to keep things afloat.

He might not blame me but I cannot help but blame myself.

I blame myself because part of me can’t help but feel like I should be stronger, better, more able to help.

I can’t help but be afraid, terrified that this might be the death of us, that one day he’ll wake up and decide he can do better, that he deserves better, that he wants more than I can give.

I know that’s my depression and anxiety, too, but it’s a fear that eats at my heart and chips away at my self-esteem. I love him more than words could ever express yet I can’t help but feel useless, worthless, no good for him, no good for anyone, even myself. I wouldn’t blame him for wanting more than me or just not wanting me for that matter.

Usually when people reach out for help, they are hopeful for the future. There may be fear and dread driving them, yet the underlying hope remains.

I cannot seem to find any hope though.

On some level, I know it’s not fair to blame myself. I had no control over his parents passing away, yet I blame myself for not being there for him more, for not being able to help him heal more. His back injury predates our reconnection, yet I beat myself up that no amount of massage seems to make it better.  Realistically, even my mental illness is not my fault. I didn’t ask to be sick. I didn’t ask to struggle so badly to function at all.

My fiance reached out for help today and my depression has me convinced it is all my fault.  I desperately want to believe, to hope. I yearn for that feeling that things might turn out okay. Unfortunately, my depression has left me with nothing but hopelessness and dread.

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Art Therapy For Depression

pumpkins

I made some paper mache pumpkins today.  It wasn’t that I was feeling particularly cheerful or festive.  It is that creating art helps me cope with my depression.  Art has become one of my favorite and most used self-care techniques in my mental wellness toolbox.

When I am struggling under the weight of my own emotions, I often write about the impact my illness has on my life.  When I am feeling numb, I prefer crafts that are multi-dimensional and messy, so I can feel with my hands even if I cannot feel with my heart.  When my life feels dark and hopeless, I use bright colors.  When I feel lost and alone, I create with warm hues, hoping to dd warmth into my life.  No matter how my depression distorts my perceptions, there is a way to combat it with art.

Some people assume that if I am well enough to create art, I must not be struggling too badly.  Honestly, the opposite is true.  I have found that I create the most, and the projects with the deepest personal meanings, when I am struggling the worst.  I use artistic expression as my lifeline back to reality.  It is the life preserver that keeps me from drowning in even the roughest of storms.

When someone is struggling with depression, the world feels dark and bleak, devoid of any glimmer of light, hope or goodness.  There is no beauty in depression.  So it helps me to create something beautiful out of my despair.  In my artwork, I am reminded that there is more to the world than darkness.

When someone is suffering from depression, the feelings can be overwhelming.  You are often raw and feel everything too deeply.  You feel like you are drowning in pain and anguish.  It helps creating something that will express what I am feeling inside, to release some of the agony that is consuming me.  As a wise Ogre once said, “Better out than in”.

When someone has been diagnosed with depression, it seeps into every corner of their consciousness.  It is exhausting and overwhelming.  It often feels like there is no escape from the prison of your own mind.  It helps to create something that can distract me from everything going on within myself.  When the creative juices are flowing, it is easy to forget for even a little while the weight of this illness on my shoulders.

When someone suffers from depression, they often feel they have no control over anything in their lives anymore.  You often feel like you are on a runaway train, with no way to slow down, stop or get off.  You are held hostage, just along for the ride.  It helps me to create something artistic because it gives me back some control.  My artwork is in my hands.  I choose what to make and which direction to take it.

When someone is struggling with depression, they often feel useless, like an utter waste of space.  Depression distorts reality and destroys self-esteem.  You feel as if you can do nothing right and that everything you touch will become damaged, tainted and tarnished by your very presence.  It helps me to create things because art is about expression, not perfection.  There is no right or wrong so even when I am feeling like a complete failure, I cannot mess up my art.

When someone who has depression feels isolated and misunderstood, it is common to feel all alone in the world.  It can feel like no one is there, nobody cares, no one could possibly understand what you are going through.  It helps me to create things I can show others, share with them, to create something to bring them back into my circle, back into my life.  Art brings people together.  It starts a dialogue where otherwise there would be silence.

There are times when someone who is suffering from depression is at a loss for words to explain how they are feeling.  You might not even be sure what you are depressed about, only that those feelings are there.  It helps to create things not only so that I can work through and understand my own feelings, but so that I can help explain it to others, as well.  Art doesn’t have to be neat and easily explained.  Art can be a messy, jumbled mess and still get its point across.

There are many reasons I create, a multitude of reasons why art comforts my mind and soothes my soul.  Using art to combat depression isn’t about clear and concise thoughts, raw talent or creating masterpieces.  It is about letting emotions out, replacing the darkness with some light and adding your own brand of beauty and creativity into the world.  Art is a wonderful tool for mindfulness because it brings you back into the moment, back to reality to focus on the here and now.

When the world feels broken and hopeless and you feel lost and alone, it might feel impossible to find the motivation to create.  Use your illness as inspiration.  Put into your words or on your canvas how you are feeling inside.  Share everything you wish others knew.  It doesn’t have to be perfect, or even coherent and understandable to anyone but you.  It can be raw and painful, mirroring how you feel inside.  If you have the urge to express how you are feeling through your artwork, don’t hold yourself back.  Art is about letting your feelings flow.

You don’t have to create based on the negativity of your depression, either, because you are so much more than your depression.  The beauty of art if that you are only restricted by your own imagination.  The world around you is full of inspiration.  Look to the future for upcoming holidays and events.  Look to the past for cherished memories.  Take inspiration from friends and family or beloved pets.  Open a window into the nature outside or look to the heavens above.  Revisit your favorite book, movie or television show.  Pick a color that calls to you or an abstract thought and run with it.  Find your inspiration in something beautiful, something that reminds you of light, happiness and hope.

You don’t need to overthink art.  Don’t question things.  There is no right or wrong.  Just go with the flow.  Focus on the here and now and the creative process.  Put yourself into your art, the person you are at this very moment or the person you wish you could be.  Art is also about possibilities.  You start with a blank canvas or empty page.  As you create, open yourself up not only to everything your art can become but everything you can become, as well.  Remind yourself that you are more than your diagnosis.  You are many things, many pieces that are not as dark, bleak and hopeless as your depression makes you feel.  You are an artist!

