What Should She Look Like? - An Open Letter to ABC

ABC News:

On Friday, April 3^rd, I viewed a segment of 20/20 that discussed the abuse of emotional service animals (ESA) by individuals who simply wished to fly with their pets beside them.  During this segment, a woman by the name of Genevieve falsely claimed she had an emotional illness in order to obtain an ESA. Genevieve stated, “What’s the harm?”  To respond to Genevieve’s question, the harm is that individuals who genuinely need an ESA might lose their rights due to abuse of the system.  Further, it is completely unethical to feign illness in order to obtain certain privileges.  It is grossly insulting and offensive to those individuals who suffer from mental illness every single day.  Your segment addressed these issues, and such is appreciated.  However, just as I was disgusted with Genevieve’s actions, I was equally disturbed by the comments made by your correspondent.  Genevieve explained that she located a website that offered a psychological evaluation, and in answering the questions in a purposeful fashion, she was then diagnosed with “panic attack disorder.”  In response to this wrongly obtained diagnosis, your employee stated that Genevieve appeared “very level headed” and that she “didn’t seem like the kind of person that would suffer from panic attacks.”  This leads me to question just what your program, and representatives of your network, believes a person who suffers from panic attacks looks like.  To answer that question,  I wish to inform you of the incredible ignorance and insult present in this comment.  It should not be shocking or surprising that a person who suffers from panic attacks or anxiety appear level-headed.  Why would they not?  Mental illness is an invisible illness, and it is entirely possible that an individual with mental illness, including panic or anxiety disorder, lead a very successful life.  Not only may a person with mental illness appear level headed; they may also be intelligent, inspiring, compassionate, organized, productive, competent, and accomplished individuals.  The suggestion that individuals who suffer from panic attacks would appear somehow disheveled or physically deranged is insulting, and an apology should be offered.  The comments made during this segment only further the devastating stigma that currently surrounds all mental illness. 

Regards,

Angela Ryan 

Link to story below:
http://abcnews.go.com/Health/pet-owners-game-emotional-support-animal-system-fly/story?id=30064532

Just Speak

The following post is the result of ten minutes of typing.  This is a free write with no edits (beyond spelling corrections from misplaced fingers while rapidly typing) and no pauses -- just ten minutes directly from my mind.  This is not normally something that I would share here.  Despite sharing very personal stories about mental illness, rape, attempted suicide, and the like, this becomes even more personal because it exposes someone other than my own self.  I am always cautious to do so, and this piece probably belongs in a private journal rather than as a blog post, but I really want to get back into the practice of writing.  This art has been absent from my life too long, as is evident through my rare, intermittent postings here.  The voice lends us power when we feel weak and worthless, and hence I share.  I share not only to gain back my personal strength and power, but in the greater hope that some of that power can be shared and gained by readers.  I'm sure I'm not the only one who hears that wicked, self-loathing voice of doubt and shame and it's important to share our struggles. We need to speak up. Please speak up. 

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I thought it was all over between us because when I cried, you just sat there … numb.  Tears gushing forth from my eyes like a dam breaking, rolling on tumultuous waves, ever unceasing and frightfully dangerous.  What smarted the most is that I wasn’t ready and I didn’t want this to end; you were still my best friend.  Don’t you know that I need to be in control, and so it hurts like hell when I can’t make you love me? I can’t illicit the response I want, and I don’t know what to try because every fucking thing seems to fail.  Should I put on a little more lip gloss? What if I try thick eyeliner and smoky eyes? Can I tempt you then? Will you be my willing victim? Do I need to lose ten more pounds? Or twenty? Or go back to skin and bones so you feel that you’re in control because you can lift me and toss me around like a light paper sack?  You can fold me up and tuck me in the back of an untidy kitchen drawer until you have some need for me. Would you like that?  To keep me out of the way until I’m convenient for you; I won’t be making unsightly messes all of the god-damn time, mucking up the image of this perfect little family.  Should I just keep my big mouth shut? Say only please and thank you, and obediently shake hands?  Should I swallow ten more pills? Or twenty? Erase this stain on the otherwise lovely little canvas you effortlessly painted.   It’s all effortless – not easy – but effortless because you’re too tired to try anymore. No effort. None.  My heart is breaking and you just sit there … numb.  You don’t try to fix it, to bandage it, to heal it.  Please put on a fucking dressing; strap, compress, and bind me if need be.  Do anything but sit there silent. 

