Shared Desires -- Different Endings

There is a power in writing, and there is a greater power in sharing our stories.  I'm certain that I have before shared the C.S. Lewis quote, "We read to know we are not alone."  The same might be said of writing.  Our stories often reveal our souls, and when such stories are shared, the writer is often hoping to be heard, hoping to know that he or she is not alone, hoping to know that he or she might yet be saved.  In the same turn, some stories are shared to let others know they are not alone, their pain has been felt, and survived by others.  Our stories can give others strength.  I am truly astounded by the strength of the young writer who composed the following guest post.  She leaves us with an important lesson to be alert, be involved, and be gentle for everyone is fighting a battle we know nothing about.  Further, we have the power to shape our own stories and we can be the hero instead of drafting a horror tale.  Finally, I would like to thank the anonymous author of this story for inspiring me to write and share once again, as it has surely been one of my struggles.  Thank you, dear girl with a beautiful smile and strong spirit.    -- Angela 

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Shared Desires -- Different Endings 

I have fantasized about killing my stepfather. Several times, actually, and those fantasies were always deeply satisfying.  There was freedom in that fantasy.  That fantasy almost became reality on one occasion. After another day of repeatedly labeling his family as worthless and stupid individuals, my stepfather wrapped his hands around my mother’s throat so tightly that he nearly killed her. Witness to this terrible and violent encounter, I refused to remain silent and I pounded my clenched fists against his back until he stopped. After releasing his grip on my exhausted, despondent mother, he turned to me and wickedly laughed in my face.

“What the fuck are you going to do about it, you stupid piece of shit?” he asked me.

I didn’t know how to respond, or what to do next, but I was so angry I was shaking uncontrollably and felt enraged into possibly vengeful actions. In a mocking motion, my stepfather shook his head at me while proceeding to the kitchen, while my mom lay on the floor temporarily unconscious. I looked at her helpless, limp body on the floor and I was overcome with indignation and a desire for some justice or peace. He returned from the kitchen and handed me a knife, with an air of arrogant authority.

He whispered in my ear, “Go ahead. Show me you aren’t just a scared little bitch. I dare you to use this,” he further taunted, “Really, I’d love for you to try.”

I kept such severe scenes of abuse a well-guarded secret from nearly everyone in my life. I internalized my pain and, after years of guilting and shaming myself, the pain manifested itself in the form of self-injurious behavior.  I would have horrific nightmares every night and my incessant thoughts were often dark. Eventually, I channeled this negativity into writing. I composed haunting short stories about rape, abuse, and murder. I often scared my own self  with how twisted and troubled the dark recesses of my mind could be – those spots where I hid my secrets and protected the same wicked man I had often wished to kill. At times, I felt so depressed and dejected that I wanted to end my life; other times I was so incensed that I sought to end my torment by taking my stepfather’s life.

Such memories – and such dark desires – returned hastily to me as the news of a local homicide shocked our small town. The images of a troubled young female named Ashlee flashed across television screens and dominated news feeds. Ashlee, a seventeen year old junior, was attending the very same high school from which I graduated when she allowed her own dark desires to control her actions, leading to inconceivable loss.  Ashlee shot and killed her stepfather this past weekend, and she also stabbed her mother to death after falsely imprisoning her three younger siblings behind locked and tied bedroom doors.  She then fled to Indiana, where she was promptly located by authorities. Many are aware that Ashlee published horrific short stories and poems on a personal blog titled “Nightmare.” Such tales and tributes clearly demonstrate the degree to which Ashlee’s mind was troubled. It is further common knowledge among her peers that Ashlee even shared aloud, in her high school English course, one of her stories about stabbing someone to death and delighting in such destruction. I believe such public sharing was her way of asking for help. Obviously, and quite regrettably, her cries for help fell upon deaf ears. The result is the loss of life for two individuals and the loss of innocence for three more.

My story could have been all too similar to Ashlee’s ghastly fictional tales and real life appalling horror.  Fortunately for me, I had friends who recognized the times when I was troubled and reached out to me. They would ask me to stay over at their house or tell me how much they cared about me. Such simple acts helped to save my life, and the life of the man who tormented our family. I also had teachers who sensed something was amiss with my home life and pulled me out of class to ask about my bruises and work toward securing my physical safety and emotional well-being. I had people who genuinely, truly cared about me and my welfare. I had people in my life who saw the warning signs and didn’t simply turn a blind eye; they helped me through my struggles and helped me find my inner strength.  