I created some paper mache pumpkins today.  Those pumpkins might not seem like much, but they helped me get through another rough day.  Though it by no means cured my depression, it gave me a much-needed reprieve from my struggles and a way to add some beauty to a world that would otherwise feel dark and bleak.  Art might not be a panacea, but it is a useful crutch that can help get you through the hardest of times, making you feel stronger at a time when you otherwise might not be able to stand on your own.

Changing My Perspective On My Mental Illness Saved My Life

I have struggled my entire life with mental illness.  Unlike some people whose mental illness has an origin that can be pinpointed to a specific life event, mine is caused in part by a genetic mutation.  It has always been there to varying degrees.  I have always struggled.

Thanks to that same genetic mutation, I have always been considered treatment-resistant, as well.  No medication I ever took seemed to even touch the darkness I carried inside me.  This mutation affected the way the neurotransmitters in my brain worked so I never received the chemicals that I desperately needed, whether made naturally or prescribed,  in any useful amount.

For over forty years of my life, I struggled to function while feeling inherently broken and flawed without ever understanding why.  Discovering the existence of my genetic mutation helped me see my mental illness in a new light and put me on a new path of self-love and acceptance.  There were ways to treat my mutation.  I no longer had to be classified as “treatment resistant” and pushed aside as a hopeless case.  I no longer had to stagnate through life, a broken shell going through the motions while barely existing.

Please know that I am not touting any magical cure for mental illness.  I am also not trying to push that stigma-fueled misconception that if you just try harder, you can somehow vanquish your mental illness by force of will alone.  My mental illness is still very much present and ongoing treatment is still needed.  But the way I have come to view my mental illness has drastically changed and, in many ways, it has been both a world-changer and life-saver for me.

I no longer blame myself for my mental illness.  I used to believe I was damaged and broken, that I was crazy on some core level, unbalanced and just not right in the head.  I had downed gallons of that stigma kool-aid, poisoning myself with the idea that I must just not be trying hard enough, that I was somehow doing this to myself.

I now accept that it is a verifiable illness and one that is largely treatable.  I have accepted that I am no more responsible for my illness than a cancer patient would be for their condition.  It is a medical diagnosis that affects people of all walks of life regardless of their race, religion, gender identity, age or socio-economic status.  I did not ask for my illness nor was it thrust upon me as some punishment or retribution.  People just sometimes get sick and when they do, they need treatment.

For years, I was suicidal on and off.  Because none of my treatment ever seemed to work, my world felt hopeless.  Because I felt damaged and useless, I surrounded myself with people who treated me like I was as worthless as I felt.  Even on my best days, I was only a few steps away from giving up.

Being able to finally accept that I was not responsible for my illness removed all the blame from the equation.  Since I was no longer to blame, I could stop hating myself, stop punishing myself for being so broken.  If it was a medical condition, it was treatable.  And if it was treatable, there was hope.

Hope was a new concept for me.

I was not used to the idea of looking forward to the future.  Previously, I went through the motions of merely existing day by day.  I did not look forward to what tomorrow might bring because it had always brought the same despair as told held and all the days before.  Nothing had ever changed.  But now, there was finally a very real possibility for change.  For the first time, I found myself looking forward to the future.

I also received some semblance of control over my own life.  For years, it felt like my world had been spinning out of control and I had no say in the matter, that I was just along for the ride.  But if there is treatment available that can work, that means I have control over my life again.  Though it might take time to find a balance that works for me, my life and my health are in my hands.  The only way my life will never get better is if I choose to not get treatment.

Regaining control over my own life in turn made me more proactive about my treatment.  I was willing to try anything that might help.  Meditation. Yoga. Tai Chi. Writing.  Art.  Anything that might make a difference and give me a better fighting chance.  It all added new tools to my mental wellness toolbox and made me stronger.

It also made me more open to letting others back into my life.  For years I had isolated myself from many people, believing they were better off without me.  I worried that somehow the mess in my head might spill over into their lives and firmly believed that nobody deserved that.  Being able to see my mental illness as a treatable condition allowed me to take those walls down and let people back in.  I wasn’t dangerous, unbalanced or crazy.  Nobody needed to be protected or shielded from me.  I had a fairly common condition that was treatable.

My new strength also helped me to see that everything my mental illness had been telling me all along was a lie.  I was not weak.  I was not broken beyond repair.  I was not useless, unlovable, unwanted, unworthy.  I was strong.  I was fierce.  I was brave.  I was a fighter, a survivor, a force to be reckoned with.  My future was in my hands.

My new fighting spirit gave birth to an inner advocate that I never knew was within me.  Not only was I fighting for my own mental health, but I began writing advocating for others, as well.  And the more I talked about my own mental illness, the more I let others know they were not alone and encouraged them to never give up, the stronger I got.  Within my illness, I found a purpose, a reason to keep going and to fight that was much larger than my own survival.  The same illness that for years had me pinned on death’s door had breathed new life into me and given me a true calling.

That does not mean that my mental illness is gone.  It is still there raging strong.  The only difference is that now when that inner dialogue begins, I can fight back.  I can call it out for the liar it is.  I can use the tools I have acquired in my mental wellness toolbox and stave off the worst of it.  Instead of succumbing to its cruelty like a lamb being led to slaughter, I now have the will to fight back, to call it out and to refuse to let it beat me.

And I have hope.

I want to get treatment.  Because I have a sincere hope that one day things could be better, that one day my mental illness will not have such a death grip on me.

Having hope has made all the difference.

If you are struggling right now with mental illness, please take my words to heart.  You are not to blame.  You have done nothing wrong.  You are not broken, flawed, or damaged beyond repair. You are not useless, unwanted, unloved, unworthy.  You have a medical condition that could happen to anybody.  There is treatment available.  Things can get better.

And there is hope.

You just have to open yourself up to that possibility.

Trust me.  It will change your world and might just save your life.

You’re stronger than you realize.  You’d have to be strong to fight the monsters you’ve been fighting all along.

You’ve got this.

I have hope for you.  Now all you need is hope for yourself.

Something To Think About Before You Consider Killing Yourself..

There are many quotes that resonate strongly with me on a very personal level.  One of my favorites is by William Goldman:

“Life isn’t fair.  It’s just fairer than death, that’s all.”

What makes life more fair?  I believe it is the fact that you still have possibilities and options.  No matter how bleak and hopeless today might feel, there’s no way to know what tomorrow or next week, next month, next year might bring.  Life is fairer than death because death takes away all your options, all your possibilities.

I won’t ever throw out empty promises that tomorrow will be better if you just hang in there because none of us knows exactly what tomorrow may bring and whether it will be good or bad.  But one thing I can guarantee you is that it will bring possibilities.  The possibility of action and of change.  The possibility of a future beyond today.

