#understandingchaos

[understandingchaoss]

What Suicide Is Not

Suicide is many things. It is taboo. People seem to not want to talk about it. When they do, they downplay it; try to make it into something it is not. It is heartbreaking. My own heart breaks knowing that people feel the same pain that I have.

The one thing suicide is not, though?

Selfish.

I know I have written about this before, many months ago. But I feel like I need to address the ignorant statement again.

Suicide is not a selfish act. Selfish directly translates in English to: (of a person, action, or motive) lacking consideration for others; concerned chiefly with one’s own personal profit or pleasure.

Now, for those of who think suicide is selfish, your first argument is almost always that the person feeling that way never thinks about the people around them; that they don’t consider what it would do to the people left behind. Let me be the millionth person to tell you that you are completely and utterly wrong.

The first thing someone in that position thinks of is the people around them. In the years that I spent having suicidal ideations, I constantly thought about the people who loved me. I wondered what their life would be like without me. Of course, I always thought their life would be ten times better off without me.

Someone considering suicide almost always considers the feelings and emotions that their loved ones will feel once they are gone. I can personally tell you that part of us does feel bad, because hearing stories of people losing loved ones is heartbreaking. Mental illness is the problem, and suicide is the result. Mental illness convinces you that the people left behind would be better off without you, therefore justifying the actions you’re about to take. Therefore, the person is not concerned with their own personal profit or pleasure because they are doing it for the sake of other people, in their minds.

Now, you’re probably going to argue that mental illness means that the person is not in their right mind. And you’re right, mental illness does not make things rational; mental illness itself is not rational. Suicide is not rational, that’s already been determined. But that does not make it selfish.

Even though the person’s thought process, mood, and judgement are greatly affected by their mental illness, saying that someone with mental illness is engaging in a selfish act such as suicide is cruel. It invalidates the person engaging in those behaviors as soon as the words leave your mouth.

If I’m being completely honest and have to call anyone out for being selfish, it is the person speaking the ignorant statement that suicide is selfish.

Let me tell you why.

Let’s go back to the argument of the people left behind. Maybe you’re one of those people left behind, or someone who was almost left behind.

Suicide is not about you. The people left behind have the tendency to make the situation revolve around them. “But what about the rest of us? How could they be so selfish as to leave us behind? How could they not think about the pain they have caused us?”

WHAT ABOUT THE UNBEARABLE PAIN THE PERSON FELT SO INTENSELY THAT THEY FELT THEIR ONLY WAY OUT WAS TO TAKE THEIR OWN LIFE?!

This isn’t about you, folks. This has never been about you. This is about the person no longer with us. This is about the people who have survived their suicide attempts. This is about the people who felt such intense, unbearable, and excruciating pain that they felt they needed to end their own lives in order to end the pain. They saw no other way out, including you.

You could not have saved them. People believe that if they would have said something different - done something different - that they could have saved the person. 99.9% of the time, those people are wrong. People with mental illness are going to do what their mental illness causes them to do. Sure, you think that they can choose to believe you, but let me be the first to tell you that mental illness doesn’t let them do that. Mental illness doesn’t report to anyone. You doing or saying something different isn’t going to suddenly make the person feel loved. They struggled with feeling unloved for however long they dealt with mental illness, and that’s not going to change just because you tell them how much you love them once you find out suicide is their proposed plan.

Sure, the person is putting their pain before the people around them. But when the person is gone, the people left behind put their pain before the person who died by suicide.

I could go around and around in circles with some people because some don’t see eye to eye with me. And that’s fine. Everyone is entitled to their own opinions, and I respect the opinions of those around me. But I will never in my lifetime believe that suicide is selfish. Not because I’m not willing to admit that I partook in selfish behaviors, but because the people who have been in my shoes and those that are currently in my shoes are not being selfish.

Suicide is not about anyone other than the person who felt enough pain that they must do something so heartbreaking.

If you or someone you know needs support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, or text START to 741-741

[understandingchaoss]

An Open Letter to My Abuser

For those of you who did not already know, I moved out to Georgia in May of 2014 for just about the dumbest reason ever. I swore I was in love, and I was - I think - except it was with a nonexistent person.

Some men are very good at pretending to be exactly who and what you think you need. They say and do all the right things. They use it to their advantage and use it to manipulate you. I was naive, and believed him.

Looking back, there were red flags even from the start. I have struggled for years to understand why I was so stupid to believe him; to figure out why I was so stupid not to see all of the signs that he was manipulative and abusive in so many ways.

