Category Archives: depression

April 18, 2024 · 9:52 PM

Life Right Now

A note: For a long time, I found selfies of people crying to be weird, and maybe…. performative? But someone I love takes them often, and they’ve made me come to appreciate the beauty in the physical documentation of the ebbs and flows… *the joys and sorrows of this thing called life*.

I cried a couple of days ago. It wasn’t because of one thing. It wasn’t because of a hundred things. It was because of ALL THE THINGS… and because of nothing at all, all at the same time. I don’t cry often (although I’m not sure how much of that is me, and how much of that is repression from my mood stabilizers).

The last time I cried was Septermber 27th, 2023. The only reason I remember the exact date is that it was the day we had to have my Shepherd – and emotional support animal, and best friend of nine years – put down. That day I was prepared. We had tissues in hand as we sat on the living room floor, loving on him, petting him, and letting him know we were there, as the incredibly kind and gentle vet helped him transition.

This time I was caught completely off guard. I’d just gotten through the first half of my morning routine – feeding the dog, emptying the dishwasher, making coffee, taking my morning supplements, and giving the dog her meds (always in that exact order). I sat down to do my meditation and journal, and… sudden tears. A lot of them. I actually tried to ignore it at first, but the more I tried to resist it, the more the tears flowed. I was irrationally upset that I was crying, which made me cry harder.

All told, I cried for the whole first half of the day.

One of the interesting things about having a mental illness is the mental gymnastics I go through trying to determine if my big feelings (or lack of feelings) are due to bipolar, or simply due to life being hard sometimes. Is this the start of a depressive episode, or is plain-old transient sadness? Will it pass? Am I sad like a depressed person? Or sad like a “normal” person? Normal people cry for no reason, right? It’s normal to be down for a few days, right? How about a week? Two weeks? What about when it’s dragged on for a month or two or five?

What I decided that morning was that yes it’s normal to cry sometimes. Yes, it’s normal to cry when you’re sad. Or hurt. Or angry. Or happy. Or feeling any kind of emotion at all.

But that’s not why I was crying.

A lot of people, when they think of someone who is clinically depressed, picture someone crying and lying in bed all day with the shades drawn (and that is certainly the experience for some people.) But I’ve mostly exclusively experienced smiling depression. I’ll know I’m depressed, because I eventually see it, like I’m on the outside looking in. But I keep doing all the things. I keep cleaning the house. I keep taking the kids to where they need to go. I keep up with school. I keep busy and keep smiling and keep up a friendly face. The worst I ever, ever was – at a depth so low it still scares me to think about – Tegan was in her first play, The Wizard of Oz. I was driving her back and forth every day, socializing with all the other moms, volunteering to hand out programs in the lobby. No one knew. It was business as usual. And that’s my typical pattern. I mask and pretend and deny and push through…

Until I can’t. Until I end up sobbing on a tear-stained couch at 9:00 in the morning on a random Tuesday.

I’ve been depressed for a long time. I can never remember when it starts because 1) it starts so gradually that I often can’t see it until the water’s over my head 2) Faking it fools even me in the beginning and 3) I distract myself with the aforementioned game of “depression or run-of-the-mill sadness?”

It could have started when Django died. It could have been January. It could have been shortly after January, when one of my kids started going through something very difficult. It could have been February 8th (I’m making that date up) or February 29th or March 4th because who the hell knows.

Regardless of when it started… this is where I am.

I’m on the outside looking in again, and I can see it. I always recognize when the scale has tipped when I realize I’ve completely withdrawn into myself, ensconced in the suck. When I’ve stopped sleeping. When I eat too much, or I don’t eat at all. When I lack the energy for… anything. When the simplest of tasks seem very, very hard. When I completely stop replying to texts (if that includes you, I love you. And I’m sorry.) When my whole life’s purpose is to stay upright from the time I wake up until the time I go to bed. I’ve reached the portion of the program where I can’t fake it anymore. I’ve reached the portion of the program where I have nothing left. And I’m saying it out loud both because it helps with accountability as I try to claw my way out, and because it is comforting, even if the tiniest bit, to know that someone cares. Depression is lonely – which makes the fact that I push everyone away that much more confounding – and the idea that there is someone out there who cares and who wishes well for me is… reassuring.

I’ll be okay. I always am. But right now, my job is to hold on. I’m screaming out into the void and concentrating on breathing in and out. Breathing. Breathing. Breathing. Until the scale once again tips in the other direction.

4 Comments

Filed under bipolar, depression, mental health

January 19, 2020 · 8:39 PM

The World Needs You

I don’t know who needs to read this right now, but I see you.

I see you struggling. I see how heavy it is. I see how hard it is to breathe. I see how impossible it feels to put one foot in front of the other.

I see how much it hurts.

I see you, and my heart breaks for you because I know you feel like giving up. I know. But I also know this: (And if you hear nothing else, please hear this) The world needs you.

Yes, you.

Your life has meaning.

I don’t know what unique fingerprint you’ll leave in this world, the one that says, “I was here. I mattered.” But I know you’re leaving it.

I don’t know all the people who love you, all the people who want you to stay. But I am one of them. And I know I’m not alone.

I don’t know why the story was written this way, why it sometimes has to be so hard. But I know that there’s a reason.

It’s easy I think, to look around and to ask the question: “How significant am I? What have I even done? Would anyone even miss me?”