So when my stepfather handed me that knife that day, I gripped it so god-damn hard that my knuckles ached and my teeth clenched so that my jaw throbbed. I stared intently at that bastard for a while, thinking about what would happen if I did actually proceed to plunge the knife into his chest. I knew no one would miss him. I knew my life would be a hell of a lot better without him in it. But then I thought about all the people who loved me. There were suddenly so many people I could think of with fondness and gratitude. It actually brought tears to my eyes to consider how much I was cared for, despite my stepfather’s disregard, and before I could change my mind, I told him, “No. Because if I did that, I’d be no better than you. And I am so much better.”

That is how the story ended that day.  I put down the knife, and worked fervently to set aside all my anger as well. But imagine how differently I might have reacted if I hadn’t been able to bear in mind all those people who consistently reached out to me in my time of need. What if I had been bullied at school? What if I felt none of my peers cared about me? What if my teachers and mentors had ignored the bruises and ignored my need to heal? You might have seen my name in the headlines for homicide too.

I am in no way stating that Ashlee’s actions are acceptable, and she must be held accountable for her crimes. Further, I am truly sorry for this family’s immense loss. I don’t personally know Ashlee, so I cannot ascertain if emotional or physical abuse drove Ashlee’s regrettable decisions. However, I do know that by failing to see Ashlee’s warning signs, we have failed her as a community. It is crucial that we as individuals each take the time to reach out to those whom we see are hurting. I pray that we can take this as a lesson to extend care, compassion, and consideration to everyone we meet.  

The Price of Stability

I have rarely suffered this sensation before of staring at a blinking curser immobilized and incapable of finding the right words.  Words were never elusive before, even when emotions like happiness and contentment were.  Yet, now I sit here erect and feeling empty, wondering where all the words have gone.  Where are the emotions that would fall insistently forth upon the empty screen or blank page? Where are the feelings incapable of being contained, bursting seams and breaking barriers? Where are the voices ceaselessly petitioning for an outlet? Now I prayerfully implore them to come out and play, to reveal themselves and vacate their secret hiding places.

I admit I have been dishonest, yet, for constant creative words were absent for many years.  I was unaware of their absence, though, or I didn’t miss them as I was then assisting others to spark their individual imaginations or kindle their creativity.  I didn’t know that my own voice was being hushed and quieted until I was left completely alone.  When I finally spoke up again, with my own, most authentic voice, however soft or shushed, I yearned to be surrounded with wonderful words again – to write, invent, express, emote. 

I further realized that in addition to damning voices of a fearful and agitated authority, my medications were muting me.  That immense creativity and passion that had once been present had become absent in my lethargy, but I accepted this as a component of my necessary stability.  After a change of medication, I had regained a voice I didn’t know how critically I had needed and missed. No more mood stabilizers and just anti-depressants.  Later, though the drugs tormented me with nightmares and missed doses led to staggering migraines and shocking anxiety, I feared change and I dreaded a return to complacency.  I was willing to endure the atrocious side effects and instability to keep the creative portion of my mind active.   

Then I could no longer endure and the anti-depressants, at any dosage, were ineffective, so I tried another combination – another prescription – another shot-in-the-dark at some kind of healing and normalcy. And now I here I am – sitting, staring at a blinking cursor, unsure what to write next and losing the words that once flowed so freely from my fingertips.  I feel like I have lost a part of myself.  Is this the price of stability?  Please let this not be the price of stability.  

Why I Didn't Write About Robin Williams

Most surely you’re aware that beloved comedian and actor Robin Williams was recently found dead in his northern Californian home, having lost his battle against major depressive disorder.  It has been nearly impossible to escape reports of this tragedy, and the abundance of subsequent tributes and responses.  Admittedly, upon hearing of William’s death, I was filled with immense hope that maybe – just maybe – this tragedy would result in less stigmatization and more understanding of mental illness.  If an individual such as Williams, who brought humor and joy into hearts and homes across the nation, could suffer from mental illness, then most surely society would come to understand that major depressive disorder, bipolar disorder, and similar ailments are not a choice.  Such outcomes have largely been my goal when sharing my own stories and struggles with bipolar disorder and post-traumatic stress disorder.