I have only been home for 3 years as of this November, but it feels like an eternity with all of the guilt, shame, and anger I have carried with me. Everything has felt so heavy for so long. I am not schizophrenic in any way, but I do hear a voice in my head. It’s more like the devil on my shoulder, and not a vivid voice, that in other people’s heads, seems real. But it is his voice that I hear anytime there is a negative thought that comes about. Any negative thought that I think of, I already heard him say during my six months of living out there.

For those of you who read my post about eye movement desensitization and reprocessing, you will recall that the first traumatic event that we have focused on has been this one. It’s where most of my self-hatred comes from, and when you work on the self-hatred, almost everything else surrounding it improves, which is why it was our first choice to rework.

I had my second session yesterday. It was difficult, but I made a lot of progress. However, at the end of it, she did say that she felt like there was still something that was left unsaid or undone in the reworking. Therefore, I hadn’t fully reprocessed the trauma yet. She asked me if I draw or anything. I told her no, but that I write. She felt that writing about it would be the perfect way for me to say whatever it is I still feel like I needed to say, so that I can put it all in the past where it belongs.

So here I am. Doing the one thing I swore I would never do until I was ready to write my book. But somehow, the plan I always have, is never the plan that actually works out. So here I am, ready to say what I have wanted to say for so long. And I am not sorry about any of it in anyway.

You had me so fooled; wrapped right around your finger to do whatever it was you wanted me to do. I was in love, I will never deny that. Except the person I loved never existed, because you were the best liar I had ever met. You knew exactly what you were doing when you manipulated me into believing that you loved me too.

I have always pictured love to be this nurturing and healthy concept; difficult, but worth it. Nothing about you was nurturing or healthy, and the fact that I thought the opposite is why I have hated myself for so long. I don’t know why I didn’t see it from the start. You never cared about my mental illness. You never cared about helping me work through it so that I could eventually live a life without it. You never cared about the trauma I endured before you. In fact, looking back, I don’t even know if you ever even listened when I told you about it. You never cared about my wants or needs.

Everything in our relationship was only about you.

It didn’t take me long to figure out that who you portrayed yourself to be was not who you really were. But I swore that the person you portrayed yourself to be was somewhere deep down inside, and that he would eventually come back out. I saw potential in you, and they say potential is the most dangerous thing in a relationship. And they’re right. Because you never met that potential and you never will.

I can’t imagine how miserable your life must be. To live a life and treat others the way you have treated me baffles me.

Almost daily, I remind myself of how disgusting, useless, and stupid I am. At first, I try to convince myself that I have no reason to believe those things. But then I remember that those are the things you used to say to me daily. With every hurtful word, and every hand you ever laid on me, came the belief that you were right; because you somehow had me convinced that you were the only one that was right.

Let me tell you what love is supposed to be like.

Love is never supposed to be you. You do not know what love is, and I believe you will never know what love is. Love is not expecting your girlfriend to work two jobs and pull most of the weight financially while you sit on your lazy butt all day, eat, and watch tv, while you maybe decide to go to school three days a week. Love is not expecting her to let you spend all of the money on pointless sports tickets and anything else sports related to the point where we couldn’t even pay the bills. Love is not telling her that you can’t afford to take her someplace she wants to go, and then go to a game the next day. Love is not nasty name calling. Love is not telling her how disgusting she is. Love is not making her have sex with you because that’s what you want, not taking into account of what she wants. Love is not making her do things that increase her anxiety levels past what she should be pushed to do. Love is not calling her ugly even has a joke – although sometimes, I don’t think it was meant as a joke. Love is not telling her that she’s useless because she did something wrong on accident. Love is not laying a hand on her, whether you said you meant it as a joke or not – laying a hand on a woman is never supposed to be a joke, and it should never happen under any circumstances. Love is selfless, not selfish. But you will never know what that kind of love feels like, because you will never be able to move past your selfish tendencies. You are not love. Your actions and words are not love.

I used to think that people who were in abusive relationships could leave just as easily as they entered into them. But then I experienced you, and I realized how wrong I was. When you think you’re in love, you will do anything to make it work. You fight and you fight and you fight to make it work because it would be humiliating to admit that it didn’t. When you are manipulated every single day, it’s impossible to convince yourself that you can leave. A fight happened, and I thought it was time to leave. But you always found the right words to say in order to convince me to stay. You promised it would get better, that you would stop. But it never did get better, it only got worse.