I would be lying if I said I hadn’t been there myself, if I hadn’t tried myself in the past.  I understand how it feels to feel lost and all alone in the world, to believe that you have no more options.  I know exactly how scary it is up on that ledge.  I know all too well that siren’s call, promising an end to the pain if you just give up, just give in.

Unfortunately, that’s all suicide gives you.  An end.  It doesn’t remove any of the problems that existed.  It just robs you of the ability to do anything to fix them.  And it’s final.  There are no do overs, no second chances, no tomorrows.  It is emptiness.  Nothingness.

Yes there would be no more sadness, heartache or pain.  But there’s no more happiness, either.  You’re robbing yourself of the chance to heal, to overcome, to see better days again.  You’re allowing the worst days in your life to steal the possibility of all future happiness from you.  You’re depriving yourself of a future that is completely within your power to transform into anything you wish.

Giving up means giving up your future and giving up the chance to make your life better.  It is final.  When you give up, there are no more possibilities.

There are also no more hugs.  No more drippy ice cream cones or licks from cute, fuzzy puppies.  No more bad puns that make you chuckle and no more all you can eat taco bars.  No more sunny days or breezes blowing through your hair.  No more singing songs loudly and off key and no more cups of cocoa with too many marshmallows.  There are no more bonfires or camping trips.  No more joyrides with friends or late night pizza runs.  There’s no more movie marathons or teaching your children to ride a bike.

There’s no second chances to fix things and no way to say you’re sorry or make amends.  There’s no new friends or new jobs.  No new children or new pets.  There’s no new hope and no second wind.

There’s nothing.

I could go on and on, listing all the things you could be giving up, but the possibilities are endless.  By choosing to live, you have millions of doors available to open, millions of lives you could live.

There’s only one thing you get from suicide.  Nothing.

I won’t guilt you by saying you should keep living so you don’t hurt others because I believe you should be living for yourself, not someone else.  Don’t get me wrong – it would devastate everyone in your life and change who they are forever but it isn’t fair to ask you to live your life for someone else.  You ultimately need to choose to live for yourself.

But please know that I have been right where you are now.  I was sixteen the first time I tried to kill myself.  I can tell you without a doubt that I am grateful I did not succeed.  I won’t lie to you and tell you that my life has been a bowl of cherries since then, but I still have been blessed beyond anything I ever imagined for myself.

I have wonderful children I would not trade for the world.  I have reconnected with my first childhood crush and found a lasting love.  I am a published author of a handful of books and with blogs that have been republished and shared world-wide.  My life has not been perfect by any means, but it’s a hell of a lot better than the alternative which is nothing.

I know others who have survived suicide attempts, as well.  Years later, we’ve talked about all that has happened since their attempts.  Children.  Marriages.  Careers.  Vacations.  Celebrations.  Memories.  Life.

I have never heard a single one of them say they wish they had been successful.  No matter how many highs and lows they have gone through since then, every single one has been glad they are still here.  I’ve heard stories on television, as well, from people who have survived suicide attempts like jumping off bridges.  They all share the same narrative about regretting that one moment of weakness and being grateful that they did not succeed.

Because you know what they would have had if they had been successful?

Nothing.

“Life isn’t fair.  It’s just fairer than death, that’s all.”

Life is fairer than death because life is full of possibilities.  Death takes every last possibility away.

Don’t keep living for anyone else.  Choose to live for yourself because living means that you still have a chance to be happy, a chance to make amends, a chance to find love, a chance to be a parent or to pursue your dream job.  Keep living because by living, you still have a chance.  With death, you have nothing.

An Honest Dialogue About the Realities of Mental Illness

I woke up this morning to a message in my inbox on my Twitter author account.  Admittedly, I rarely open up messages on that site these days because the majority of them are either bots or phishing scams.  But, even by the small preview pane, I could see this one was different.  They began by explaining they had been reading through some of my writing.  I immediately opened it up to read through it and respond.

I won’t divulge any of what they wrote about because it is not my place to share their story, but as I read over my responses, I couldn’t help but believe that I needed to share my own words further.  To them, I wrote:

…Good morning. No need to apologize at all. I’ve written so very much that unless you’ve stumbled onto certain pieces, it’s unlikely a specific question would be answered. Honestly, it took me hitting a horrible low before I could find my voice. I had to reach a point where something desperately had to change or I knew I was not going to survive..

…As for overcoming my depression, I honestly don’t think there is such a thing, at least in my case.. It was more a matter of accepting my diagnosis for what it was and recognizing my limitations instead of letting the stigma surrounding mental illness control my perception of myself. I still very much have good days and bad days, but at the same time, I’ve gotten better at identifying when it is my depression versus when it is reality.. I’ve also filled my coping toolbox with so many different things so that I have different tools to help me cope with bouts of depression and anxiety.. I’ve learned to look at my mental illness much like diabetes – it’s an illness that causes one of the organs in my body to not function properly – there is currently no cure and it needs regular monitoring and care – but it is possible to exist and live with mental illness just like it is possible with diabetes.. I find myself still struggling, as well, to find a combination of medication that works right for me but I have sincere high hopes that in the future, when that combination is discovered, things will be much better and it will become easier for me to function..

…I apologize if you were hoping for some sort of secret cure all, or some way to make it go away on it’s own.. I don’t think something like that exists at this point, at least in cases such as mine.. I think, for me, it was a matter of changing how I viewed my illness and changing how I viewed myself.. Accepting that I am not broken or crazy but that I have an illness that affects my brain and that I deserve not only treatment but compassion and understanding, as well. I speak out and write a lot about what it is like living with mental illness because I want others to know, as well, that they’re not alone.. that others are struggling to fight similar battles and that we cannot buy into the stigma surrounding our illness, that we are not to blame for our illness, that our illness does not define us and that there is no shame in being mentally ill.

…I apologize for all the typos.. I was typing in the dark on my laptop.. I wanted to answer your questions right away and found my fingers struggling to keep up with my mind as I threw my answer out there.. I hope some or all of that helped.. I thank you for taking the time to read so much of my story and I sincerely wish you the best.. Please stay strong and don’t lose hope.. A mental illness diagnosis does not define you and it doesn’t have to be the end of anything. I truly love that the mental health community has embraced the semicolon ( ; ) as a symbol because it is used when a sentence could have ended but the author chose, instead to keep going. None of our stories are over either. We just have to keep fighting. If you are able, have a wonderful day. If that isn’t possible, please at least have a day. Keep going, keep powering through. And know that you’re not alone.