Subsequently, it occurred to me that I should create a post addressing the issue.  After all, wasn’t this an opportunity to further my mission and raise more awareness of mental illness?  However, I had second thoughts: Was it selfish to view a family’s tragedy as an opportunity?  How vital was it that I put up a new post while William’s suicide was still “trending” in social media?  These considerations gave me pause, and in this interval, the internet had already been flooded with responses that sounded as if they had been pulled directly from my internal thoughts.  I would like to tell you that this post ends here; I have provided you with the reason for my failure to respond to this actor’s death.  It had all already been said and done, so it was that simple, but that’s not the real reason I failed to respond to the loss of this comedic legend.

It was within 24 hours of Williams’ body being discovered that I was sitting on my kitchen floor sobbing and swallowing down pills, completely convinced that I was nothing but an inconvenience to my family and friends, and therefore the world would be a far better place without me.  I was exhausted and overwhelmed – exhausted from trying my hardest to remain positive despite the challenges my illnesses (and life) continue to present.  I felt unloved and underappreciated, and my illness had effectively convinced me that such feelings were my own damn fault because I was, in fact, unlovable.  I was a worthless, miserable failure who only presented problems for those I most loved.  Even my two beautiful children, who have been nothing but incredible blessings in my life, would be so much better off without me.  They would have a father who could commit fully to their happiness and well-being if he were no longer totally tapped out trying to fix me and all my fuck-ups.  I needed to die.  I deserved to die.  My death would ultimately be a favor to the world. 

There was just the smallest part of my pure heart and rational head that remained and tried to speak, but I found that voice was muted.  That voice was unable to say I want to live because I would never abandon these children.  I want to live because I have friends that really do love me.  I want to live because there is yet light and promise in this world.  Those thoughts went unheard and instead a voice told me to grab a bottle of pills. Ironically, though not uncommonly, I thus swallowed down anti-depressant after anti-depressant.  Failing to do their job in the prescribed form, I suppose they may have been ultimately successful as I would no longer feel crushed by this heavy depression in death.  But death was just one more goal I would fail to reach as my husband woke from his slumber and halted my progress.

Consequently, I ended up in the emergency room and then in a locked behavioral health unit.  When I might have been home typing a brilliant post in response to Robin Williams’ struggles in an effort to end the stigmatization toward mental illness, instead I was being admitted to a small white room and having my belongings inspected for safety.  Although I did not write that post in a timely fashion, here is what I want you to know now: Robin Williams did NOT kill himself.  Depression killed Robin Williams.  Had I actually been successful in my attempt, I can only imagine how much it would have pained me to then be blamed for my own death.  I was not in my right mind when I believed I needed to die and that suicide would actually be a favor to my family.  That was not me; it was the major depression.  My illness was responsible for my actions.  If I were fully in charge, I wouldn’t struggle with feelings of worthlessness and self-loathing in the first place.  If I were fully in charge, I would never take my life and leave my two young children behind.  I wasn’t in charge; it was the illness.  You need to know this, so I repeat that Robin Williams did NOT kill himself.  Depression killed Robin Williams, just like it has formerly made me cut myself and it more recently made me swallow those damn pills.

While on the unit, another patient asked about my family.  I showed her a photo of my children and she expressed how beautiful they were.  She then asked about my home and my career.  After sharing a bit of my life with her, she then said, “Well, look at you.  You have a strong education, a beautiful home, and two amazing children.  Your life sounds pretty damn good. How can you possibly be depressed? Why are you here?”  My reply to her was very basic as I simply stated, “Because I have a mental illness.”  This, too, is what I had hoped society would recognize from Robin Williams.  It does not matter how many external blessings you have in your life.  You can have a wonderful, loving family.  You can have a strong education and a promising career opportunity.  You can even have fame, fortune, and admiration.  None of that matters if you have a mental illness.  Mental illness does not discriminate and no amount of wealth or wisdom can cure it.  It is; it just is. Yet this question came from a woman who was sharing a behavioral unit with me.  Even she didn’t get it.  If she didn’t understand, how could I expect the world to understand although it earlier appeared to me that it had all “already been said and done”?  We need to keep on saying.  We need to keep on doing.  It’s going to take a lot more than 48 hours of trending articles in reaction to an actor’s death in order to change the misconceptions that exist about mental illness.  Mental illness is an ugly, ugly beast and we better start paying attention to it as I assure you it refuses to be ignored for those who are suffering. 