The answers are, beyond any doubt:

Very. Everything. YES.

You matter. What you do matters. Your presence matters.

And it’s not about how “big” your life is. It’s not about whether or not you’re a parent, or what kind of career you have, or car you drive, or degrees you’ve worked for, or awards you’ve won.

You matter for YOU. Right now. Right as this moment. Exactly as you are. Lives are touched because you exist. Because of your heart. Because of your smile. Because of that indescribable je ne sais quoi that is distinctly and unequivocally unique to YOU.

Your greatest day hasn’t happened yet, and we need you around to enjoy it.

There’s a life-changing conversation that you’ll someday take part in, and we need you around to have it.

Someone’s entire existence will be altered for the better because of YOU, and we need you around to make it happen.

There are rainbows and sunsets and mountains that we need you to see. There are not-yet written songs and twittering birds and laughing babies that we need you to hear. There are soft white shores and the fluff of a puppy and the warmth of a loved one’s hand that we need you to feel. There are connections to be made, connections we can’t even fathom, that we need you to be a part of.

There are books to read. Movies to see. Art to be created. Food to be eaten. Adventures to be had. Friendships to be made. An entire lifetime’s worth of experiences, and we need YOU to be around to make them happen. YOUR hand. YOUR touch. YOUR heart. YOU will change the course of history in ways you can never imagine.

And if that’s all too much? If it just sounds overwhelming? I get that, too. And it’s okay. It is. I hope the dream of better things gets you through another day, but even if one more day sounds like too much, you’re still needed. Because you matter right now. You are loved right now. All you need to get through is right now. It’s okay if you’re not okay.

You are strong. You can do amazing things. But if all you can do right now is breathe in and out that’s okay too. We need you.

You matter.

If your mental health isn’t what it should be please know when to seek professional help
If you’re having thoughts of suicide, call the crisis helpline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255)
You can also text START to 741-741 if you’d rather text than speak with someone on the phone
If you’re in imminent danger to yourself, PLEASE go to the ER.
You’re loved, and you’re worth it.

Bipolar II – A Day in the Life

It’s really beautiful, the view from the top. So beautiful I want to cry. I’m flying. I’m invincible. I’m full of grand ideas and grand plans and grand words. So very many words. The world is my proverbial oyster, and dammit I’m going to hold onto that slippery little sucker with all of my might. And I do. I do hold onto it.

Until I don’t. Until something weird starts to creep in. It’s unpleasant and frenetic and exhausting, like a million neurons are firing at once. I can’t get comfortable in my own skin. I can’t sleep, because it’s more important that I research opening up my gym. Or coffee shop. Or buying the church that’s for sale on the corner.

I can’t sleep because my skin is crawling. Because my heart is pounding. Because I’m drowning in my own thoughts, and feelings, and words. Because there’s just not. enough. time. I’m scared and I’m exhilarated, all at the same time. I text a friend at 2:00 in the morning and then get my feelings hurt when she doesn’t respond.

And then my feelings are hurt all the time. My feelings are hurt by what you said, by what you didn’t say, by what I thought you meant. My feelings are hurt by my own active imagination and it is EXHAUSTING. It strangles me. I see what’s happening, I see it like I’m looking at a stranger, but I’m powerless to stop it. I don’t blame anyone for deciding they can’t be my friend, for deciding they hate me. I hate myself.

I’m not flying anymore. I’m sinking. Sinking and sinking and sinking. I could claw my way up, but the walls are slippery. The darkness is enticing. It swallows me whole. There’s no more color, there’s no more joy. There is blackness. Like a cloud that I carry with me everywhere I go. I go through the motions, but I’m not there. I’m ensconced in the ugly safety of my cloud. I’m oblivious to everything that isn’t darkness. I’m crying but I’m not SAD, and I’m offended by anyone who uses the word. I’m nothing. I’m a shell.

I have to force myself to shower, to leave the house, to see people. My God, people. I convince myself that I’ll never connect with another person as long as I live. Who’d want to connect with someone so broken? So dark and so lifeless? Who’d want to connect with someone who isn’t even connected to herself?

I’ve forgotten the view from the top. I’ve forgotten how beautiful it is.

And then, for a blissful and limited period of time I’m “normal.” My life is normal, my relationships are normal, my feelings are normal.

Until one day, without warning, I’m flying again.

8 Comments

Filed under bipolar, depression, mania, mental health, Uncategorized

March 15, 2019 · 2:19 PM

Seven Things Not To Say To a Friend With Mental Illness

I have been open about mental illness since the very beginning. As I tested the water here on my blog, I received nothing but support, and it encouraged me to continue to write about it, continue to talk about it, and continue to be vulnerable about it. I’ll gladly talk to anyone about my experiences, and I’m always up for answering questions.

The problem with such transparency? The well-meaning (and truly, I do believe deep in my heart that they’re all well-meaning) comments intending to help, but which ultimately hurt.

Here are a few such comments, in no particular order.

Cheer up/Don’t be sad/Just think positively. Oh were it that easy! The biggest problem with comments like that is that they assume the problem is a choice. Just try harder! Just choose to be happy! That’s not how it works, and it’s condescending and insulting to imply otherwise. No one CHOOSES depression. No one chooses mania. No one chooses anxiety. And if it were that easy to stop, no one would suffer from them in the first place.