Lucky for me, I’m strong willed just like mama. And mama always taught me that you take nothing from no one. You stand up for yourself, and you never back down from what you know is right. So no matter how much you manipulated me, and no matter what you had to say in order to make it better, I knew better. My favorite part is when you used to tell me to go back to California if I was so miserable.

Watch me.

The best decision I ever made was to come back home, no matter how humiliating it was.

The sad part is, though? You could care less about what you have done to me. You never blinked twice, and you never will. I have lived a life for so long, locked up in your prison cell that only you had the keys to. My PTSD kept giving you the power to control my life, even after moving back home and living my own life. People like you don’t care about what they do to other people. In fact, on the off chance that you’ll ever read this, you’ll call me a liar and tell me that I made it all up for attention. Because people like you never see the wrong that they do. People like you think they’re perfect. People like you are so narcissistic. And people like you will never care about hurting people like me.

And that is exactly why I’m taking my power back.

Psychotherapy has finally showed me that I can take my power back. EMDR has given me so much empowerment; the empowerment that I should have had the moment I decided to come home. I love proving you wrong. All those times you told me I would never get to go to Europe to see Emily cut me so deep. But my favorite part has been proving you wrong; joke’s on you, I’ve been 3 times. You always used to tell me that I would never amount to anything. Joke’s on you, because I am so proud of who I have become, and what I have amounted up to.

Your words cut so deep for so long. But I’m taking that knife, and throwing it in Adriatic, along with the keys to that prison cell, because you’re the one locked in there now. My favorite part about EMDR is the fact that I get to use my imagination on how to rework the situation. And my favorite part about getting to use my imagination, is imaging myself in Croatia - on a continent you always said I would never get to see - and throwing the things you have held over my head for so long, into the most beautiful body of water I have ever seen, while I leave you stranded there with nothing and no one. You will never have anything, and you will never have anyone, because you don’t know the meaning of life. You don’t know how precious the people around you are. But I do, and I cherish that. While you’re stranded there, with nothing and no one like you made me feel for 6 months, I’m taking back my power.

You will no longer control my life anymore. At first, I felt stupid for allowing you to control my life even after putting almost 3,000 miles between us. But then I remembered that that is my illness. My PTSD has allowed you to control my life, not me. And there is so much empowerment in that. There is so much empowerment in finally dealing with the hell you put me through, and making the ending what it should have been a long time ago.

You never deserved my time. You never deserved my money. You never deserved my love, and my God I gave you so much of it. You never deserved an ounce of it. You never deserved my effort. You never deserved anything from me, and I will no longer let you convince me that I’m stupid for giving you any of those things. You are a lesson now, not a regret.

You don’t care about what I have to say. But for the first time, I don’t care about that. I have waited so long to say what I needed to say. And I finally get to call you out for what you really are; nothing and no one. You are the literal scum of the earth, and I can’t stand you. You are the worst human being I have ever met for putting me through this hell.

I am so strong now. You taught me what love is not supposed to be, and for that, I will never settle again. Your voice will no longer be the devil on my shoulder, because none of what you said to me is true. The mental scars you left from your physical touch will never eat away at me anymore.

This is me taking back my power, because you didn’t deserve it in the first place. I wish I could hurt you the way that you hurt me, but I could never be that cruel. And for that, I am a much better person than you will ever be.

In the wise words of Kesha and her brilliant new song:

I’m proud of who I am No more monsters, I can breathe again And you said that I was done Well, you were wrong and now the best is yet to come ‘Cause I can make it on my own And I don’t need you, I found a strength I’ve never known I’ll bring thunder, I’ll bring rain When I’m finished, they won’t even know your name You brought the flames and you put me through hell I had to learn how to fight for myself And we both know all the truth I could tell I’ll just say this is I wish you farewell

If you or someone you know needs support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, or text START to 741-741

[understandingchaoss]

What Traveling Is like with an Anxiety Disorder

I’m sure many of you think you have anxiety. Many of you are probably mistaken. Although most will experience what some kind of anxiety is like at some point in their lives, most that do are not actually diagnosed with an anxiety disorder.

I am not one of those people.

I’ve had anxiety for as long as I can remember. It worsened once I experienced trauma and transitioned into adulthood. Generalized anxiety disorder is an ongoing disorder that is persistent and excessive worry about a number of different things - mostly pointless things that the general population feels are nothing to worry about. Anxiety basically means that your body and your mind team up with each other and begin to prepare themselves for the absolute worst thing to happen; except that thing almost never occurs. 