…Reading over all of this, part of me honestly feels horrible if anything I had written gave the impression that I had in any way found a path beyond my illness. As you can tell by much of my writing, I still struggle with horrible lows and have days where I consider getting out of bed, eating and doing my dishes as a victory. I’ve learned to differentiate between my illness and reality but that in itself does not change the physical things going on within my mind and body. My mind and body still go haywire regularly – I am working with my doctors to find a way to get them under control much like a diabetic manages their illness with insulin and glucose.. I know talking about looking at my illness differently doesn’t sound like much but it has been a huge stepping stone for me because it has allowed me to stop beating myself up for being ill, to stop hating myself and treating myself as if I am broken or crazy. By recognizing it as an illness and not something messed up inside myself, I was able to take back some control and begin working towards getting my illness under control. Things may be rough right now but this illness can be treated.. It just takes time. I’m not sure there ever will be a point where I’ll be fully functional, but I’d happily settle for being more functional than I currently am.

I honestly felt I needed to put this out there, to make sure everyone reading my writing understood that I am in no way touting any magical cure all for mental illness, nor am I implying in any way that mental illness is anything that a person can overcome by sheer willpower alone.  Mental illness is just that – an illness – and it needs treatment.  It won’t go away on its own.

I do believe, however, that we can destigmatize our illness and take back control over our lives.  We cannot will away how our symptoms present themselves but we can change how we view them and how we treat ourselves.

Please know that I’m a realist.  I’m not going to throw out those tired cliches about trying harder to be happy or how life will somehow magically be better if you let go of your past because I’ve been there myself and I know how infuriatingly useless they are.  I’ve worked through issues from my past and my mental illness still remained – because it is an illness that needs treatment.  I know firsthand how rough this illness can be and I won’t sugarcoat it because it does none of us any good to minimize our symptoms for the comfort of others.  I speak openly and honestly about what it is like to live with mental illness because I know holding it in and pretending things are okay doesn’t work.  Those of us suffering can barely wrap our own heads around our illness – how can we expect those who have never experienced it themselves to understand unless we throw it all out there and tell them?

I apologize if anyone who has been following my journey feels misled, hoping for some panacea, some advice or trick that will help their mental illness magically go away.  As far as I know, no such thing exists.

I may be a realist, but I’m also an optimist.  Since I have changed how I view my own illness, I have newfound hope for the future.  I have seen marked changes and improvements in the last couple years alone.  Though my fight is far from over, I truly believe that further advancements are possible and that things can and will continue to improve over time with continued treatment.

I write about mental illness not because I have all the answers but because I know it is a problem we cannot solve by pretending it isn’t there.  We need to talk about mental illness.  We need to fight the stigma.  We need to share our journey with others who are struggling so that they know they are not alone.  We need to stop blaming ourselves, stop hating ourselves, and accept our condition for what it is – an illness that needs medical treatment.

For everyone else out there fighting their own battles with mental illness, please stay strong, keep fighting, don’t give up hope.  See a doctor.  Talk about everything you’re going through without minimizing or sugar coating it.  Stop blaming yourself and hating yourself for your condition.  Please know that you’re not alone.  And most importantly, even if you cannot have a good day, at least still have a day.  None of our stories are over and we can get through this together.

Life Happens..

They say life happens, whether it happens while we’re making other plans or it happens so we must deal with it or one of many other overused cliches meant to help usher us into reality.  I’m not quite sure who “they” are but they definitely hit the nail on the head with this one.  Life happens without a doubt.

My writing has been put on a back burner for a couple months now.  Both my ongoing blogs and the books I have in the works have been delayed.  It is not that I have lost interest or my passion or that I have run out of topics to write about.  Far from it. My mental health and my journey towards mental wellness are still very much a priority and are nothing I would ever give up.  Life just happened.

On a high note – after almost a year battling my insurance company over covering my Deplin, I finally won my last external appeal.  CDPHP has yet to start paying for it, but it has been deemed medically necessary by outside sources with the ability to overrule their decision.  It is a huge victory and more than worthy of a large celebratory post, but again, life happened.

On a very low and tragic note, I have hit some painfully rough waters with the man I love.  There is no need for anyone to prepare themselves for the drama or heartache of a love grown sour for we are still very much together.  Our relationship is truly one of the best things in my life right now.  It was a different sort of heartache.

His father had been ill.  Terminally ill.  We understood he did not have much more time with us, but we had expected much more than what we had been given.  It went so quickly from an untimely fall to a trip to the emergency room to the intensive care unit to hospice.  No one was ready.  I know that no one is ever truly ready for such a loss but it all happened so quickly.  Too quickly.

I’ve spent the last year deconstructing and reconstructing myself piece by piece.  I’m by no means back together quite yet.  I am a work in progress in every way.  But everything going on with myself was cast aside on the back burner so that I could be there for the man I love.  There wasn’t even a question in my mind.  I had to be there.

The man I love is a good man.  Beyond good, in my opinion, but I’m far from impartial. He has been through a lot in his life – we are kindred spirits in that sense.  He has such a warm, loving and compassionate heart.  And life had torn it clear in two.  Nothing, not my writing nor even my own well-being, was as important to me as being there however I could for him.

This was his Dad.  He had already lost his mother a few years ago and was still recovering from that.  Losing both parents leaves a hole, an emptiness that nothing else can ever truly fill.  Life had rendered him an orphan.  I knew that feeling all too well and I could not leave him to face it alone.

Hospice itself was beyond agonizing.  Nothing in life can prepare you for watching someone who was once larger than life slowly fade away.  I’ve been there myself, as well. Hospice is where my father spent his final days as his cancer ate him alive.  Though every moment of the days in hospice with his father held me in a death grip, threatening to pull me back into the past with my father, there was nowhere else I could be but at his side while he spent his final days with his own.

Next came going through the motions of the final preparations and the flurry of condolences that come with a great loss.  Though the words are heartfelt and well-meaning, they cannot even begin to penetrate the numbness that comes with the realization that someone who has always been there is truly gone.  I understood completely how he felt and where he was mentally and emotionally because I have been there myself.  It is a feeling you never forget.