But you have so much to be thankful for. Yes, someone’s life might appear to be problem free. Great job, great marriage, healthy happy kids, etc. I would say first of all that no one knows what happens behind closed doors, and even if someone’s life was as picture-perfect as it seemed? Mental illness does not discriminate. It crosses all borders, and doesn’t care about your gender, race, religion, or socio-economic status.

I know just how you feel. No, you don’t. If you’re fortunate enough not to be affected by mental illness, you have no idea how I feel. Please don’t believe otherwise. If you are one of the unlucky ones, chances are you really can relate…. but even then, I think there’s a risk in assuming that we completely understand how another person feels. No two situations are alike, no two people are alike. Ask questions, share experiences, but tread carefully with phrases like, “I know how you feel.” Never say you understand unless you truly do.

Everyone feels that way sometimes. One of the most disheartening experiences I’ve ever had when it comes to sharing my experience was about a year ago. I’d hit a bump in my recovery, my meds were being all switched up, and my diagnosis was being expanded to include Borderline Personality Disorder. I was a mess, I confided in a friend, and she asked me to describe what it all meant. I did my most vulnerable best, she looked at me with almost a shrug and said, “Oh. We all feel that way sometimes.” Oof. It is extremely minimizing to dismiss a very difficult mental illness as something that we all experience from time to time. I worked, and continue to work, hard – HARD – to do the things I need to do to be well. It’s hurtful for that work to be rejected with a flippant refusal to believe that there was even a problem in the first place.

You need to exercise/get outside/heal your gut/eat these foods/take these supplements/use these oils/try this product. I know that you want to help. I do. But it’s highly likely that anyone dealing with a mental illness has done his or her homework, knows the options that are out there, and has made decisions and determinations about what does and does not help as well as what they do or do not want to do about it. They’re also (one would hope) working with a team of professionals whose job it is to help them get well. What your friend needs from you is friendship, not advice.

My brother has bipolar too. He’s in jail. I used this as an example because it was something that was said to me once. (And by the by, how was I supposed to respond to that? I still don’t know.) But it speaks to a larger issue of making assumptions and comparisons. Not everyone who has bipolar ends up jail. Not everyone with schizophrenia is violent. While those things certainly are the reality for some people, every illness is different, and every individual is different. Yes, there are patterns of behavior, and there are shared symptoms… but it’s a slippery slope when you start to believe that the character you saw in Silver Linings Playbook is the epitome of mental illness. Everyone is different.

You just need to turn to God. I saved this one for last, because I think it’s the most damaging on the list. Too many people think that if you just believe hard enough, if you just pray hard enough, that God will take away your illness. This belief is so, so harmful for believers. It leaves those struggling with mental illness feeling as though it’s their fault, that they’ve fallen short, that their faith isn’t strong enough, and that they’re just not TRYING. It is NOT their fault, it is not a sign of weakness, and it can affect anyone. Anyone. Regardless of where they do or do not stand with God. Regardless of how much they believe, regardless of how hard they try.

It can be a delicate thing, dealing with mental illness – dealing with any kind of illness – when it comes to your friends or family. And while it’s true that there are missteps that can easily be made, there are things to be said that can help, immensely.

I’m thinking of you.

I love you.

I’m here if you need me.

I hear you.

I see you.

Simple words that go a long way to let someone know you care, that you don’t think it’s their fault, and that you know they just can’t “snap out of it.” When all else fails, you can never go wrong with just Being There.

1 Comment

Filed under bipolar, depression, mania, mental health, Uncategorized

January 22, 2019 · 1:05 PM

Dealing With Depression: One Small Thing

I’m depressed.

When I say I’m depressed, I don’t mean I’m sad or down or in a funk. I mean I’m clinically depressed. I’ve been clinically depressed on and off since my twenties (You can read about my initial diagnosis of bipolar starting here.)

It’s a weird thing, depression. It lays dormant for awhile, its little tentacles still. And then, sometimes with warning and sometimes without, it comes to life again, slithering its way along your heart, your brain, your soul. Its only purpose is to provide misery. Its only mission to engulf you. And then it leaves again, its presence no more than another battle scar, another reminder that you once again crossed through the darkness.

Fortunately, I’ve gotten fairly adept at dealing with it when it comes. I can thank therapy and medication for that, along with way too much practice. But I find so much of the (well-meaning; I know it’s well-meaning) advice out there to be condescending, complicated, and sort of preachy in its nature. Put simply, it does not help me.

I think the problem is that most of the information out there is aimed at preventing depression, and/or staving off the beginnings of sadness. Things such as getting enough sleep, eating well, exercising, meditating, prayer to a higher power if you believe in one, using essential oils and other natural remedies. Etc. All good advice.

The problem is, when one is already in the midst of a depression, she’s NOT getting enough sleep, eating well feels as difficult as crossing the Atlantic, exercise requires getting out of bed, meditating means staunching the flow of tears long enough to hear the silence. And oils? I will THROW YOUR OILS AT YOU if you suggest them when I’m already depressed.

There is one thing though. ONE thing that helps, and I share it in case it’ll help you too.

