Why Tess Holliday Was Right About Abusive Relationships and Responsibility

*** This Piece Was Originally Written For The Mighty on 8/7/20 ***

I’m admittedly a hopeless romantic at heart with a strong Florence Nightingale effect. I’ve always been drawn to the misunderstood, wounded soul with the tragic backstory, ultimately wanting to help save them from both their hard lives and themselves. I stayed in a dysfunctional relationship for 11 years, tolerating both repeated abuse and infidelity, because I firmly yet mistakenly believed it was my responsibility to stay the course and make things work. I desperately wanted to help him heal from the hardships of his past. I believed if I just loved him enough and was supportive enough, somehow we could make it work.

I spent years giving of myself and chipping away at my own self-worth until I completely lost myself in the process. In the end, no matter how much love or support I gave, no matter how many times I forgave his transgressions, the relationship ultimately failed. And even though it was his cheating and his abuse that destroyed everything, I was left with the overwhelming feeling that I had somehow failed, that if I had tried harder or loved more, maybe things would have changed; maybe he would have changed.

It took extensive therapy to accept that I was not at fault. In my desire to save everyone else, I had forgotten to bother trying to save myself. In wanting to help fix him, I had broken myself almost to a point beyond repair. In loving him despite all the abuse, I had stopped loving myself.

That’s why I know model Tess Holliday was completely spot-on when she recently said, “women shouldn’t be responsible for rehabilitating men,” and that, “women often get blamed for not doing ‘enough’ to ‘save’ their relationships. Guess what? We don’t have to carry that. We are only responsible for ourselves and our actions.”

And that goes for all people, not just women toward men.

We can love someone to the moon and back but it doesn’t change the fact that abuse is present. Abuse is never acceptable, nor is it a fee anyone has to endure and pay in order to eventually be worthy of love. It is not anyone else’s responsibility to love someone else enough that they eventually decide to change for the better. Nobody deserves to be abused and nobody has the right to subject anyone else to abuse.

Change has to come from within and the person doing the changing is solely responsible for both their actions and their choice to change. Nobody is required to endure abuse in order to be loved or save anyone else from themselves. The only person each of us is responsible for, the only person each of us has an obligation to save, is ourselves.

These days, I have found myself with another tortured soul who has had a relatively hard life. There are quite a few distinct differences, however, between my last relationship and this one. For starters, I will no longer tolerate anyone being abusive or otherwise treating me poorly because I understand now that abuse is not love. Secondly, I am no longer trying to save him, nor am I asking him to save me, but rather we are loving and standing by each other as we both attempt to save ourselves. Last, and perhaps most importantly, I have learned both to accept responsibility for my own actions and to refuse ownership of his or anyone else’s. I also know now that it is not solely my responsibility, nor his, to make this relationship work. Make it or break it, we both must be all-in and committed. Relationships are a partnership, not a rehab.

Originally Published on The Mighty on 8/7/20.

More than Just a Faceless Number in the Pandemic

There’s nothing quite like those moments of enlightenment when you realize that your feelings and motives go deeper and are more personal than you previously realized or openly admitted.  Why do I care so deeply about people being responsible and staying home as much as possible during this pandemic?

Whenever I was asked, my first impulse answer was always that I didn’t want anything to happen to those I care about and their loved ones, that there are people in my life that are older or are immuno-compromised, friends who are considered high risk because they just got over cancer or who have just had a baby. I care a lot, perhaps too much at times, about other people, mostly because I know what it is like to struggle and suffer and I don’t want anyone else to needlessly go through any heartache or pain.

I spend a lot of time thinking about how much everything affects others that I often forget to consider my own personal situation. Perhaps I also struggle to consider myself among those who need extra protection, those who are determined to be at a higher risk, those in the biggest danger. I have come to see myself as a fighter, a survivor, and being lumped into that category is like accepting that I am fragile, weak, that I am less than the strong person I believe myself to be.

I have been through a lot in my life.  As a child, I endured every type of abuse imaginable.  Physical, mental and emotional abuse lent to my PTSD diagnosis.  Sexual abuse led to my doctors telling me I might never be able to have children.  Yet I persevered.

At sixteen, my abusive childhood culminated with my mother shooting my father.  I was bounced around among family members for a little over a year before finding myself on my own before I was even eighteen years old. Yet I survived.

Even though addiction ran in my family in the form of both drug and alcohol abuse, and trauma like mine often serves as a catalyst for substance abuse, I managed to avoid both and powered on.

I have struggled with severe depression my entire life, due in part to abuse and trauma, and partly due to a genetic mutation that deprives my brain of the substances it needs to adequately moderate my moods, yet I found ways to continue to function and continue to fight.

I have suffered much heartache over the years, from failed unhealthy and abusive relationships, to multiple miscarriages, yet refused to let any of it ultimately break me.