This is not a comfortable silence.  Every second that you keep your mouth shut is like another cut of the knife.  Your abrasive blade shines and casts wicked shadows, speaking for you though your tongue is still mute. Why won’t you whisper even one word? What kind of cold, uncaring soul can just sit there and not offer a hand or one single word of condolence?  You must have no feeling for me because you just sit there … numb.  In your silence, I am berating myself with those words unspoken.  No apologies and no admissions so I speak for you and that wicked voice says, “I don’t love you anymore.  You’re an inconvenience.  You’re worthless. Worthless bitch.  Fat, worthless bitch.  Fat, obnoxious, worthless bitch.  Fat, obnoxious, demanding, worthless bitch.  Fat, obnoxious, demanding, untalented, worthless bitch.  Fat, obnoxious, demanding, untalented, wasteful, worthless bitch.  Worthless. Worthless. Worthless.  Worthless.  You’re not worth fighting for.  Not worth fighting for.”  I have told you this too.  In the silence, that is what I hear.  You know this.  You know this, and yet you do not deny it.  Why is there no counter to my self-hatred?  The lack of a counter is a confirmation.  Your silence is acquiescence.  Your silence says you have given up on us because I am trying, scratching, clawing, screaming, crawling, and you just sit there … numb. 

What if I buy a push up bra?  If I put my cleavage right under your nose, make your eyes rest upon my ample breasts, will you want me then?  Will you touch me, kiss me, show some tenderness?  It hurts to not be desired.  It hurts to not be in control.  It hurts to be screaming and kicking for your fucking attention and have you just sit there … numb.  Don’t you see how much I love you?  Don’t you see how much I need you?  Don’t you see how much I want you?  I just want to be wanted too.  I need that.  Without that, I hear those forsaken, biting voices whose evil, piercing whispers are like tattoos upon my skin, marks upon my brow, scars upon my wrist.  Worthless. Worthless. Worthless. Bitch. Inked on me in some fancy script.  You see the words and don’t try to scrub them off.  Why won’t you help me come clean?  Why do you let me fester amongst such putrid filth?  I just want to be your good girl; I just want you to love me.  I need you to love me because if even you can’t find some love for me, what’s the hope for me?  You were the rock; you were my constant support.  You were the one I could always trust. The one I could always turn to, and now you just sit there … numb. 

So, is this over?  Is it even me?  Should I believe the wicked words that repeat on that obnoxious internal soundtrack?  Or do you hear those words too and that’s why?  Fuck up. Fuck up. Fuck up. Failure.  You have no love to offer me because you have no love for yourself.  Fuck up. Fuck up. Failure.  That’s why you have become so numb.  Don’t believe them.  Let’s promise each other this: If you don’t believe them, I won’t believe them either.  Let’s learn to love ourselves and one another again because I need your love.  I need you – all of you – in my life.  Please speak.  Just speak. Speak to me tonight.





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.   

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. 

Spilling Secrets

It’s Week 7 of the Blogger Idol Play-at-Home links.  I have not participated every week, primarily because no one would partner up with me for the interviews (yeah – that’s me, the lousy uncoordinated kid who was always picked last for gym class).  At any rate, this week the assignment was to write about a secret you have that your readers don’t know about you yet.  Blogger Idol is asking for a lot from its contestants this week, and most contestants are likely damning their bad luck that they don’t blog anonymously. This was challenging for me only because I’m not a terribly private person.  I don’t keep a lot secret because I believe it’s incredibly important to share our stories.  Through sharing, we help others to feel less alone, more courageous, more empathetic, and more self-accepting.   Such are the aims of this post. 

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“So, tell me about your bipolar disorder,” she said, sitting there in her grey, swivel desk chair as I sat across from her in a plush, muted green armchair.  It was such a vague question, and I simply didn’t know where to begin.  How does one explain more than a decade of manic-depression to her new psychiatrist? 

“Well …” I began, “I was first diagnosed about fifteen years ago.  Initially, I was misdiagnosed with clinical depression.  I was then placed on Prozac, which propelled me into a full manic episode.”