It’s to make myself to do ONE THING. It doesn’t cure it, by any means, but it’s not meant to. It’s meant to remind me that I have permission to get out of my head, even for five minutes. It’s meant to remind me that I can still do the thing, even in the depths of darkness. It’s meant to remind me that if I can do one thing today, I can do one thing tomorrow. It’s meant to remind me that if I can do one thing, I’ll eventually be able to do two, or four, or ten. It’s meant to remind me that I will not always be depressed.

And make no mistake, some days I have to absolutely force it, even if it’s something I ordinarily love.

This week week, I:

Took a bath

Drew a picture

Took Tegan out to the park to practice volleyball

Painted my nails

Walked on my treadmill

Read a new book

Started a new show on Netflix

Wore a new ring I bought myself for my birthday

Some days, I have to do my one thing through tears. And some days, my one thing IS tears. Some days my one thing is letting myself cry the tears that I try so hard to keep at bay.

Some days my one thing is a nap.

It doesn’t take the depression away, this much is true. But it tampers it, it smooths the edges, it gives me the confidence to know that yes, yes, I will beat this again. And when I’m feeling better I’ll get back on track with my eating and sleeping and all that other important stuff. Absolutely. But for now I’ll just do one thing.

One thing. And that’ll be enough.

3 Comments

Filed under bipolar, depression, mental health

September 13, 2018 · 2:35 PM

I Take A Pill

Every day, I take a pill

Actually I take a few different pills, but for the sake of brevity….

I take a pill

The pill is not a happy pill, nor is it a magic pill

It’s not an “easy out”

It’s not a substitute for taking care of myself

Or for eating well, or getting enough rest, or getting out into the sun

It’s not (no matter how much others try to make you believe otherwise) a sign of my ignorance, or my lack of research

It’s not (no matter how much others try to make you believe otherwise) about blind faith in a flawed and corrupt system

Are pills over-prescribed? Yes

Do pills come with risks? Yes!

But still I take a pill

I take a pill because I value my life

I value the quality of my life

I take a pill because without it my life was the very last thing I valued

I take a pill because for some reason (or two reasons or a hundred reasons) my brain just doesn’t quite work like yours

And it’s okay! This weird, different, twisty brain of mine is okay

But not when it’s lying to me

Not when it’s telling me I’m not enough

Not worth the space I take up

Not when it’s overcome with darkness, or mania, or anxiety

So I take a pill

And the pill doesn’t fix me

But it allows me to fix myself

It allows me to function

It allows me to enjoy instead of just exist

It allows me to see colors where there was once only black and white

It allows me to move when I was once immobilized

I take a pill

I take a pill for me, but also for ALL the people who are shamed away from seeking help

Shamed away from saying it out loud

Shamed away from pills

Or doctors

Or therapists

Shamed away from putting a label on something that is NOT shameful or bad or ugly…. but just different

I take a pill because I need the help

I take a pill because all the fresh air and exercise and essential oils and kale in the world did not fix the broken

And I’ll say it again..

The pill doesn’t fix the broken either

But it allows me to fix the broken

It allows me to believe that the broken is fixable in the first place

It allows me to believe that the broken is WORTH fixing

So despite the voices

The voices from family, from friends, from strangers

Dear Lord the constant voices

The voices that yell DO NOT TAKE THE PILL

Every day, I take a pill

And every day I’m thankful for it.

There is no shame in doing what you need to do to stay well.

3 Comments

Filed under about me, anxiety, bipolar, depression, mania, mental health

June 20, 2018 · 10:02 AM

What If You’re Wrong About Depression?

Depression is a mind game. If you stop thinking about it then it will eventually go away.

I read that on Instagram this morning, but I see the same comment in various iterations on a daily basis.

Just think positively!

Look at all you have to be thankful for!

Step out of the darkness and into the light!

Well meaning, to be sure, but it’s not as simple as that. It’s just not.

And we could debate all day about the causes and treatments of depression, and whether or not it’s even a real thing. It’s a chemical imbalance. No, it’s all in your head (side note, I saw a cute meme that retorted with something along the lines of, “Well where do you expect it to be, in my kidney?”) It’s all just a state of mind. It can be fixed with diet. You just need more sunshine. You just need drugs. Drugs make it worse. You need therapy. Psychiatry is just a bunch of pseudo-science quackery. Just stop thinking about it.

Etc

But the thing is, for the purposes of my point here, none of the above really matters. It doesn’t. Because just pretend for a second, just for a second, that you’re wrong, and that the person in question truly CAN’T just positively think their way out of depression. Do you know what comments like yours do to a person with depression? They minimize them. They invalidate them. They make them feel – when they are already at their most desperately lowest point – that they’re doing something wrong. They make them feel worthless, and they make them even less likely to seek help.

At best, comments like these are annoyances… thinly veiled insults wrapped in a pretty bow of concern.

But at their worst? They can be the very last thread on someone’s already rapidly fraying rope. This is going to sound harsh, but your comment could literally mean the difference between a person’s choosing to tread water another day, or letting the rope slip through their fingers.

I think that of all the ways we hurt each other as human beings (and boy howdy, are we good at hurting one another), one of the worst is simply when we don’t see each other. When we don’t listen. When we tell each other, through actions and inactions both that we don’t matter. That our feelings and experiences are not valid. Are not real.

IT HURTS TO BE MINIMIZED.