As they often say – “When it rains, it pours”.  Life was not satisfied with dealing that one large heart-wrenching blow.  The last couple months provided a steady barrage of ill-timed hardships to rival even the most depressing country or blues song.  His truck – the last vehicle his mother had driven – needed work to pass inspection and stay on the road. His boat – left to him by his father as a reminder of better days and a multitude of fishing trips together – wouldn’t start and needed repairs.  His cat – given to him by his parents to help him through rough times in his past – was injured and needed to go to the vet.  It was as if every aspect of his life that was tied to his parents was collapsing and crumbling under the weight of the tragedy of his father.

Add to the mix us scrambling to find a place together.  Neither of us could continue to stay where we have each been nor did we honestly want to live separately any longer. One of the only truths we have embraced during these very uncertain times is that we not only wanted but that we NEEDED to be together.  In the short time we’ve been a couple, we’ve become a rock for each other, that light we each cling to when trying to find our way out of the darkness. We understand each other in ways no one else ever has and find a comfort in one another that has been lacking from our lives.  We belong together.

We eventually found a place in his old stomping ground out in the country, literally next door to where he had lived a few years prior.  It is a small place and I’m honestly not sure how we will fit everything into it, but we will manage.  It is familiar territory for him and we are together.  It is home.

Since moving in, we honestly have not been as productive as we probably should have striven to be, but we both needed some downtime to catch our breath, recuperate and heal.  Life has been overwhelming and we both honestly needed a break.  Some avenues of our life have suffered a bit but we have been doing our best to keep going, take care of ourselves and each other.

Life happens.  I’m numb to it at this point.  I’m honestly not sure how I have managed to not crumble into a million tiny pieces by now but somehow I’m still going.  I have to keep going because he needs me there.  Like me, he is an orphan now.  I have to keep going because I need to take care of myself, as well.  We will be okay, though.  We HAVE to be okay because in each other we have finally found what we’ve both been missing in our lives.  We are both seriously overdue for our happily ever after.

We are going to get through this, get past it.  We are going to find some way to heal and to keep going.  We are going to be okay.  We will survive and we will be okay.

They say to fake it until you make it, to keep telling yourself things until you believe it and it becomes truth.  Again, I don’t know who “they” are, but they’ve been right about everything else so I’m hoping this pans out as well.  I shall embrace my hopes for future wellness as my mantra, repeating them in the hope that in time they become reality. Because life has definitely happened and we need more than anything to be okay again.

Finding Love Within My Mentally Ill Heart

I’ve struggled with mental illness my entire life. Though I hoped to one day find love and happiness, I always believed I was broken and damaged beyond repair and questioned who could possibly want or love what I have to offer. A friend once told me that two mentally unhealthy people could not have a healthy relationship. I took that to heart, believing love might indeed be beyond my reach. That is, until a twist of fate brought someone from my childhood back into my life.

My childhood was a jumbled mess of abuse, trauma, dysfunction and mental illness. Even as a child, I had struggled and learned early on to wear a smiling mask, reassuring everyone around me that I had everything together and was okay. I went through the motions, striving to be the person everyone else expected me to be. The real me beneath it all felt unseen and unheard, irrelevant and invisible.

Growing up, he was one of my older brother’s friends, a few years older than me. Though that fact rendered us off limits to each other, he was still always very kind, friendly, gentle and sweet to me. Where everyone else only saw the mask I wore, that bubbly, smiling cheerleader with straight As and not a care in the world, he always talked to me and treated me as if I was more than that. He saw the real me even when I felt invisible.

I was thoroughly smitten by him all those years ago. In my head, he became the embodiment of all that I adored. He was sweet, smart and funny with just the perfect amount of cheese. He had this off the beaten path nerdy side and was never afraid to walk to the beat of his own drum. He was the epitome of the boy next door archetype and would influence every other man I would ever find myself drawn to or interested in. Whether or not he realized it, I saw him, too, and he quickly became my first puppy love crush.

As often is the case, life happens. My world collapsed beneath me, spiraled out of control and I found myself living another life, a world away from the world I grew up in and everyone attached to it. My childhood was firmly behind me. I spent many years running from that time, hoping to put as much distance as possible between myself and the demons of my past.

I learned the hard way that you cannot outrun your past. It is attached to your heels like your shadow, always connected, always behind you hanging on. Mental illness and trauma compounded over time. It became harder and harder to function. That beautiful, smiling mask I had worn for years started to crack. I began to fall apart piece by piece.
In an effort to pull myself back together and bring myself to a healthier place, I started to talk and write about all I had been through, hoping to heal and move beyond it. Reopening old wounds also reopened old doors. I found myself back in contact with people from my childhood that I hadn’t spoken to in over twenty five years.

He arrived within the tidal wave of my past that washed over me, knocking me off my feet. The remnants of old, long dormant feelings flowed in, as well. It was not the strong, passionate flood of a love fully formed but rather that innocent, sugary sweet trickle from a young heart that still believed in fairy tales and happily ever afters. I had been caught for so long in a fierce storm of very deep, very serious, adult issues and problems. Though I was thoroughly unprepared for his re-entrance into my life, it was oddly refreshing.

We arranged to meet, to just sit down and catch up. Sparks flew immediately. For hours, we talked and talked. There was this incredible comfort I was unaccustomed to feeling and an instant trust that threw me off-guard. Though we had lived our lives seemingly a world apart, we had been unknowingly been walking down the same path. Our journeys had left us both riddled with scars and pain. Yet somehow, we had both found ourselves at the same destination, wanting to live a healthier, happier, more positive life above and beyond the damage caused by our past.

As we talked, it became increasingly clear how well he understood everything I was saying. Topics that I normally hesitated to discuss or that I often minimized for the comfort of others, flowed freely without restraint. All the scars I normally hid for fear of making others uncomfortable or scaring them came into full view. I had no fear or shame of sharing myself with him because he always truly understood where I was coming from. He could see beneath my scars to the person I was beneath. Once again, he truly saw me.

And once again, I saw him. Life had given him some deep scars as well. Like me, he was still raw and hurting in some ways. But like me, he had this incredible drive and desire to no longer let his past define or control him. Beneath all the scars, though, he was still very much the boy I remembered from years ago. He still had that same sweet, warm heart, that same adorably cheesy sense of humor, that same lovable nerdy side. He was still very much himself.

Everything has steamrolled from there. It seems impossible that a relationship could have grown and blossomed so quickly until you stop to consider that we have spent many whole days, whole nights, whole weekends together. Not a day has passed since we reconnected that we have not talked throughout the day from good mornings to good nights. Even on the busiest days, we find time for each other. We have not wasted a single moment making up for lost time. And no matter how much time we spend, we still hate to part ways and miss each other minutes after we’ve parted.