There are many different anxiety disorders that stem from GAD, one of which being panic disorder. Panic disorder is a more specific anxiety disorder that typically does not have a trigger, unlike GAD. I experience panic attacks often - typically without a trigger - on top of the already existing anxiety. GAD and panic disorder being present at the same time have been extremely difficult because sometimes it’s hard to tell which symptoms come from which diagnosis. It’s hard to tell if my anxiety attacks are being caused from a flashback of trauma or not.

As many of you know, I travel often. I have seen 11 countries and 17 states. Yet, my psychiatrist has always told me that I have some of the worst cases of anxiety he has ever seen.

Let’s talk a little bit about what GAD is before we get into what traveling is like with that particular diagnosis.

The following should not be used for any kind of self-diagnosis. A diagnosis can only be performed upon seeing a medical or mental health professional:

GAD is diagnosed when a person finds it difficult to control worry on more days than not for at least six months and has three or more symptoms:

Restlessness or feeling keyed up or on edge

Being easily fatigued

Difficulty concentrating or mind going blank

Irritability

Muscle tension

Sleep disturbance (difficulty falling or staying asleep, or restless, unsatisfying sleep)

Having a sense of impending danger, panic, or doom

Having an increased heart rate

Breathing rapidly (hyperventilation)

Sweating, trembling, and/or nausea

Airports are full of the unknown. Unfamiliar people, places, restaurants, and there’s always possible danger. I have this extreme and unrealistic fear of going anywhere in public by myself. Yet I can walk into and airport and hop on a plane like it’s nothing.

Or so you think.

Two days leading up to my travel date, I begin to feel extremely nauseous and I sweat more uncontrollably than the usual. The more my mind focuses on the fact that I’m getting on a plane in two days, the worse it gets. The morning of, I feel so nauseous that I feel as if I might vomit at any given moment. Not to sound disgusting, but diarrhea is a very common physical symptom of anxiety and I sure as heck experience it the morning of a major trip. My mind races constantly about having to go somewhere surrounded my tons of people. I have never done well in large crowds to begin with.

All airports are different. TSA is nerve wracking for me because I never know if they’re going to make me take my shoes off or let me keep them on. For some reason, I overthink that to the max. Once I make it through TSA, I have a panic attack about my gate number. They typically don’t know what your gate number is going to be if it’s more than 3 or 4 hours before your flight. If it doesn’t appear on my ticket when I check in, I panic about whether or not it will show up on the screens with flight information. If it is on my ticket, I still panic about whether or not it’s even the right one.

If I can’t find the information on my gate number yet, I panic about not having a “safe” place to sit. I typically hide out in the bathroom for a little while. But if I notice someone sitting outside the bathroom that saw me go in, then I don’t sit in there for very long and then I panic about what to do next.

Once I get past the panic of the gate number and finally find the one that has my flight, I sit down, but can’t sit down directly next to someone. I prefer not to sit down facing anyone either, but most of the time, I can’t get lucky and have the best of both worlds. I don’t want people talking to me or see me reading or playing on my computer. If I put my headphones in, no one will typically talk to me.

I hope and I pray that it isn’t going to be a full flight so that I don’t have to sit directly next to someone. They always end up taking up the whole armrest. Then I have to consider that whoever it is might sleep almost the whole duration of the flight. If they do, I fear moving around because I don’t want to wake them up.

I’m starving, because I didn’t eat that morning. Why bother when your stomach feels like it’s going to explode at any second? I fear eating, first of all, because I always feel like someone is watching me. Second of all, I’m afraid that if I eat, I’ll throw it right up. I skip the eating and suffer.

I can’t really focus on the book I’m reading because the kid sitting on the other side of the gate keeps staring at me, or so I think. I can’t wait to get on that plane, because once I get past all of the people looking at me as I walk to my seat, I can finally relax because the only people that can clearly see me is the person sitting right next to me and the person sitting diagonally behind me that can see me through the crack in the seat. Two people are better than a whole flight’s worth of people.

Forget getting up to go the bathroom because then I have to deal with people staring at me again. It wouldn’t be a big deal if I could have gotten up from where I was sitting at the gate to go to the bathroom before we started boarding. But I couldn’t do that either because there’s still the factor of people staring at me. So the last time I used the bathroom was right after I got through TSA and before I found my gate. If I use the bathroom while I’m already walking from TSA or the gate I just came off of from my flight, my anxiety lessens for some reason.