In fact, at this moment in time, I can think of few things that hurt more. I’ve always known that I was more sensitive to this feeling than most people, and I only recently learned why. In a lovely twist of irony (because what is life if not a giant example of irony?) deciding to open up about this painful facet of my life earned me nothing more than more flippant dismissal. “Pfft. Oh, that. We all feel like that. That’s just being a human.” So now? Once again, I feel unsafe sharing.

IT HURTS TO BE MINIMIZED.

Be kind.

If you’re wrong about this (and hell, even if you’re right), you need to know your words matter. Your words hurt, not help. Because even IF you’re right? Even if the depressed person CAN just think they’re way to happiness? At that moment, that moment that they’re choosing to invite you in… they’re not okay. What they feel is real. They need your friendship, they need your love, they need your support. What they do not need is for you to tell them that they’re wrong to feel what they feel, that they’re wrong to not have pulled themselves up by the bootstraps and fixed it already.

If someone had (fill in the blank with a physical illness – cancer, diabetes, meningitis, asthma) would you tell them it would go away if they would just hurry up and stop thinking about it already? I’m guessing you probably wouldn’t. You know that illnesses, from the common cold to leukemia, are complex. That they’re unique and multi-faceted and require different approaches for each individual person. You realize this. You respect this.

It’s 2018. Can we please start giving mental illnesses the same consideration?

I have written a lot about mental health, especially over the past two years, but this issue is one of the most important, and one of the most personal. Ironically (see above comment about irony), I’m doing well at the moment. I’m in balance. Which is… unexpected, given everything that I have going on right now. I feel good. But when that changes – and it will change, because that’s the beautiful cyclical nature of mental illness – please don’t tell me I just need to stop thinking about it. Please don’t minimize me. Please don’t tell me what I’m feeling isn’t real.

As anyone with depression can tell you, it’s real. If nothing else, it starts and ends with being REAL.

P.S. I just posted an update over on Patreon if you want to know what’s going on in my 3D life at the moment. 🙂 It is set to public, so you don’t need to be a Patron to read it.

1 Comment

Filed under bipolar, depression, kindness, life, mania, mental health, rant

May 26, 2018 · 8:39 AM

Faking It

So, the other day I was complaining to a friend about my statistics class. The class hadn’t even started yet now that I think about it, but I’d read the syllabus and the individual modules and learning objectives and I was…. overwhelmed. Overwhelmed before I’d even started. (This is my second go-around with Statistics, by the by. I’d taken it a hundred years ago in my first foray at college, and I ended up taking it pass/fail so it wouldn’t bring down my GPA.)

Anyway.

I complained to my friend, and she said: “You can do it!”

Me: “I’m not so sure.”

Friend: “Fake it till you make it?”

Me: ::Sigh:: “Sometimes it feels like that’s my whole life.”

Just last week, a mom I’d recently met through Tegan’s play was chatting with me while we washed our hands at the bathroom sink. “You have four kids? How do you do it? You’re so calm!”

I don’t even remember what I said in response, but what I did not say was the truth: That whatever calmness she saw was through the aid of pharmaceuticals and faking, in equal measure.

Like many depressed people I know, I’ve gotten really good at “smiling depression.” Smiling on the outside, crying on the inside. Putting on a (if I do say so myself), reasonable or even impressive display of happy. Of friendly. Of normal. I smiled a lot last week. I also went to sleep crying at least two or three nights, and woke up crying just as many.

I write so much about gentle parenting. I dismantle all the common mainstream ways of doing things, and I wax poetic about how we can do things better. I don’t write about the fact that as of late my patience and emotional reserve have been so shot that it is taking all of my energy not to snap at my kids just for … talking, or for making any sort of noise, or for being in my space. I don’t write about the fact that I’m currently so completely flummoxed about an issue I’m having with one of my children that I’m immobilized. That I haven’t the slightest CLUE how to handle it.

I’m good at faking.

Some days are hard.

Some days are really, really hard.

I am, as I write, and as I stand before you, the proverbial man behind the curtain. Pay no attention to him. Listen to my booming, confident voice! Listen to my authority! Listen to my wisdom!

And know, that sometimes, I am faking it. That I am broken. That I am scared. That I, like so many of the rest of us, struggle with not knowing what the hell I’m doing on any given day of the week. That sometimes, I feel like an impostor in my own life.

I’m good at faking.

My one consolation is in knowing that all of us, at one time or another, at least a little, have faked it. Faked the happy, the confidence, the friendliness, the conversation. Faked the fact that we were completely capable of interacting like a normal person when we really just wanted to be home, in bed, with the covers pulled over our head. Just like my friend suggested, we fake it until we make it.

Today I have things to do. I have people to see. I have to put on pants. I have to have conversations. I have to be okay. I have to smile and make the right faces and say the right things. And I’ll do it!

And I’ll be faking it.

Because between you and me, right now, in this moment? I’m tired. Deep, deep in my bones exhausted. Mentally, physically, emotionally spent. At the present time, I am not okay.

But you know what? Sometimes being not okay is okay too. Sometimes the answer lies not in faking it, but in raw, brutal honesty. Right now, I’m not okay.

6 Comments

Filed under about me, anxiety, bipolar, depression, life, mental health

March 6, 2018 · 3:25 PM

Therapy Ends. Chapter Two Begins.