Despite my earlier considerations, I have decided it is not selfish to talk about mental illness in the wake of Robin Williams’ death.  It is necessary, just as it is every single day, to continue to educate society about mental illness and suicide.  In addition, the act of suicide itself is not a selfish one.  It is indeed tragic and devastating, but we must hold major depressive disorder and mental illness responsible rather than the ailing individual. Approximately 38,000 people die from suicide annually, and 107 other individuals lost their lives to suicide on August 11^th, the day the world lost Robin Williams.  We can’t ignore those numbers. We can’t continue to ignore mental illness and expect that individuals just “snap out of it” because they have good things in their lives.  The illness can speak louder and then one only sees a distorted view of the world – a view in which the world is far better off if he or she were just dead.  Trust me.  Please trust me because I know, and I know our attitudes and beliefs about mental illness MUST change.  Every moment should be an opportunity to make a difference and end the stigmatization of mental illness.   

Things We Don't Want to Say (But Need To)

I showered today.  Trust me that this is sincerely an achievement worthy of mention here. I took a shower, and it’s a really big deal.  I know that most of you probably won’t understand this at all, but I think it’s about damn time that society as a whole start trying a slight bit harder to comprehend this struggle.  These are the confessions most individuals who suffer from mental illness don’t want to make, and the very same announcements the rest of the world would almost gladly not hear.  You may not want to know that my showering today was truly a triumph as I spent the last three days mostly confined to bed, wearing the same dirty underwear, matted hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, teeth not brushed and face not washed.  You may not want to know that my uncleanliness was of no concern because I had no will to live.  I didn’t feel like a human being of worth and value; I was just a lump of tissue and meaningless mass. 

You may not want to know that nothing could bring me joy; even the smiling, fresh young faces of my two loving toddler children could not break through this thick depression – this impenetrable suffering.  You may not want to know that while it was a sunny 85 degrees outside, I just hid under my covers and tried to shrink away from the world and all its accompanying labors.  I would rather be asleep than awake for only in sleep could I truly hinder my self-hatred, anxiety, worthlessness, anger, and fear. 

These are the things I often don’t want to say, and don’t want others to see.  I don’t allow many people to observe my suffering as I fear they will falsely judge and label me – crazy and incompetent.  My illness is not all I am; I am so much more than this bipolar disorder, anxiety, and post-traumatic stress disorder.  Such a large portion of society fails to perceive my illness as akin to any other medical condition and simply cannot comprehend that I too am capable of being intelligent, creative, dedicated, and valuable.  Thus, I am taught to be silent and to keep secrets because the whole of society will all too readily diminish an individual’s worth if mental illness is discovered.  My mental illness is a massive black smudge on an otherwise brilliant resume.  This is not as it should be, but such is the reality.

Although doctors did recently discover a pre-malignant tubular adenoma and thus remove it from my person, (fingers crossed) I have never suffered from cancer.  However, I would never say to the individual who is suffering from this illness, “Why don’t you get out of bed?  You can’t really be that exhausted.  You know, I don’t have cancer and I’ve never felt that way, so I just don’t get it.”  I certainly hope you all agree that such statements are demonstrative of immense cruelty and ignorance.  If agreed, perhaps then you can tell me why it’s acceptable to tell me, “I’ve never been depressed. I guess I just don’t get it.”  You don’t have to experience my illness to show some kindness and understanding.  Why does it seem acceptable to propose that I “just snap out of it?”  Just like the cancer patient can’t miraculously cure his or her illness of sheer will alone, neither can I just brighten my mood by changing my attitude or being more appreciative of my blessings.  Mental illness is not a choice; it is a legitimate medical disorder and must be recognized as such.   

There are things we don’t speak about because too many individuals continue to believe that depression and anxiety are chosen and desired.  I, myself, cannot think of one single reason why I would choose to spend three straight days in bed when I could be out gardening, playing with my children, enjoying the sunshine, doing these things I love to do when I am well.  But I am not well.  Episodes of great depression can overtake me so suddenly, just like an unexpected fever or infection that keeps the mentally well person somewhat restricted for a period of time.  This individual has the knowledge, though, that the fever will pass and they will be wholly well again.  During my severe bouts of depression, I am filled with an all-encompassing distress and anxiety that I will never again recover and I will never again be valued or loved by another.   I don’t normally speak about such apprehension though, for if others knew of such fears, would they then accept my alarm as reality and thus be even more dismissive of my abilities? (I will get better, and I am capable of abundant achievements.)