“Okay,” she nodded, while typing furiously away, attempting to document and diagnose my life all within the frame of one fifty minute session.  It was a ludicrous practice in my opinion – this trying to fit people into little, labeled boxes and treat them as their illnesses, rather than individuals. “Well, what makes you say that?  What were your symptoms?”

“It was textbook mania,” I stated, expecting her to accept my answer and move forward with her next inquiry. 
 

“How do you mean?” she asked.  
 

It was this question that resulted in the generation of my frustration, and my aggravation was further cultivated as the session proceeded.  I then internally suspected her own education and training if she had indeed misunderstood my meaning.  I had presumed she would most certainly be familiar with the classic textbook symptoms of mania, and thus clearly have understood without need for further uninvited probing.   

“The most classic, common textbook indicators of mania, you know,” I replied, now silently praying please move on, please move on, please move on. 

“Such as?” she urged me. 

“Well …” I began rather reluctantly, “I had trouble sleeping.  I had long bouts of insomnia. I was a binge drinker – a rather severe one.  I had ulcers and I was taken to detox.”  She nodded her head, typing even more rapidly as I continued speaking.  Her physical presence and non-verbal cues prompted me to continue citing my symptoms. “I thought I was brilliant, sexy, and utterly indestructible.  I skipped my courses, started failing, and convinced myself I didn’t give a damn because I was better than everyone around me anyway. I also lacked financial responsibility.  I was purchasing items I already owned, and then just passing them out to my friends when I realized the error in duplicity.”

“Yes, yes,” she uttered, as though I were correctly confirming the questions to some exam about manic warning signs, as opposed to revealing shameful secrets of my past.  I acknowledged that I ought not feel this shame.  Does the asthmatic feel shame when he wheezes while running?  Does the diabetic feel shame when her insulin levels go off course?  Likewise, this information I now provided was akin to the arthritic suffering joint pain; my recklessness was directly correlated to a chronic condition. 

I had said enough already, hadn’t I? She must most certainly be content with my admissions. Then she asked, “And?”

I said I was textbook manic.  I had accurately confirmed a host of symptoms that the scholarly psychiatric world would most surely categorize as true to textbook mania.  So, why was she yet prodding me?  I’m sure she knew just what I wasn’t now saying, and I couldn’t understand why she was so insistent that I spill all my secrets.  I’m manic depressive; I know my illness and I know my symptoms, and I also know that she was never going to “save me.” So, what was the point in saying it now?

“And … and I was highly promiscuous.”  There was no one else in that room but the two of us, but I wanted to hide my face in mortifying disgrace as I added this one additional symptom to an already substantial list of perceived discrediting transgressions.

She then stopped typing and looked up at me, “Ah yes, you’re correct.  That is textbook mania.” 

 

What had she made me say those words for?  Was it merely to confirm what I had already told her? I used those exact two words – textbook mania -- when she made her initial inquiry.  Was admitting to every single symptom necessary simply to confirm that I too had a strong knowledge of her medical field?  Did she desire assurance that I would provide her with my every confidence?

I couldn’t find the point in her making me say it.  I was now married with two small children.  I was monogamous and faithful to my spouse, and I had a strong support system surrounding me.  I had informed my friends and family of all my personal indications of mania.   We already had a plan, and I couldn’t understand how this admittance was critical to that plan.  Perhaps she had me say this aloud so that I could have acknowledged what should have next come from her mouth – instead of this current frustration and silence.
 

She should have said that I shouldn’t be ashamed.  She should have said that I am strong and courageous and those manic symptoms don’t have to define me.  She should have told me that they’re not skeletons rattling around in my closet; rather, they’re true indicators of an illness as so recorded in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.  She should have told me that I was never a slut; I was just sick.  She should have told me that it was important to acknowledge all my symptoms out loud and that I should release the self-loathing associated with such words as they simultaneously fall from my mouth. 

She didn’t say any of this though.  That’s why, despite the intense indignity I felt in the small behavioral health office that day, I spill these secrets now.  I want to tell each and every one of you what she failed to tell me then.  Your supposed shameful secrets are actually medical symptoms.  You are not a failure or a disappointment; you are not ignorant or irresponsible.  You are strong and you are brave; you are fighting a battle that cannot be seen and is most often misunderstood.    Stop your self-loathing right this very minute so that you can begin your healing.  You are so much more than a set of textbook symptoms, so believe in the brilliant shine of your resilient spirit.  