Not getting up to go to the bathroom wouldn’t be that big of a deal if the flight was short. And they are, except for when I go to Europe; ten whole hours of sitting in the same seat, hardly able to stretch my legs, risking the fact that I could get a blood clot. Forget sleeping because I twitch once I fall asleep. I’ll either scare the person sitting next to me and risk them judging me, or scare myself awake. I don’t dare stare out the window for too long because then people will wonder what it is that I’m looking at, since everything all looks the same up in the sky.

It always feels like an eternity before the captain comes back on and says that we are beginning our decent into whatever city I’m landing into. I can breathe a sigh of relief before I remember that this is only one of two or three flights. The city I’m landing in is only there for a layover, not my final destination. The closer we get to the ground, the worse the anxiety gets once again, because I have to go back in and do it all over again; panic about the gate number, only use the bathroom as soon as I walk off the plane and not use it again until I land in the next city, panic about the people staring at me at my next gate.

It probably sounds like I care too much about what people think of me. And maybe I do. But the tricky part is that I don’t choose anxiety. I don’t choose to care what people think of me. I don’t choose to panic over “pointless” things.

Let me tell you something about anxiety.

Anxiety is completely and utterly illogical. Nothing about it makes sense.

But let me tell you something about the people who suffer from it like I do.

We already know this.

We already know that what we think and feel isn’t logical to you. But to us, it is. It makes perfect sense in our heads. Just because something doesn’t make sense to you, doesn’t mean it doesn’t make sense to someone else. I’m not saying anxiety is the right way of thinking or a good thing in any way. What I’m saying is that by telling someone that what or how they think isn’t right or doesn’t make sense, it invalidates them.

Anxiety isn’t just overthinking everything. It isn’t just “having a panic attack” - if you knew what those were like you probably wouldn’t throw it around so lightly - because you can’t hang out with your friends that night. Anxiety is a disorder that affects the brain both physically and psychologically. Anxiety affects your everyday life. For me, it affects any and all things that I do or say. It controls me. It controls my every move. It doesn’t let up. It doesn’t let up just because my head feels overwhelmed. It keeps pushing me and pushing me until I’ve reached my limit. And then once I’ve reached my limit, it pushes me right over that cliff and I plummet down to rock bottom. Sometimes, it’s over nothing - or so you think. Sometimes it’s over something major and logistical. Either way, it controls me and the fact that some people are controlled in just the same way but aren’t doing anything about it because people have to make rude comments about their disorder, is heartbreaking. People will literally never get help because of something someone else said about their anxiety; some snarky comment, some joke that they thought was funny, but was really invalidating to the person with the disorder.

Something else that invalidates people like me? Saying you have anxiety or a more specified anxiety disorder when you in fact have not actually been diagnosed. The mental health community is full of people who are all for self-diagnosis. I would be too if I was a mental health professional specifically trained to screen patients for specific disorders. I understand that not everyone can afford to go see someone who can screen them. But until you have been screened, you have not received a diagnosis. Telling people that you have anxiety when you have never been diagnosed throws the term, its definition, and its symptoms around like they’re nothing.

Most people think there isn’t help out there for their anxiety disorders. But let me just say that anxiety medications work wonders. Therapy works in a number of different ways for a number of different diagnoses, including anxiety. If you believe that you may have an anxiety disorder, please see a professional. I promise that there are ways to do it. Even if it’s just one time to receive a diagnosis. A diagnosis helps so much in the recovery process. If you know someone with an anxiety disorder, please do not invalidate them or their disorder. Please encourage them to seek help if they haven’t already.

If you or someone you know needs support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, or text START to 741-741

[understandingchaoss]

How You Can Have a Mental Illness Without Being Mentally Ill

I promise you that this post is not as nuts as the title sounds.

I have a dear friend that I get to have some great conversations with. She seems to be one of the very few people who are able to understand what I go through without fully going through it herself. I say it like that because she does not have mental illness. She does, however, struggle with bouts of depression and anxiety periodically. Depression, anxiety, bi-polar, etc., are all considered mental illnesses - or mental disorders. However, there is a line that is drawn between a mental concern and a mental illness. She and I just had this conversation a few days ago, and I thought it was a great topic to cover.

What my friend deals with, is actually what the field of science refers to as a mental concern. It’s usually brought on by stress. Sometimes being a parent can make you feel depressed for a short period of time, other times the death of a loved one can cause it. Anxiety has a much more wide range of stressors that can cause it, but for a mental concern, it’s usually something like money troubles, the loss of a job, or any other major life changes. What sets mental illness and mental concerns apart from each other is the concept of whether or not it affects your daily life to the extreme, for long periods of time. Those with mental concerns typically find that their depression or anxiety don’t usually cause an interference with every aspect of their daily life. A mental concern doesn’t usually affect the daily life for more than a few months at a time. It passes, and the person is typically able to deal with it normally. 