The beauty is I’m learning how to face my beast
Starting now to find some peace
Set myself free

Today, I don’t have to fall apart
I don’t have to be afraid
I don’t have to let the damage consume me,
My shadow see through me

Fear in itself
Will reel you in
And spit you out over and over again
Believe in yourself and you will walk

Fear in itself
Will use you up and break you down
like you were never enough

I used to fall but now I get back up

~Fear, Blue October

On May 23rd, 2016, I walked into therapy for the first time. I’d seen a doctor, been diagnosed, and started meds just a few weeks before that, but it’s that first day of therapy that I really remember. Partly because I’d spent the better part of my adult life actively hating the very idea of therapy (I thought therapy was WEIRD. I still think therapy’s weird. My mind reels at the fact that there’s this human just walking around out there knowing my deepest darkest secrets, the ugliest parts of my psyche, my biggest fears, and my greatest aspirations. All the big things, and all the little things, and everything in between.) But even more than that was just the fact that, well, I was terrified. Like, more terrified than I’d ever been of anything. Ever. The end.

I wore my “Coffee is My Spirit Animal” t-shirt that day, because it was a favorite, and it made me less nervous. I also had on pretty much every beaded bracelet I owned, for the same reason. They gave me as much confidence and courage as possible on a day when I was having trouble mustering either one. My fingernails were painted a very dark brown, a new favorite color (aptly) called Espresso.

I was scared. So, so scared.

And now, I’m remembering. Remembering it all with a detail and acuity that is making it hard to breathe. You know how people say their life flashes before their eyes right before they die? Well, it’s kind of like that, but … the opposite. I’m not about to die. I’m about to live.

Therapy obviously wasn’t my whole life, but it was a very big part of it, at least for the past 21 months.

And I hated it. I did. I hated therapy. And I don’t feel bad saying that, because I never exactly made it a secret (to anyone, but least of all to my therapist). Therapy was hard. It hurt. It brought me to my knees. I spent more time being mad at my therapist than I think I’ve ever been at anyone that I wasn’t related to in my entire life. Usually just because he was right, and said what I needed to hear but didn’t want to hear… but very occasionally for reasons that I felt were justified. I got my feelings hurt. I got my toes stepped on. I constantly feared I was doing it “wrong”… that I’d say the wrong thing, or do the wrong thing, and that I’d screw up this professional relationship just as adeptly as I’d screwed up my personal relationships. I wanted to quit so badly. I wanted to quit all the time. I fantasized about just not showing up one day, and sometimes accompanied said fantasy with a scathing letter just for good measure. Some weeks, making myself drive to therapy took every single ounce of willpower in my body. And some weeks? Some weeks I had no willpower left. I had nothing left.

Because it had broken me. Make no mistake: therapy broke me.

But.

It also put me back together. It healed me. It made me stronger. It taught me things (about myself, about the people around me, about life) that no self-help book in the world ever could. And it was cyclical, in that it made me filled with gratitude – SO VERY MUCH GRATITUDE – and then frustration, and then stubbornness, and then anger, and then gratitude some more.

Last summer was my first try at leaving, but it didn’t take. The timing was …. off, I was spiraling into a deep depression even as we were trying to pick an end date, and my whole life just crashed and burned in what very nearly culminated in a hospital stay.

And I’m glad it happened.

I am. I’m glad for it, and I’m glad for the hard, and for the very very hard, sessions that followed. I just had more things to learn. And I needed that time, and I needed those lessons. It was all part of my story.

Because the thing is, I’m not afraid of the darkness anymore. Therapy taught me not to be afraid anymore (Full disclosure: Certain things do still touch on that fear. When a celebrity dies by suicide? It breaks that most tender part of my heart like none other.) But I’m stronger now. I have tools now. I know – like really, truly, deeply in my soul know – that even when the darkness comes, that I’ll eventually see the light again. That I can keep putting one foot in front of the other. That I can keep breathing. That I can keep myself grounded in the moment. That I can ignore and question and re-frame all the negative thoughts in my head. That I am NOT those thoughts…. no matter how much my brain or the world or the other people in my life try to make me believe otherwise. That those are just old stories, and that I can choose not to listen to them. I can choose not to give them power.

I’m okay now. But you know what? I’m better than okay. Because for the first time in my life, in my whole life, I accept me. I like me, warts and bruised broken bits and all. And really, those warts and bruised broken bits? They’re beautiful, because they’ve made me “me”. They’ve brought me here. They’ve made me strong.

I believe I can do the thing now. And it doesn’t even matter what the “thing” is. I believe I can do it.

I believe in me.

I believe I’m enough.

I’ve learned about the importance of self-compassion in these past 21 months. And of the importance of self-forgiveness (sweet baby Jesus, that’s a big one for me.) I’ve learned what awareness looks like, and what a huge step that is in and of itself. I’ve learned to take responsibility for me, and for MY issues, and leave everyone else to deal with their own. I’ve learned to say, “no”, and I’ve learned to stop trying to please everyone else. I’ve learned to respond with curiosity, openness, acceptance, and love (or C.O.A.L., just one of many such tidy little acronyms that I used to decry as cheesy, but now turn to again and again.) I’ve learned practical steps for panic attacks, for those negative voices that just. won’t. shut. up., and for taking care of myself even when I really really really don’t want to. I’ve learned to question the validity of what my brain is trying to tell me at any given time, I’ve learned to stop taking everything so seriously, and I’ve learned that no matter how many times my brain fights me on this: IT IS NOT ALWAYS MY FAULT.