Why Would Anyone?

Author's Precaution: This post discusses sensitive material, and may contain triggers.  The author respects your choice to avoid this post, but would encourage you to read and share as a means of ending the stigma and misunderstanding surrounding mental illness.  Thanks!

“Mrs. Ryan, come here!” a young male requested.  “Look at this!” he then demanded, and turned his computer screen to show me an image of a slim white wrist that had obviously been cut by a razor blade.   

 

This image, undoubtedly disturbing to view, was prominently posted on a young woman’s facebook page, as though the injury were a point of great pride.  To seemingly boast about self-injurious behavior is a trend I understand only as a cry for help.  The student who shared this image could not comprehend the act itself. “God, that’s just gross! Why would anyone do that to themselves?”  

 

Many individuals may wonder this as well, and would likely be alarmed by the high prevalence of such dangerous behavior. According to Mental Health America, an estimated two million people in the U.S. injure themselves in some way, with rates highest for adolescent females. While cutting is the most common method of non-suicidal self-injury (NSSI), other behaviors include burning, punching, and drinking something harmful.

 

You are not alone.
Let love speak louder than self-doubt.

In recent years, I have observed many students treating SIB (self-injurious behavior) as a comical issue, rather than the complicated illness it genuinely is.  I have far too often heard the sarcastic jokes like, “Oh no! I’m so sad now.  I think I’m going to go home, listen to My Chemical Romance, and cut myself. Woe is me.”  

 

Certainly, self-harm is far from amusing, and is an issue that should be addressed with a sincere attempt at understanding.  Therefore, when the student inquired “Why would anyone do that?” I didn’t shrug or act sickened.  Rather, I provided him with my honest reply.

 

The truth is that SIB is a complicated illness that is challenging to understand, even for those individuals who perform such acts.  Without a doubt, SIB is an undesirable behavior.  However, it’s most frequently a symptom of a very valid mental illness.  Self-harm can be a symptom of a many major psychiatric illnesses, including anxiety disorder, major depressive disorder, bipolar disorder, and borderline personality disorder.

 

The “rationale” behind such behavior can be varied, but is most often related to either punishment or control.  Imagine that you suffer from bipolar disorder.  You feel like a disappointment to your friends and family.  You can’t seem to do anything right, and thus carry strong feelings of worthlessness and inadequacy.  In short, you believe yourself to be a “fuck-up.”  In your mind, then, you deserve to be punished for your shitty, pathetic existence and cutting creates the pain you must suffer as penance for your perceived failures.

 

In that same scenario, because you suffer from manic-depression, your mood often swings violently between elation and deep depression.  You rush between assurance and anger – contentment and chaos – happiness and hopelessness.  This whirlwind of emotions leaves you feeling restless and unrestrained.  You hate feeling irrationally irritable, or weepy and woeful without cause.  You don’t want any of this; you just want calm and control. In the seconds or minutes you run the razor blade  across your soft, fleshy skin, you are fully responsible for the pain you’re  feeling and that kind of discipline is decidedly desirable. 

 

Upon presenting this information and these scenarios to the inquiring student he then asked just one more question: “Have you ever cut yourself?”

 

I had, so I knew why someone would all too well.

 

 

 

 

 

There were times in my life when my emotions were so out of control that I believed cutting was the only answer.  I was wrong, and there are far better means of coping.  If someone you know self-harms, please seek help.

 

 

 

 

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May You Never Have to Write This ...

As many of you are aware, I recently set my aims at Blogger Idol.  I figured I would give it a shot, hoping more than anything to chase away all my awful, relentless self-doubt and force myself back into writing more frequently.  My aspirations didn’t exactly turn out as planned as I failed to become a finalist.  So, self-doubt remains a nagging little bitch that just won’t fucking get a clue and get out of my life.   Regardless, I also have this kick-ass warrior woman that occasionally emerges in me and yells, “Don’t give up!” and then karate chops that bitch down for a small reprieve in which I regain my ambition and a bit of confidence.   Having recently knocked doubt to her knees, despite my loss, I decided to once again participate in the play-at-home links.  I described these links last year, so I’m not doing it again – do your own damn research.  I will provide you with this week’s prompt though so you are not at a total loss (or concerned about contacting my therapist ASAP) as you read the following words.  Thanks for hanging around and still reading a little loser like me. Wink. Wink. Smiley face.

