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. 

Alone Amid Ashes

I hate how this anger still consumes me – blocks me – breaks me down.  I feel like I have just been standing still – or falling down – for the past two years.  My fists are at the ready, but I strike out at all the wrong people.  I am the one left with the most bruises and scars; my own two hands are still pummeling me, ensuring I am wounded and defeated.  I need to shriek and shout this fury out into the open air and allow it to escape my offended body, where it continues to literally rip apart my insides with these fucking ulcers and abdominal pain. I can’t though; I stand here nearly mute, my voice now barely a whisper after all the wasted breath and determined declarations of the past.  It didn’t make a fucking difference to them then, yet it’s still hurting me now. 

I shake, tremble, sob with a rage that remembers like it was just seconds ago when their lies were accepted as truths and the life I loved, a life I struggled to build against countless obstacles, was unjustly taken away from me.  More doors closed – slamming in my face – and no open windows to be found.  Fear lingers in the heavy air and it stifles me – completely immobilizes.  I will never, ever be ready to make nice.  I sure as hell hope I can forgive for my own sake though or this anxiety, this relentless anger and fear, will crush me like a pile of bricks. 

I don’t mean to burn all these bridges.  If anything, I’m the one who is out there collecting lumber late into the night, hammering away to reconstruct boards and rails that have been ripped out from beneath my feet.  I don’t mean to burn all these bridges, but they know I’m a girl on fire and nonetheless they pour the kerosene all about under my footing, mocking and affronting me until I stand alone amid bitter, blackened ashes.

Are you out there somewhere, hiding behind a cloak hemmed of deceit and vanity, watching me with a smug smile and delighting in all the damage you have done?  Your gratification could mean my destruction, you arrogant piece of shit.  Instead of laying this anger to rest, I personify my resentment and permit this beastly, colossal creature authority over me – cleaving at my heart with sharp claws and gnawing at my strength with pointed teeth resting on the edge of baited, vulgar breath.

This is not what I want, so why have I given this anger so much power?  I don’t want to cry anymore.  I don’t want to hide under bed covers.  I don’t want to be so fragmented and faulty that I nearly consent to your defamations and thus confess lack of worth.  I don’t want this, but here I am – frozen, full of fear, faint, frail.  I want control; I want to stand victorious after all is said and done.  I need vindication.  I need release.  I need strength.  Instead, I crawl back into bed and weep with trepidation and trembling. 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Buzz Feed, You Just Get Me

My therapist once asked  what I believe to be my primary coping skills.  My first reply was wine (of course). I then cited a long, hot bath with a good book, and random, mindless games or similar web searching.  Wine, a bath, and a book often do work wonderfully to cure depression or stress.  However, when anxiety also arises, I find myself unable to concentrate, so I frequently turn to sleep and mind-numbing activity to cope.  Such behaviors are an attempt to stop my brain from coursing rapidly through every single worse-case scenario one could possibly imagine. 

Satan's Children: Nightmares will ensue.

Given my extremely high levels of anxiety this past week, I ended up wasting a lot of time scrolling through hours of useless trending information on the interwebs.  I saw that damn mash-up of Justin Bieber and Miley Cyrus’s face so many times that it appeared in my nightmares.  I learned what super bowl ads to watch for this coming weekend (because that’s important).  I also passed through several levels in god-damn, relationship- ruining Candy Crush, ensuring that there is now only one person on my friend list who has also passed the Soda Swamp.  Believe me, I recognize how pathetic said activity sounds, but it does indeed succeed in temporarily distracting me from the anxiety and depression. 

 

Aside : Anna Kendrick is expected to have a hilarious ad for Newcastle Brown Ale.  Just thought I should give you all the head's up.  You're welcome.

 

Me and Kanye: We're basically soul mates.

While my tedious time sucks served to divert my anxiety, an additional bonus is that I just so happened to learn several eye-opening (sarcasm font) things about myself this week thanks to multiple Buzz Feed quizzes.  First of all, I took the all-important self-concept affirming quiz, “Which Pop Diva are you?” Turns out I am Rihanna.  Who knew? Because “sticks and stones may break my bones, but whips and chains excite me” (except not really).  I then was so relieved to finally have an answer to the one question I have been pondering my entire life: "Which Rapper are You?" Of course you guessed it right. Yes, I'm Kanye because I "need to relax and accept that not everyone recognizes your amazing talent." Aint' that the truth, yo? I feel ya, Yeezus, I feel ya.

 

You might also be interested to know that if I were an 80s pop hit, I would be Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time” because: “Sometimes you feel like a misunderstood outsider, but everyone adores you when you let down your guard and show them your sensitive side.”  Isn’t it so true, folks? You do love me when I’m vulnerable, and I thank you for that too. I also discovered, of equally high importance, that if I were a sandwich, I would be a grilled cheese.  I don’t even know what the fuck that is supposed to mean. 