That is not to say that our relationship is perfect. We have had a few misunderstandings along the way as our old baggage crept in. Even those moments feel drastically different from anything I have ever experienced before. We know the pain we’ve each been through and don’t want to inflict anymore on each other so we are both conscious and cautious of our words. We take the time to talk things out instead of letting our insecurities, fears or frustrations control our emotions. I’ve never before experienced such peaceful or rational resolutions, never had anyone so fully consider my feelings even during moments of conflict. We’ve both lived through emotional war zones and refuse to allow our relationship to become another casualty.

For the first time in my life, I have someone there who truly saw me, who fully understood me, who accepted me wholly without judgment. For the first time, I could fully be myself, not hide my scars or minimize my pain for the comfort of anyone else. I could openly discuss my insecurities. For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel I had to be ashamed of the person I truly was underneath.

We spend a lot of time talking and are brutally honest with each other not only about our feelings in the moment but also the baggage that our feelings stem from. We have quickly become a safe place for each other, where we can share all our thoughts and emotions, the good, the bad and the ugly. We understand each other because we have both been there. There is no discomfort, no shame, no second-guessing whether we can speak our mind, no walking on eggshells wondering how our words will be taken. We can both finally just be ourselves.

I find myself thinking back to the friend that told me that two mentally unhealthy people could not have a healthy relationship. I am beginning to think that perhaps the only way I could have a healthy relationship is to be with someone who has been down the same unhealthy path I have traveled. I needed someone who could truly understand my pain and who could empathize without judgment. Only someone who understood what it is like to be riddled with scars themselves would be able to see past my scars to the person I truly am inside.

I have honestly never felt more accepted, more heard, more adored for the person that I am. I feel safe. He feels like the home I always wanted for myself, the sanctuary I always hoped to find. Like me, he is a survivor. Like me, he wants more from his life. He refuses to let his past or his scars define him. We are two peas in a pod, two puzzle pieces that fit together, two souls that just work and make sense.

I love how he makes me feel. I love him. We know it may seem irrationally fast, bordering on insane to anyone outside looking in but it’s the first thing in a long time that makes sense to either of us. We’re already looking toward the future and making plans. Neither one of us was looking for or expecting this but we’re not going to question it, either. We are what has been missing from each other’s lives for all these years – someone who truly sees us, accepts us without judgment for who we are and loves us completely, scars, baggage and all.

Love and acceptance are much needed in life. You can’t let go of that hope for love and happiness. It is out there. It can happen. Sometimes it appears in the most unlikely of places but it does exist. You just have to keep your heart open to the possibility. No one is beyond hope, no one is too broken to find or deserve love. Sometimes it takes two people who have each been thoroughly broken before in order to create and build something beautiful and whole.

The Harsh Reality of Mental Illness: The Darkness that Exists in the Light

In the past year, I have gone from the darkest depths of despair to some of the highest points of my life. My life had collapsed entirely but I miraculously was able to rise from the ashes and have a second chance at life. I have found my true calling in advocacy and have found my voice to speak out about all I have been through. I have written a couple books and have an ongoing blog that has proved to be very cathartic for me. I finally found a group of doctors and a treatment plan that works for me and has given me genuine hope for the future. After forty years of running, I have finally begun to make peace with my past, rebuilding bridges believed long ago abandoned and demolished and have healed my heart enough to once again reopen it to the possibility of love.

With so many high points, you’d think I’d be on cloud nine without a care in the world. In a lot of ways, I am honestly happier than I ever remember being before. I have a renewed sense of purpose. Goals that once would have felt impossible now feel obtainable. For the first time in my life, I have a sincere faith that I will be okay and I am hopeful for my future. All things considered, I am in a much better place in my life than I have ever been before.

However, despite all the wonderful milestones of this past year, I am still treading water when it comes to my mental illness. By all expectations, I know I should be beyond happy. Ecstatic even. And truthfully, I am smiling more and have even experienced moments of genuine happiness. But my depression still reigns supreme. My anxiety still has me on constant edge. My PTSD still leaves me feeling irrationally unsafe and in fear.

From the outside looking in, others may only see the blue sky above, feel the gentle warm breezes in the air and the coolness of the water that surrounds me, but the story does not end with what others can see. Because others can only see the above the surface, they cannot fully fathom the whole picture. My depression is like heavy weights strapped to my ankles as I tread water, constantly threatening to pull me under. That heaviness is a constant pull, a terminal threat and reminder to be vigilant. I cannot stop treading water, stop fighting for even a moment or I will sink and drown. As exhausting as it is, I can never stop, never catch my breath.

My anxiety and PTSD are like creatures lurking below the water. I don’t always know what they are or how much threat they pose, but I can feel their constant presence, brushing against me, bumping into me, biting into me here and there. There is no way to ignore or avoid them, no way to scare them away. They are often distorted shadows beneath the ripples of the surface, not quite fully visible, so that I never feel safe. Periodically, they reopen old scars and cause phantom pains that remind me of the traumas of my past, making them feel real again, catching me in the moment.

Every single day, despite how beautiful the day might seem, that lingering voice revisits me, trying to talk me into giving up, giving in, and let the waves carry me away. I’m not suicidal. I don’t want to die. I am just utterly exhausted from treading these waves for years. I am weary straight down to the bone and just want to rest. I want the pain, the struggling and the constant fear to end. That lingering voice knows all my insecurities and plays upon every one. It whispers into the wind that I’m not strong enough, that it’s only a matter of time until either I go under and drown or the monsters below consume me. It tells me I’ll never reach the shore, never be able to rest or catch my breath, that my only choices are to either give up and go under or to spend my entire life struggling and fighting.

I am in treatment. I see both a therapist and a meds doctor regularly. Every week, I attend multiple groups and classes to help acquire new tools for coping, including tai chi, yoga, meditation and art. I am focused on healing my mind, body and spirit so that I can be in a better place in every way. All my efforts little by little are bringing me closer to that beach I long to stretch out upon, enjoying the sunshine and the beautiful day. I can see that far off shore but right now it is still beyond my reach.

It is not a matter of just not trying hard enough to be happy or holding too tightly to the negative. I have so much that I am both happy and grateful for in my life. I know I have been blessed in so many ways. I would love to relish in everything and just be okay. After all, the sun is shining, the sky is blue, the breezes are soft and warm. On the surface, my days would be perfect. Yet I am forever one moment away from going under, drowning and becoming a statistic.