Therapy didn’t cure me, this much is true. There’s no cure for bipolar. But there’s also no cure for… life. It’s going to have its hard moments, and it’s going to have its REALLY hard moments. It’s going to have its “No. Screw you. I’m not getting out of my bed/putting on my pants/stopping feeling sorry for myself” moments. But my God, it’s also going to have its beautiful moments! Its exquisitely perfect-in-all-their-imperfectly-gloriousness moments. I think of those moments sometimes. Of those perfectly beautiful moments of the past two years that I quite literally could have missed had I not kept going to therapy. I’m still here. I’m still here on the planet. Which is a multifaceted accomplishment to be sure, but therapy played such a big role in that puzzle. A role so big, that fills me with a gratitude so great that I almost don’t know what to do with it. What are the words? There can’t possibly be the right words, can there?

My life tends to be one big example of irony, so now, right at the moment of the end of therapy, I’m finding myself in a bit of a downward rather than upward swing. But unlike last summer, I’m not afraid of it. I’m not. I know that I’m strong. I know that I will see the light again. And if I have to come back to that sentence a million times to remind me, I will. I’ll see the light again.

I’m excited for it.

I’m hopeful.

I’m optimistic (which, by the way, is a word that was not in my vocabulary for.. oh, 44 years)

I owe that, and so very much more, to therapy. And while I’ve consciously used the general term “therapy” rather than the more personal, and more accurate, “my therapist”, I can’t close this out without correcting that. I mainly kept things generic because I didn’t feel like crying just yet, and there was zero chance at all that I could write this without crying.

Tony. My therapist’s name is Tony. He taught me more than anyone’s ever taught me. And he taught me the most important things, because, I mean…. what’s more important than LIFE? I was a slow study sometimes too, and a stubborn one, and a… well, did you get the part about how angry I was all the time? It must be noted though, that despite all the hard work, and the frustration, and the yuck factor, that there were days I actually enjoyed. A lot of them in fact. It feels important that I note that, lest you get the idea that it was 21 months of utter misery. It wasn’t. There were days we laughed, often at ourselves. Days we bonded over silly things like Seinfeld. Days I was allowed to see little bits of Human Tony instead of just Therapist Tony (those were some of my favorites). Days we celebrated one of my small victories. Days we celebrated my really big victories. Days that I truly felt and knew and believed that he believed in me, that he believed I could do it, and that he believed that I could do it well. Not because it was his job, and not because I was paying him to be there, but because human to human, he just DID. I told him not too long ago that I wished that privacy laws didn’t preclude him from having a wall of success stories… because I really wanna see my face up there. I want him to be able to tell people (again, in a vague way because… laws): here was this girl who didn’t think she could do the thing …. BUT SHE DID.

It was a Very. Big. Deal. It was all a big deal. It was a big deal that I did it, and it is a very, very big deal that it has ended. Because the whole point has always been to get me to a place where I didn’t feel I needed therapy anymore.

And we did that. I’m there.

Today, on March 6th, 2018, I walked out of that therapy office for the last time.

And I got in my car, turned on my music (which is always on shuffle), and in one final, serendipitous, post-therapy gift from the universe, the song that started playing was, “I’m Not Broken Anymore.” I was fully prepared to cry… but all I could do was smile.

And now? Now I take what I learned – and what I worked so hard at; and will continue to work so hard at – and I move forward. Move on to the next chapter of my life, and whatever that may bring. And I’ll do it with the deepest and sincerest and most life-long gratitude to Tony, who not only helped me learn how to have a good quality of life, but who quite literally also saved it.

____________________________________________

If your mental health isn’t what it should be please know when to seek professional help

If you’re having thoughts of suicide, call the crisis helpline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

You can also text START to 741-741 if you’d rather text than speak with someone on the phone

If you’re in imminent danger to yourself, PLEASE go to the ER.

You’re loved, and you’re worth it.

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Filed under about me, anxiety, bipolar, depression, gratitude, health, mania, mental health

February 18, 2018 · 9:59 PM

The Conversation About Mental Illness

People have often asked me how I can stand writing about controversial things, and/or how I can handle the negative comments when I write something that’s widely read … especially the people who know how very sensitive I am (which is anyone who’s known me longer than about 90 seconds). The truth is, sometimes I do get my feelings a little – or a lot – hurt. And sometimes I wonder why I keep doing it. And sometimes I want to just take my ball and go home.

But in many ways, it is far easier to be brave on my blog, where it has the potential to reach many people, than it is on a smaller forum. Or than it is with people I know – even if you’re using the word “know” in the loose, Facebook-era kind of way. I like to keep my own little personal Facebook bubble generally light and happy and controversy-free. Partly because that’s just who I am when I’m not railing about my various causes, but also because I can’t handle the heat. I can’t. Every time, EVERY TIME, I think I’m brave enough to post something that’s going to garner mixed opinions … I regret it, I end up crying, or both. That’s just the way I’m wired, for better or worse. My blog is different, because even though there’s the potential for a much larger group of people to be much meaner to me, there’s also anonymity. There’s safety behind the curtain. There’s the “imagine everyone in their underwear” mind-tricks to keep things in perspective. In small groups though, there’s just so much raw vulnerability. For a person whose greatest blessing and biggest curse happens to be vulnerability, it can be a lot to handle.