But, alas, that is not all I gathered of myself.  Indeed, there’s even more; I told you I squandered a lot of fucking time this week.  If I were a dog, I would be a corgi. Hmmm …  I must admit I didn’t expect this one; I have always imagined myself as more of a Labrador.  All the same, I was quite pleased with the logic as, apparently, like the corgi, I “know how to be myself at all times without apology.”  In addition, the corgi and I also both have a “cute tush.”  I do have a cute booty, Buzz Feed! OMG!

Finally, here is the most paramount self-discovery I acquired from Buzz Feed all week (and, again, I spent like a shit-load of time there):  I should be a writer.  Yes, Buzz Feed! Thank you for this affirmation! Yes!

----------------------------

What Career Should You Actually Have?

You are a maker. Creative from the day you were born, you spend most of your time thinking about the world you live in. You are open to new ideas and value beauty and originality more than most. We both know you’re not really the office type, so give yourself some room to create. Other occupations: director, producer, advertiser.

----------------------------

 

I’m constantly having a discussion with others (and more frequently, in my own head) about how I might finally be ready to trust myself and attempt to make a career out of writing.  I do suppose I am already a writer per se, but I have never been paid, so it doesn’t really count, right?  I genuinely aspire to become an author, but that dream also terrifies me and prevents me from truly trying. 

But Buzz Feed has now changed everything! Now that this highly intellectually esteemed site has informed me I’m like a kick-ass grilled cheese sandwich with a cute corgi tush, I believe! Thanks, interwebs! I’m so glad you sucked me into hours of random, mindless quizzes because once I’m a successful author, I won’t need to cope with Candy Crush no more.  No more, sister, no more.  I’m retaining wine as a coping skill though.  Whether or not I obtain publication, you can be certain that I’m forever clinging to my wine.

You got: CEO

You are a visionary. You’ve always thought about the bigger picture and are most excited by new possibilities. Sure, you’ve been told to get your head out of the clouds every now and then, but what’s life without dreaming?! You might not be at the top just yet, but you’ll get there one day.

1. You got: Professor
   

   You are a thinker, in constant search of knowledge and answers to life’s most illusive questions. You love to analyze everything, testing out theories and pushing mental boundaries. Basically you’re an Einstein, but then again you probably already knew that.

 
And now, for your listening pleasure ...

                                     
                                         It's just so me, right?  Buzz Feed, you're  a genius.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Anxiety,

Dear Anxiety,

Fuck you! Seriously, just fuck off already, you awful little bitch.  I hate how you always sneak up on me and surprise me when I’m not even expecting it.  I know you have an especially difficult time staying away during these heavy winter months.  You must get cabin fever too, I suppose, but please – could you not disrupt my fucking life because you’re bored?  I seriously hate you, and hate is a really strong word.  I reserve it for very few folks.  I do have a handful of individuals I hope end up burning in hell – some relatives, some former bosses.  There are others, as yourself, that I have personified so that I can properly hate you – you, anxiety – the sneaky little cunt that creeps up on me,  freaks me out (often without justification), causes hyperventilation, and then renders me useless and frightened for hours.  There’s also my mistress manic-depression, who I in turn both love and hate for at least she has made me wiser and more empathetic.  What have you done for me, anxiety, other than make me miss hours of work, cry under the covers, and fear all interaction?  You really are just fucking awful – really.  I’ve personified self-doubt too, so I can tell her to kiss my ass whenever I have defeated her, but there’s something triumphant and motivating in that victory.  But you, anxiety, whenever you come around, you always win.  You’re a terrible, cheating, lying piece of shit.  You’re just a completely awful, wretched, stinking creature with no redeeming qualities whatsoever.  I could go on and on and continue to berate you.  Here’s the trouble with that though.  When I berate you, it’s also a judgment on me.  I, too, feel like an awful, worthless, weak, cry-baby asshole.  So, now, while the words flowed quickly, without hesitation or correction when I believed I was cursing only you from behind this key-board, now I sit here, immobile, hating myself, unsure of where to go from here as I realized I have damned my own self with such words.  I know I can’t go outside – no, no, no – you convinced me that terrible things will happen if I leave my home.  For some reason, I believe those awful, damaging lies.  Those lies drip from your mouth with such delight because you know you can make me such a hopeless, gullible, victim.  You’re some kind of evil, alright, some kind of evil.  I just wish you would fuck yourself and get out of my life.  You wicked thing – you know you have stolen all of my weapons for fighting you – my courage, my strength, my confidence, my determination.  You’re a liar and a good-for-nothing thief.  Just go to hell and get out of my life already.  You are the biggest fucking cunt I have ever encountered. 