I have been told that I am the sweetest and happiest depressed person that some people have ever met. Despite all I have been through, I am the eternal optimist, always looking for something positive in even the worst situations. I have a true joie de vivre and appreciation for the simple things in life. I want to be happy and healthy. I want to be functional and okay. Yet I’m deadlocked in a constant battle, constant struggle just to keep going and survive.

Mental illness isn’t about being weak or lazy. It is a medical condition that leaves me with little control over my own mind and emotions. No matter how hard I try to be happy and healthy, it has a tight grasp on my mind, body an soul. Just because others cannot see everything beneath the surface does not mean it is not there or that I am not in constant torment from the monsters that lurk in the darkness.

As much as I know I should be over the moon ecstatic over so many of the blessings I’ve had over the last year, I keep finding myself yanked downward against my will. I still have many days I lay in bed, in the darkness, unable to pull myself up or function for hours on end. I still have many days that I roll into a ball and cry because I’ve spiraled down and that irrational despair is so great that the world feels hopeless to me. I still have many nights where I lay in bed for hours restlessly as my mind races and my fears fester or where I bolt awake because the nightmares of my past have materialized in my present. I know I should be happy, life should feel perfect. Yet my mind refuses to listen. My mental illness is steering the car. I’m just along for the ride.

I want to get better, to be healthy and happy. If curing my depression was as simple as just trying harder to be happy, this past year would have cured me without a doubt. But mental illness is not so easily beaten or controlled. You cannot let even the most beautiful, serene days deceive you because beneath the surface, in the darkness of the depths, my monsters still loom, continuously threatening to drag me under and devour me alive.

mightylogoRepublished on The Mighty on 7/31/17.

The Evolution from Dysfunctional to Healthy Love

From the beginning, my views on love and relationships were dysfunctional. I was surrounded by people who were supposed to love each other, though in so many ways what was between them was anything but. At six years old, I had a mock wedding with a young boy down the street that I couldn’t stand because we both believed people got married to argue and couldn’t think of anyone else either of us hated more. That speaks volumes about my earliest views on love.

Yet strangely I grew up to be in many ways a hopeless romantic. I believed in the presence of love, at least in theory. I believed in the happily ever after of fairy tales and the foot pop that occured with true love’s kiss. I believed with all my heart that there was someone out there for everyone, that one beautifully wonderful love that would remain strong and endure even through the roughest of times, a love that could stand the test of time. Though I had never personally seen such a love, I believed wholeheartedly that it was out there. I just honestly had no idea how to find it or where to even begin to look.

When I was a teenager and began to date, love was about fulfilling expectations. Identities seemed to be linked to pairing with others. Everyone strived to date because to be single meant something was wrong with you. Being with someone reaffirmed your worth somehow to others. It was never about how I felt, what I wanted or how I was treated. Being in a relationship, being in ‘love’, meant fitting in, being somebody. When I found what I thought might be love, I held on for dear life. I believed it was him and me against the world and love could conquer anything. I had been prepared to face anything with him at my side, never realizing that I was fighting a losing battle because you cannot keep someone there who wishes to be elsewhere. After years together, he blessed me with a child and then he ran. Despite all the faith I had in love, I found myself alone again. Yet at the same time, I would never be completely alone again.

On the verge of my twenties, I became a young mother. Everything in my life changed, love most of all. When I began looking to open my heart again, love became about family. When I searched for love again, it was ultimately to create a strong family, to find someone who would be good for my daughter, someone I could build upon my family with, growing it into something more. Love wasn’t about me at all. Love was about building a marriage, a family, trying to hold on and make everything work despite how I was feeling or hurting. Love was about being the best mother I could be and about trying to be what I believed a wife should be. Love was about playing roles and going through the motions. We were young. What did we even know about love? In hindsight, I’ve often said that what two kids in puppy love think they want turns out to be much different than what two adults in the real world need. In the end, we were just too different. We were never meant to last.  But I was blessed with beautiful sons that made it all worth it.

When my marriage fell apart, I felt so unlovable, unwanted, like such a failure for being unable to somehow hold everything together. Love was something I was terrified of finding again. I had never been more vulnerable, more scared of letting anyone in. An unlikely and unusual love still managed to push its way in, a love surrounded by safety and bonding over similarities and shared loneliness. My heart didn’t stop to consider longevity or practicality, it was just grateful to finally matter to someone. For the first time, albeit briefly, I didn’t feel invisible or inconsequential. Somehow, for the first time ever, I fit into the equation. Love became about holding tightly to someone who I could trust, could talk to, someone who I knew wouldn’t hurt me, was incapable of hurting me. It didn’t last long, burning hot and bright before fading to ashes swept away in the wind, but it was enough to open my heart back up, make me believe in the possibility of love again.

While rebuilding after the ashes, I stumbled onto a narcissist with a gift for playing the victim. He had supposedly been through so much and I found myself desperately wanting to take care of him, to somehow make his life better. My heart had been opened wide and he took full advantage of my empathy and vulnerability. For over a decade, throughout all of my thirties, love became about trying to take care of him, to help heal his wounds, trying to be enough for him, wishing that at some point I would begin to matter, too. For eleven years, I hoped that if I was just there enough, loved him enough, he would be able to heal, to change and we would finally be able to build something real and lasting. I had so much faith in the power of love that I was unprepared for someone who was incapable of letting anyone else in or loving anyone else in return. Love became very codependent, with my accepting abuse and making excuses for his transgressions instead of holding him accountable for all the hurt he kept causing. When he finally left me for someone else, the last in a long line of infidelities throughout our relationship, it was a blessing because my heart and soul had become so battered and broken by years of trying to give all the love within myself while receiving nothing in return. I had become an empty vessel. Yet somehow, I still believed in love.

Overlapping the pain from loving a man incapable of ever loving me back sprouted a new and unexpected type of love, one born out of a close friendship. It was much like the ill-fated love I had stumbled onto over a decade earlier when my marriage had collapsed, but at the same time, it was so different and so much more. He became my best friend, my confidante, the one person who truly saw me, knew me, accepted and loved me completely for who I was without judgment. If not for his presence during most of the eleven years of narcissistic abuse by my ex, I would not have survived the ordeal. I loved him for it, loved him more than I probably ever should have. Over the years, it grew into more than friendship for us both, though it was always suppressed by our obligations and commitments to others. When we were finally set free from the nightmare of our relationships with others, however, free to finally possibly explore what was between us, everything had already irreparably changed. The damage was already done. Though I still believed in love, believed in him and the vision we had carried for years of an ‘us’, he had given up on himself, on his future, on me, on love itself. Love needs to be fed and nurtured to flourish and grow. Love cannot be sustained by only one person. If both aren’t willing to put in the effort, it will wither and die. Though the foundation was strong, the walls still crumbled because there was only so long I could hold on by myself, only so long I could be the only one trying to make things work before I had to give up in order to save myself from dying along with our love. It was never that I didn’t love him or want to be with him. I just ultimately needed more than he was capable or willing to give.