Cancer runs in both sides of my family.  It stole my mother’s brother way too young.  I watched as it slowly ate away at my father until there was nothing left of him and as it almost killed my mother.  Starting in my twenties, I have had numerous cancer-related health scares of my own.  I had two pre-cancerous atypical pap smears that required cryosurgery and was told afterwards that they were caught just in the nick of time.  In my thirties, they found a mass on the side of my breast extending under my arm that was deemed non-cancerous.  At forty, I had to have one of my ovaries removed because there was a large cyst on it with a fibrous mass inside.  Thankfully, the biopsy after my oophorectomy showed the mass to be benign.  And finally, a little less than two years ago, doctors found not one but two meningioma tumors on my brain.  Yet I continue on and refuse to lose hope.

I continue on because I am a survivor. That is what I do.  I keep going. I power on.  I fight whatever life throws my way.

And I do so with kindness in my heart.  I never want my own life experiences to make me jaded or cruel.  I know what it feels like to suffer and I would not wish my struggles on anyone else.  I try to always show others kindness regardless of whether it was ever shown to me in my own times of need.  I have always firmly believed that there is too much suffering in this world and it is our responsibility to be kind to one another, to watch out for each other, and to ease each other’s pain whenever possible.

And somewhere along the way, I rediscovered myself.  I found a miraculous inner strength, a renewed sense of purpose and even was blessed enough to have wonderful children and find a deep and true lasting love.  I have transformed my own pain into mental health advocacy for others.  I write and speak out to encourage others to keep going, to never give up.  I empathize with the struggles of others and let them know they are not alone.  My writing has been showcased worldwide, discussed on television, radio and internet media programs and shared by numerous government agencies, private practices, and advocacy groups along the way.  I have managed to reach and help more people than I ever imagined possible.  My children and my writing are a legacy I am proud to leave behind.

I have come a long way in life and I have overcome many obstacles along the way.  I am a fighter.  A survivor.

However, to the medical community, I am reduced to a simple list of stats.  Though in normal times, doctors often make an effort to acquaint themselves with their patients to better serve their needs, we are currently in the middle of a worldwide viral pandemic.  The number of infected is increasing daily by the thousands in my country.  And to make matters worse, I happen to live in New York – the current epicenter of the virus in the United States.  Doctors don’t have the time or the energy to get to know all of their patients well right now in an emergency setting.  They have to make split decisions based on medical history prior to infection.

And the simple fact is that I have cancer.  I have two tumors on my brain.  I’m honestly not sure it even matters that the tumors are benign or that right before the pandemic was declared a national emergency, my neurosurgeon informed us that my tumors have shown little to no noticeable growth in the last eighteen months’ of MRI scans.  The cancer diagnosis alone means that I am considered high risk and my treatment is considered a lesser priority than someone else without preexisting conditions.

The fact that I have continuously fought hard and survived many things over the course of my entire life is irrelevant.

The fact that I have dedicated years to helping and advocating for others is irrelevant.

The fact that I am otherwise relatively healthy is irrelevant.

Even the fact that I am a mother and a fiance is irrelevant because every single person that comes through the hospital doors is family to someone.  They are all a son or a daughter.  Many are parents, grandparents, spouses, friends.  We all have a story.

But my story can be reduced to one word, a word that makes my treatment less of a priority during a pandemic. Cancer.

As much as I want to say, want to believe, that the primary reason if not the only reason I want people to stay inside and be responsible is to protect others, I have to accept that I need protecting, too.  My health and well-being is important, as well.  I am part of that at risk, high risk group.  If I get sick, my treatment will possibly, if not likely, be deemed less of a priority.

I don’t want to see myself as someone needing protection because I don’t want to be seen as a victim. I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me.  I am a fighter.  A survivor.  I have beaten the odds again and again.  I have a lot of living left to do and a lot of fight left in me.  I have children who I long to see grow into their own.  I have a wedding to plan.  I have more writing and advocacy to do.  And I have this cancer to beat.

My staying home unless absolutely necessary only goes so far to flatten the curve.  I am depending on others to be responsible, as well.  Every person out there interacting is a possible carrier and the more people congregating in a given area, the bigger and more likely the spread.  The more this virus spreads, the more likely I am to get it.  Hospitals in my state are already struggling to the point where do not resuscitate orders have been put in place if somebody dies.  If the hospitals become even more overwhelmed, they will be put in the same place Italy was at the apex of their crisis – with doctors having to choose who gets treatment and who dies based solely on their prior medical history.  And having tumors means if the hospitals are overwhelmed, I might be deemed not worth saving because they don’t have the manpower, equipment, time or energy to save everyone.

It’s easy to consider terms such as “acceptable losses” or to shrug off deaths of the elderly and sick as “the thinning of the herd” when you think in terms of abstract numbers instead of considering the actual people behind those numbers.  It is different when you consider the faces and stories of those people and the families they will be leaving behind.  Even one person needlessly contracting this virus and dying should be one person too many.  We all have families and stories.  We aren’t just faceless numbers.  And many of us still have a lot of life left to live and a greater purpose left to fulfill.

I didn’t come this far to only come this far.  I’m continuing to fight the good fight because I want to eventually leave this world a better, kinder place than it was when I entered it.

I don’t want to die.

I don’t want any of you to die either.

Republished on The Mighty on 5/4/20.

Republished on Yahoo News on 5/4/20.

 

Are We To Blame For Our Depression?

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

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

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

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

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

It brings to mind a quote from Maya Angelou:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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