Sincerely, Angela   

 

 

Hating Her

I entered her office.  It was dull and dark in the tiny space, filled with a sable brown leather couch and sterile desk.  A bookshelf was filled with DSM IV manuals and other materials dedicated to mental illness and psychiatry.  I saw no happy family photos or inspirational quotes on the shelves or walls.  Her personality was just as dark and sterile as the room.  The only brightness in the room was her rich, red hair.  She may have been pretty if her face weren’t so cruel and void of compassion.

“Come on in,” she said, as I opened the door, escorted to her office by one of the staff members in the behavioral health unit.  She didn’t bother to get up from her seat to greet me.  There was no semblance of a smile or outreached hand to warmly receive me.  Rather, I was made to feel like an inconvenience as she sat still in her seat, her large limbs overarching the base of the desk chair, too obese for this standard seat.  She didn’t even move her hand to guide me toward the leather couch.  I just sat myself and remained awkwardly silent until she spoke, exhaustion and aggravation evident in her voice.

“Well, why are you here?” she inquired.  I was in the behavioral health unit talking to the on-site psychiatrist. Was it not relatively obvious why I was here? I was ill. 

“Well,” I began, “I’m bipolar.”

“Yes, yes,” she said, her aggravation seemed to be growing.  I didn’t know what I had done to apparently wrong this woman for the clear answer was that I had not erred or harmed her in any way.  Why was she so harsh to me as I sat in this cold space in a fragile state?  “But, what happened that you ended up here?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, sincere in my questioning. 

“Well, what event prompted your arrival here?  A death? A divorce? Some other trauma?”

“No, no trauma.  I’m bipolar.  I’ve just fallen into severe depression.  There need not be external factors.  I have a chemical imbalance.”

“Yes, yes,” she replied, with increasing exasperation. “I do understand manic-depression.  I’m a psychiatrist.  It’s just that typically some event triggers hospitalization.”

I sat there becoming progressively more incensed as well, I actually having a reason for such irritation given her callous treatment toward me in this moment.  I hated her.  I decided this right then. I fucking hated her.  The cunt.  What was she doing in this profession? I wanted to get up and leave her office, but I also knew I had to be on my best behavior if I wanted to be released.  I had not chosen this hospitalization. 

“Well, I’m here on a seventy-two hour hold,” I explained to her. 

“Okay, there,” she said, as though her belief about triggering events had been validated and she could feel superior to me without guilt.  But she should have felt guilty, the self-righteous bitch she was before me, as I sat there deeply suffering, pulling at my shirt sleeves to hide what lie beneath.

“So, why were you put on hold?”

“Self-injurious behavior,” I replied, with shame and embarrassment.

“Well, let me see,” she demanded, like she was an extremely disciplinary teacher and I was a bad student who had been caught passing a note and made to bring it to the front of the class to be read aloud.

I rolled up my sleeves and exposed the cuts on my arms, the ones I was made to show to the nurses in the emergency room the night before, and then the police officers and social service worker who had been called in to evaluate my condition.

“Why, those cuts aren’t bad at all!” she gasped.  I was wasting her time and I had enraged her with my pathetic cuts, only deep enough to bring forth blood, enough to make myself feel pain, just enough pain that I felt in control of my emotion, so that I felt anything other than empty and hollow.  “Those cuts don’t even require stiches,” she added in disgust.

“I know,” I replied, my voice now rapidly rising, trying to compete with her lunacy.  I was irritated and indignant and I hated her.  I fucking hated her.

“Are you even suicidal now?” she asked me, like only a patient who had a noose already tightened around her neck was worthy of this woman’s time. 

“No, I never claimed to be suicidal,” I said in defense of myself, as though I had to plead my case to this woman now, explain why I was worthy of psychiatric care.  “I wasn’t trying to kill myself with these cuts. It’s just sibbing.  I’m not suicidal.  I’m just really, really sad.  Isn’t that enough?”

“Isn’t that enough?” I had actually asked her, like I had even failed in my own depression.  I was failing at life, too anxious to work.  I was failing at marriage, afraid to leave but miserable every moment I stayed.  I was failing at my friendships, feeling too pathetic and miserable to burden others with my tiresome woes.  And this bitch, this awful bitch, was making me feel like I had failed at depression too.  Why didn’t I want to kill myself?  What was wrong with me? 

“You don’t need to be here,” she said, “They’re wasting my time.”  She had validated that I was indeed a burden. 

I had succeeded at one thing – at being burdensome and taxing.  I was difficult and problematic, and I didn’t belong anywhere, not even in the behavioral health unit.  Why wasn’t I suicidal?  Because I’m strong, I’m smart, I’m a survivor.  I was worthy, and she was a bitch, and I was better than that.  I hated her, and I hated myself in that moment too. 

Even though this damn depression can be tough and trying, the way that woman so wrongly treated me, I am going to try to love myself.   I am going to love myself.  I will love myself. I love myself.  I am worthy, and she was wrong.