In my journey through life, my search for love, my perceptions on love itself have changed again and again. Both my first views and my first experiences with love were highly dysfunctional. Over the years, with each new relationship, a different facet of love presented itself, each a piece to the puzzle, a fragment of the whole. With each new facet, a new perception of love emerged for me, as well. Though each love seemed to have so much possibility in the beginning, looking back, I can understand why each failed in time because love must be whole in order to work. Both partners need to matter, to fit into the equation. Both partners must be willing to put in their all, as well. Over the years, I have found fragments of love, each different, though none could stand the test of time. Though strangely, out of the rubble of all these failed relationships, a new love I had never expected has taken root and begun to grow.

As a child of abuse and dysfunction, over the years I’ve struggled to even like myself, drawing my worth from the warped views of others around me instead of from within. I never expected to ever truly love myself. Yet somehow that love crept in, took root and began to grow, like a daisy sprouting through the cracks in the concrete, refusing to give up or give in, fighting to survive. Though it was never nurtured, it managed to grow just the same. I once saw a simplistically beautiful motivational saying that stated “The moment you start wondering whether you deserve better, You do”. And the truth of the matter is that I do deserve better. I will no longer accept fragments when I deserve a whole. I will no longer settle for loving anyone who isn’t willing or capable of loving me back just as much in return. I love myself too much to set myself up to be hurt again.

Though I’m still honestly not sure where to find that fairy tale love, the hopeless romantic in me still wholeheartedly believes it exists. I will learn from my past, from my failed relationships and heartbreaks, and move forward in a healthier way. I will no longer settle for less than I deserve nor will I ever allow myself again to be abused or to become inconsequential. As much as I crave love in my life, I would rather be alone than mistreated, rather be single than be fed empty words or false hope. I believe, in time, love will once again present itself and this time I will be ready for it. I am willing to fight for love, to put all of myself into a relationship, though this time around, I will settle for nothing less than that in return.

The Meds Crash..

What Happens When Your Insurance Company Won’t Cover the Medications Needed for Your Mental Health

In the last year, I have made so many positive strides in my ongoing fight to get in front of my mental illness and to be in a healthier place.  I not only have begun finally opening up, writing and talking about my struggles with depression, anxiety and p.t.s.d., I have begun therapy at a wonderful facility that uses a multi-pronged treatment plan to combat mental illness, involving not only traditional treatments such as therapy and medication management but also incorporating unconventional tools such as yoga, meditation and art into the mix to help people heal mind, body and soul.  Perhaps the greatest stride forward I have made, however, happened thanks to a genetic test my new doctors gave me that identified a genetic mutation I possessed that has been the linchpin blocking all previous attempts at medication and treatment.  Due to this genetic mutation, my liver is incapable of metabolizing folic acid, a simple b vitamin used by the brain to help transport the chemicals needed to help moderate my moods and depression.  It is a fairly simple fix because there is an already broken-down version of folic acid on the market, a synthetic version that can help my brain to function properly – something it has never been able to do on it’s own, due to my genetic mutation.  However, the simple yet life-changing fix has been completely derailed by my insurance company, CDPHP, that refuses to cover it.

My doctor had been providing me with samples of the broken-down folic acid, also known as l-methylfolate or by the prescription name Deplin, for the last seven months.  While it is in no way a panacea that would make my mental illness disappear, it made a world of a difference.  I had more clarity, was able to focus better and function more.  I was able to fight back tears and move forward, face fears and be productive in ways I previously never imagined possible.  I found myself able to genuinely smile and experience happiness.  Despite the fact that I was going through one of the rockiest times in my life, I had real hope.  It was the beginning of a new life, a new world for me.

Yet despite how much of a breakthrough I had achieved on many levels thanks to this medication, CDPHP continues to refuse to cover it, deeming it unnecessary.  My doctor had a drawer full of samples to keep me going while we began our fight for coverage.  I had been filing appeals, reaching out for help, fighting with every ounce of energy and courage that I could muster, completely due to the Deplin helping my antidepressants and anti-anxiety medications get where they were needed in my brain, something they could never do on their own because I had always been medication resistant due to my genetic mutation.

…And then the samples ran out.

…And my internal appeal for coverage by CDPHP was denied.

It has been a week since I have had any Deplin in my system.  Where I was previously up before seven in the morning every day, up for breakfast and ready to start my day, I can’t seem to pull myself up out of bed again.  Today, it was almost eleven before I even got out of bed.  Less than twenty minutes later, I was back in bed, wrapped in my blanket, wondering why I was even bothering.  Each day, it becomes increasingly harder to do anything at all.

Even the simplest conflicts feel unbearable again.  I find myself panicking and breaking down into tears over even the smallest bumps in the road.  Where previously I was convinced that I could somehow figure things out and find a way, I don’t feel like I can deal with anything right now.  I’m afraid to go out, to leave my room, because I have no control over my emotions or my tears anymore.  My mind is racing again, I cannot focus, I cannot sleep, I have no desire to eat, no desire to do anything.  I feel like I’m in a constant panic, one word away from breaking down into tears again.

It is like I had entered a Renaissance, a beautiful world full of progress and hope, only to be kicked back into the darkness of the stone age.

I have an external appeal yet to file with the state but I don’t know if I can do it.  I don’t know if I have the strength.  My mind keeps asking me why bother?  Everything feels hopeless.  The battle feels lost.  All I want to do is climb back in bed and cry.  That other world, that one where I was smiling, where I felt hopeful, feels like another world, another life, just a dream.  I’m terrified I’ll never find my way back to that person again.  Sitting out in public, typing this out, I cannot stop the tears from flowing, cannot find my way back to the person I was even a week ago when I believed that things were going to be okay, when I believed in hope.

This story began with Fighting for My Mental Health on 1/13/17.

mightylogoRepublished on The Mighty on 5/11/17.