Sometimes I forget, though. And sometimes I post something controversial. And then I regret it. And then I delete it.

I did that very thing tonight in fact. I posted the thing, a respectful conversation followed, and still I panicked and deleted. I felt an immediate sense of relief …. promptly followed by whatever the opposite of relief is, promptly followed by bawling in the bathtub (the kind of crying where you feel like you’re never going to stop), and texting my friend to talk me down.

The thing is, I wish I hadn’t deleted it. Because I think it’s an important conversation to be had. I think it’s one of the MOST important conversations we should have. So I’m bringing it over here where I feel brave. Where I won’t feel the need to delete.

Like all of you, I was horrified by the news of another school shooting. Like most of you, I have strong opinions on what I believe should and should not be done to hopefully help solve the problem. Like a lot of you, I’ve been saddened and frustrated and angered by many of the memes I saw floating through my Facebook feed.

For reasons that are obvious to any of my regular readers, I’ve felt particularly stung every time I saw a meme screaming, “Mental illness! MENTAL! ILLNESS!”

I finally saw one that flipped a switch in me that turned off all reason, and I posted this:

I have a mental illness. It is currently well-managed. When it is not well-managed, the only person – THE ONLY PERSON – I’ve ever thought of harming is myself.

As I said up above, what followed was a respectful conversation. No one was mean, no one called me names. The comments were, even from the people who disagreed and/or didn’t understand the point I was trying to make, pretty benign. “There are lots of different kinds of mental illness.” “Different people are affected differently.” “There are many factors at play.”

Yes. Sure. All true.

I feel like I shouldn’t have to say this, but for the sake of clarity: I am not at all suggesting that the shooter was not mentally ill. People who are of sound mind don’t typically go on shooting sprees. The fact that people are suggesting he’s mentally ill isn’t actually my problem.

My problem is that we’re perpetuating a stereotype. My problem is that we’re feeding a stigma. My problem is that we’re taking this tiny percentage of those with mental illnesses (you guys, this is a TINY percentage) and using it as a scapegoat. As a way to explain something away. As a way to make ourselves more comfortable with a situation in which there IS no comfort. “Oh, well he was MENTALLY ILL. Of course.” My problem is that we’re holding this one, extreme, violent person and saying: This. This is what mental illness looks like.

I hate to break it to you, but mental illness FAR MORE OFTEN looks like the guy sitting next to you on the bus minding his own business. Like the co-worker you’re joking with next to the water cooler. Like the person who sold you your house, or cut your hair, or did your taxes. Like the girl in the bare feet and the owl pajamas. The who falls and keeps getting back up again. The one who isn’t going to bed until she hits “publish” on her blog post.

A few fast facts about mental illness and violence:

People with mental illnesses are far more likely to be victims of crimes than perpetrators. (source)

The absolute risk of violence among the mentally ill as a group is very small. (source)

The public is largely misinformed about any links between mental illness and violence. (source)

These inaccurate beliefs lead to widespread stigma and discrimination. (source)

Someone in my since-deleted Facebook post asked me, “Are you saying that you think talking about mental illness is harmful?” And what I think is very much the opposite. I think we need to be talking about mental illness. I think we need to know what mental illness is (and is not!). I think we need to have more compassion. I think we need to harbor less judgement. I think we need to demand true information, and real awareness. I think this conversation needs to happen openly, honestly, and in an ongoing fashion. Because what’s happening in the media right now? That’s not a conversation about mental illness. It’s fear-mongering. It’s sensationalism. It’s perpetuating a stereotype, it’s increasing stigma, and it is HARMFUL.

Let me say that again: Make no mistake. What’s happening right now is harmful to those with mental illnesses, and making those who suffer even less likely to seek help when it’s needed.

I’m going to close with something I wrote on the thread on my Facebook page before I deleted. It was responses to this comment that were what eventually led me to delete the post. Because it was so, so deeply personal. And if you don’t feel heard when you write something so personal … I don’t know. I think it’s one of the most painful things we can experience. This is what I wrote, and the kernel from which this whole post was born.

There are so many people, so so many people, who’ve had or currently have suicidal ideation, who are afraid to get help for various reasons. I think the stigma is a huge one, as well as the fact that there is so much judgment attached (ie: How could anyone do something so *selfish*?, etc). But I also think that talking about it just makes people so damn uncomfortable that they’d do anything to avoid it. I get it. It’s uncomfortable. No one’s even mentioned it in this entire thread, despite my having led with it. But my life is valuable too, as is everyone’s who suffers from a mental illness. The problem is, it seems like no one wants to talk about mental illness until someone commits some horrific crime. This tiny, tiny segment of mentally ill people is literally the only exposure that people are getting. And by sensationalizing it, and using it to explain something away (something that is obviously multi-faceted) so many people are hurt. The feeling that one gets, from this side of it, is that your average, run-of-the-mill person who has a mental illness – which is SO many more people than most are aware of – is unimportant. If they take their *own* lives, oh well, as long as they’re not violent towards others. So sure, let’s have a conversation about mental illness, but that conversation needs to include the vast vast majority of people who live/work/exist without ever harboring violent tendencies. Otherwise, it’s just propagating stereotypes and increasing stigmas.

Let’s do better. Please.

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