Mental illness alone gives me much reason for concern.  I worry that a bout of illness will occur at a most opportune time.  I worry that my illness will be obstructive and prevent me from achieving my goals, hopes, and dreams.  I worry that my illness will affect my children and they might hate a mother who brought them into this world while fully aware she might not always be physically and psychologically available to them.  I worry that I will lose loved ones who have grown too exhausted and frustrated with this miserable beast of an illness.  I worry that my past manic behaviors might return and I could destroy my marriage or my finances.  I have all these worries, and so many more.  I don’t need the additional worries of being misunderstood and misjudged due to the stigma of mental illness.  This is not as it should be, but such is the reality. 

I want to believe that perhaps – just perhaps – we can alter the reality if we break the silence and agree to speak out, to not be shamed, to not be victimized by stigma.  Yet, I fear that I can scream as loud as I want, that I can try every single outlet to educate others properly about mental illness, and it all won’t make a damn bit of difference until others are also willing to listen and identify with these struggles.  You may not want to hear about this hopeless, heavy depression, but you need to.  I’m here saying the things nobody wants to say, so now it’s your turn to listen.  Please listen; it’s time to start trying.   When we rid the world of this dreadful, damaging stigma, this too will most certainly be an achievement truly worthy of mention. 

Brushstrokes of Blue

I don’t know why they call this the blues.  Blue speaks calmness and serenity to me.  It whispers of the ocean waves, crested with white, rhythmically rocking back and forth and lulling me into a restful slumber in the sun.  It tells of the limitless blue sky that surrounds the world, constantly reminding each and every soul of possibility and promise.  Blue is the voice I hear when I look into my daughter’s beautiful, bright eyes and that voice declares, “I love you and I need you.  You make my heart happy, mother.”  The blues, then, is such an inapt term for what I’m feeling now.

Blue - 7th Wave by Lindsay Malboeuf

There are shades of gray perhaps – each dull and poorly drawn.  Ashen and drab, dreary and leaden – those are the tints and shades that more accurately portray my somber mood.  Calling it a mood, however, is quite inaccurate as well.  Its proper names are mental illness, bipolar disorder, seasonal affective depression, and not those basic blues that most people speak of.  Ah, yes, the blues, a lovely term used to minimize the true effects of depression – the colors and odors no one wants to speak of.
 

Black is the most prominent color.  Lights out in the bedroom, which I am terrified to leave, hiding under the covers while my mind races irrationally and anxiety hovers all around me in steely shadows.  Black as I close my eyes and the voices of depression wish for them to remain forever closed, to never see again, and for my heart to stop feeling this god-damn persistent pain.  Into the black as the debt piles up with more missed days of work due to illness.  If there’s any blue in this picture, it’s only in that my being feels beaten, black and blue and deeply bruised, by this disease.

Sometimes I rage red.  I’m infuriated with this lying bitch of an illness and my temper squalls like a wicked, thundering storm.   I’m irritated with the stigma that surrounds it, the sideways glances and condemning whispers behind my back.  I hear your words, your words full of ignorance and judgment, your words that make me want to crawl back under the covers and fade into blackness.  Sometimes I even credit your inane words and then I became wrathful toward my own person, believing I am worthless and weak to the depression, as if I had a choice to simply snap out of it.    

If I were a painter, I would add brilliant brush strokes of radiant color to this dark, depressive world.  I would add wisps of that blue, calming and inspiring.  A blue sky overhead as I breathe in the fresh air and feel glad to be alive.  I would enhance my canvas with a glowing, brilliant burst of yellows.  A bright, yellow sun dazzling down upon me, warming my soul and instilling me with hope and promise, making my whole being as glowing and resplendent as the sun shining in the sky.  I would splatter shades of green and purple, capturing the blooming of vines and flowers, the lilacs and the lilies.  I would toil not; I would bloom and grow and feel whole again. 

My palette doesn’t currently contain the colors I desire.  No gentle blues, no soft lavenders, no silky violets.  I don’t want more doors painted black; I long for open doors with the saving sunlight flooding quickly in.   Although I crave color, my entreaty goes unheard for this illness is a violent screamer that hearkens not to my hopes and perceives only the black, the red, the ache, the rage.  To be blessed with color, I needed to be born into this world as a different girl.  However, I won’t fault you if you put on a smock and pull forth a paint brush in an attempt to color my world.  I may always be an incomplete canvas, but sometimes the most beautiful works of art come to fruition from the greatest struggles. 