This week, the finalist’s assignment is to introduce themselves to the Blogger Idol readers. But in true Blogger Idol style, there’s a twist. They were told to do it by writing their own eulogy.

 

The assignment follows:

 

It is odd to find myself in this exact moment, in this exact place, perched to deliver a tribute and memorial to the woman I probably knew better than anyone else in this life, and yet the woman who still perplexed and confounded me like none other.  I have struggled with the right words.  For those of you who know me well, you know that words often came easily to me.  Yet, I felt myself at a complete lack when it came to composing this eulogy – as though my fingers had been forbidden from typing and every pen’s ink had dried and every pencil’s lead had been dulled.  How does one go about eulogizing such a profoundly complex woman, especially given our unique and complicated relationship?

 Let me just start by saying that in my life, I loved her deeply.  I was immensely proud of her – for all the obstacles she had overcome, all the lives she had impacted, all the empowering words she shared.  I loved her laughter – the way it could fill up an entire room, the way it could break tensions, the way it comforted and supplied a genuine feeling of home.  Her humor was whip-smart and I laughed more often with her than with anyone else. That sharp humor was often dark and dripping with sarcasm, but I also loved that about her.  I loved her smile, and that gleam in her eyes that accompanied it.  Her mouth could be hidden from view, but her eyes always revealed when she was smiling.  The charm of that smile, and those adorable dimples – was simply undeniable.   And she smiled a lot – more than most others would have given the enormity and range of her struggles and setbacks. 

Those are some of the parts I most hated about her – the battles that I was all too aware were wickedly waging just under the surface of that bright smile.  She struggled with chronic illness, including colitis and fibromyalgia. However, her biggest battle was probably with mental illness.  She suffered from bipolar disorder, anxiety, and post-traumatic stress disorder.  While her suffering was not always visible to many of you in this room today, she did not hide her suffering in shame either.  She often publicly shared her struggles, in both personal and professional settings, as a means of ending the stigma surrounding mental illness, and promoting mental health awareness.  Most recently, she became a member of a local task force on suicide prevention.  Of course, we all recognize the bitter, biting irony in this role – and this is why I hate her too.  I hate her because I didn’t want to see her go so damn soon.

I didn’t want to see her go because I know there was still so much fucking good that she was meant to yet do in this world – so many more people that needed to hear her voice and know her struggles, and know that they could be strong too.  Fuck. I thought she was strong.  Excuse me. You must excuse my language and my tears, but you must also understand how hard it is for me to stand here today and tell you that what most amazed me about Angela during her life was her ability to survive and overcome, and yet here we are.  Here we fucking are. 

But I didn’t come here today to be angry or pissed or incite my rage against God or Angela for this final decision.  No, I came here to celebrate a remarkable life and thus I continue with my deepest regrets for my digression. 

There were two things Angela always wanted to do in this life.  She wanted to be a mother and a teacher.  I am pleased to say that she fulfilled both of these roles, and inherently excelled at each.  As I look about, I see many of her former students are here today, and I have no doubt that they would speak the same words of kindness and gratitude regarding her today as they once did in her classroom.  In considering what I would say today, I looked back at some of Angela’s teacher evaluations.  She is often described with words such as “excellent, best, fantastic, amazing,” and the like.  She is described as a “leader” and an “inspiration,” and in what is probably my favorite comment, she is called “a female Jesus.”  That might seem like high praise if we consider our own past teachers, ones we probably cursed while attempting algebraic equations at midnight.  But, the truth is that was just her.  She was a naturally gifted teacher and her personal struggles provided her with unrivaled empathy and understanding for those she taught.

Amid all the faces of friends, family, and former students, who she is undoubtedly looking down upon with warmth, there are two faces that are of the utmost importance to her.  To her children, her son and daughter, I offer my deepest condolences.  There is nothing – absolutely nothing – in her life that she loved more deeply and truly than the two of you.  You were her sunshines, and I assure you that while she is no longer with us in physical form, her love for you remains unconditional.  She will continue to watch over you and guide you, hoping for you the same happiness and immense joy that you brought into her life. Know that her deeply regrettable choice is in no way a reflection of her love for you.  That love will run true forever.