On Unicorns and Rainbows: Things You Shouldn't say to Someone with a Mental Illness

In a terribly misguided attempt to understand my struggle with mental illness, my husband once inquired about my inability to leave the house during especially exasperated episodes of my depression or anxiety.  He explained, “I just don’t understand why you can’t get up.  I don’t know what I can do to help.”  He then posed the following question, “I mean, what if I told you they were giving away free unicorns and rainbows at work, then would you go?”  I despised him at that moment.  Free unicorns and rainbows? I thought to myself. Christ, what kind of ignorant dick did I marry?

 

The truth, however, is that he’s not a dick at all.  He’s a kind, considerate man who is frustrated with a very complicated invisible illness. No one wants to see someone they love suffer, so those around us often try to offer advice and encouragement.  Despite best intentions, however, there’s some things we’re sick of hearing.  The following phrases are not helpful, and should be avoided when attempting to support someone who suffers from mental illness.  

1.       “Just cheer up! Look on the bright side of life!”

Are you kidding me?  This is about the dumbest shit ever you could say to someone who is suffering from depression or bipolar disorder.  Yet, I have heard this (and similar phrases) too many times to count.  I can’t “just cheer up”; I have a chemical imbalance.  I don’t choose to feel this way.  There’s a difference between being pessimistic and being bipolar.  The problem is not that I see the glass as half-empty; I have a problem with nerve cell communication.

2.       “Things could be worse.”

 Of course things could be worse.  I could be homeless and on the streets, fighting to survive, badly beaten and malnourished, addicted to methamphetamines. However, the consideration of hypothetical negative situations does nothing to improve my current mood.  I’m not ungrateful.  I know I have a wonderful, supportive family and many other blessings, but none of this negates the fact that I’m bipolar.  No one considers telling a cancer patient that things could be worse, so why does it seem an acceptable response to mental illness?

3.       “… but we love you.”

My own spouse has been guilty of this phrase quite often.  He might say something like, “C’mon Angela, you can get out of bed today.  I know you’re depressed, but we love you so much.”   This makes me feel so awful and guilty.  He thinks he is simply expressing affection, but when I hear that “but,” I hear, “I know you’re depressed, but if you loved us enough, you would get out of bed.”  I don’t know how to love my family any more than I do.  They are my everything, and I love them with my whole heart.  My depressive episodes are not linked to their love for me or my love for them.  After explaining this to him, my husband now simply says, “I love you … period.”

4.       “Maybe you should see a therapist.”

To this response, I want to shout, “Why thank you!  Hmmm … do you realize that in my over two decades of living with mental illness I had never before considered that therapy could be beneficial?  Thank you so much, you incredible genius.”  Here’s where that sarcasm font becomes necessary.  I already have a therapist, as most people with mental illness probably do too.  The woman I meet with, though, is a licensed psychotherapist – not a wizard.  Therapy teaches us how to manage our illness; it cannot cure it.  Mental illness is a chronic condition. 

5.       “Just snap out of it already!”

Okay, remember when I said above that “just cheer up” is about the dumbest shit you could say to an individual who suffers from mental illness.  I might have lied; this one is the ultimate ignorant douche-bag response to mental illness.  Again, would you tell the man who suffers from diabetes to “just snap out of it”?  Would you suggest that the blind man just “suck it up” and see already?  I would hope the response to these questions is negative, as the situations most assuredly seem absurd.  Likewise, it’s absurd to expect an individual who suffers from major depressive disorder, or some similar mental illness, to just snap out of it.  That suggestion implies that mental illness is not a legitimate, valid health disorder, and that belief demonstrates brazen ignorance and disregard.    

 

 

If even the prospect of unicorns and rainbows can’t “cure” my mental illness, please trust that none of the above comments is going to be the answer I’ve been waiting for either.  Instead of offering up misguided advice and ignorant, tired clichés, I suggest you try education and empathy.  I make these suggestions not only for myself, but on behalf of your sister, your best friend, your co-worker, your coach, your aunt, your uncle.  Too many individuals suffer their mental illness in silence for fear of receiving judgment and responses like those above.  Let’s make an effort to break the silence and truly support one another together.