In her life, Angela was always honest.  Many of her close friends would actually bemoan her “brutal honesty,” but I admired it.  It was refreshing in a world full of euphemisms and platitudes.  And so I’m not going to tell you that I know she’s gone to a better place or that time heals all wounds.  I am going to tell you that her absence, and her means of departure, smarts like a motherfucker and I know this pain will linger.  I am also going to tell you what I honestly would like to tell her right now – that I love her like crazy, but I also think she’s a selfish bitch.  But, you know, she always forgave me – no matter how many times I fucked up in our relationship.  She was a well of forgiveness and compassion, and so I forgive her and I’ll eventually forget my anger.  I promise to never forget, though, that humor, that capacity for love, that leadership. I will never forget the remarkable woman whose skin I was ultimately so damn lucky to live in. 

 

Waking Up As Another Woman

I could tell my husband was becoming increasingly frustrated with me (or the illness—but it’s often difficult to separate the two) as I lay in bed crying and yelling that showering was simply too stressful at the moment.  It was physically evident that he was biting his tongue, trying to avoid saying a hurtful thing, because it wasn’t really me that he was growing so aggravated with.  Rather, it was my damn manic depression and the way this illness is capable of breaking me down so badly. 

He couldn’t bite his tongue anymore, and the following words spilled out, “I’m mad because I never know who I’m going to wake up to in the morning.” 

I sat up a bit more erect in bed, jolted by his honest, heart-breaking phrase as though it were a bitter hand back-slapping me across the face.  It was painful and ached, and I couldn’t reply.  “I don’t know who I’m going to wake up to” stung my sweltering cheeks, as tears began to fall like acid upon this freshly inflicted wound. Then his words rang in my ears like a pulsating rhythm trapped in my head by two tightly tamped ear-buds. The throbbing of this burning truth dulled eventually and I was left with only those words in a sea of silence and still melancholy: “I don’t know who I’m going to wake up to.”  I felt feverish and agitated as I was unprepared to see – really see – how this monster of mine was likewise clawing and ripping at the man I loved the most.

It was me, physically, that he went to sleep with every night.  It was me, in physical form, which he woke up with.  But who was I going to be? Fuck; even I didn’t know.  Every night, I prayed and fervently believed that I would awake as the me I most closely identify with.  That woman is bold and brave.  That woman is creative, humorous, intelligent, loving, and passionate.  She is the truest form of me – the me freed from the shackles of my mental illness.  That woman loves her children, happily reads them books, gets down on the floor and plays Little People and Lego Duplo with them.

The woman that woke up this morning was crying because the babies were crying, “Why are they crying? Make them stop! I’m not ready for this yet! I’m not ready for this!”  With motherhood, you don’t get to choose when to participate and when to just spectate.  I need to be capable of being a mother full-time.  Instead, I started hyperventilating and my husband had to get me a clonazepam.  I said I needed just a few more hours of sleep, but he told me to get up and get in the shower.  This is when I yelled back at him that he was pressuring me too much.

All he wanted was for me to clean up and hold my daughter until she calmed down.  All he wanted, he said, was for me to try.  I was trying, though.  Yes, I was screaming and crying, but all the same I was trying, as impossible as it was to identify my effort.  This shit is hard, my friends, when you feel like a fuck-up the second you wake up and wonder if anything you do is worth it.  You feel underappreciated and unloved, and you push others away.  You don’t see just how damn difficult it is for them, too, to love someone who is amazing one morning and a fucking mess the next.

My husband woke up with a woman far different from the one he went to bed with.  This wasn’t sexy or scandalous; it was tragic and trying.  I need to remember how closely linked we have become.  When I feel pain, he feels pain too.  When I worry, he worries too.  When I am crying, he cries too – even if he hides his tears and cries in solitude.  I don’t want him to cry.  I’m trying for my husband, and I love him so much.  I wish I could answer his question and knew which days would be triumphs and which would hold trials.  I can’t.  I don’t know who I am going to be in the morning either.  But, I do know that I am loved and that together we will make it through it all.  Whether that woman in the bed loves herself and feels confident, or she hates herself and feels worthless, the one certainty is that she adores her husband and is grateful for him each and every day.