Those with mental illness find that it drags on, sometimes for years at a time. The field of science refers to mental concerns as the social aspect of mental illness. This means that the person’s emotional well-being is affected by their social class, family, employment, poor health, or financial situation and not by the psychology or biology makeup of the brain - aka their neurotransmitters or hormones are not affected by the small bout of depression or anxiety.

Your neurotransmitters are fascinating little things. Contrary to popular belief, they are actually what release your hormones; there is no separate component to mental illness psychologically other than your neurotransmitters because they are what control the hormones that are found in the imbalances. Your neurotransmitters carry messages from one nerve cell (neuron) to the next in the brain, because your neurons don’t actually touch. They can affect your mood, ability to concentrate, your physical process, and your memory. When they are disrupted, the messages are not carried to the next neuron, thus causing a malfunction that can lead to mental illness and addiction. When the malfunction occurs, the chemicals needed to prevent mental illness are not released. There are different neurotransmitters inside of your brain. The most common ones found to malfunction, causing mental illness are dopamine, acetylcholine, GABA, norepinephrine, and serotonin.

For example, if the movements of your serotonin or norepinephrine are interrupted, depression or anxiety disorders can be a direct result because the two hormones regulate your concentration, appetite, and mood. For those with depression, it is commonly found that the message produced by the serotonin to a neuron is not completed and the message is instead sent right back to the original location. The point of mental health medications that specifically treat serotonin or norepinephrine is to stop the hormones from returning to their original location, and instead helping to deliver them to the next neuron.

The lack of dopamine is commonly found in schizophrenia and attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder. Feeling more tire than usual, poor motivation to accomplish the simplest of tasks, and high levels of stress are all linked to low levels of dopamine. Dopamine is the chemical that allows your brain to feel pleasure. It is released during sex and any kind of addiction (i.e. shopping, drugs, sex, food, etc.). It is also the most common imbalance found in the lack of motivation or lack of pleasure found in patients with depression. Dopamine is also essential for your memory. When the levels decrease, your memory suffers, thus causing both short term and long term memory loss.

I won’t bore you with anymore science talk, because I’m sure you get the picture now.

Mental illness is most commonly caused by your biology and psychological make-up, aka your neurotransmitters or biological make-up through your genes (less common than the psychological aspect). Mental concerns are caused from the social aspects, thus not leading to the malfunction of your neurotransmitters – right away, that is. This is usually where you see someone struggling with depression for several weeks or a few months and they suddenly just snap out of it. They are able to “bounce back” in a normal way. Those with mental illness are not able to do so normally because they neurotransmitters do not “allow it.”

There are many reasons why I know for a fact that I have mental illness and not just a mental concern. There are the obvious things like my medications, long term treatment plan with therapists and my psychiatrist, and the fact that I have felt completely numb since the age of 13. But I think that sometimes people forget that mental illness is not a mental concern. It does not come and go, it is not present some days and gone the next. Mental illness is always present in whatever I do. I wake up every day, and my morning routine is affected by it. My motivation levels to communicate to those around me are affected. There are phone calls and text messages I must tend to, but can’t seem to do so. There are things around the house that need to get done, but I can’t seem to make myself do it. There is a job that I must go to five days a week, but dread going not because I hate it, but because I hate having to get up for it. There are friendships that I must put the effort into holding up, but instead allow myself to let that part of my life go, causing me to lose friendships because I’m too “lazy” to put in the effort. The times when I need to go to the store to get the essentials or to the grocery store to get myself food in order to live don’t happen unless someone is with me because I have an extreme and unrealistic fear of going anywhere in public alone. There is the reminder of the trauma I have endured within the recent years each morning when I wake because somehow, my brain always finds a way to start thinking about it. There is the dissociation, flashbacks, panic attacks, and random mental breakdowns sometimes brought on by nothing. There is the paranoia brought on by my borderline personality disorder. Nothing major, but I spend each day convinced that everyone in my life somehow hates me but they somehow hide it perfectly. There is my addiction to food that somehow consumes my thoughts. Most days, I can’t wait to get home just so that I can eat everything in sight as a way to cope with everything. There is the overwhelming feeling of just wanting to go to bed when I’m away from my house. Not because I’m so tired, but because I’m exhausted from trying to hold my body up through the extreme fatigue.

And that my friends, is only one day out of the week. I wake up the next day, and do that all over again. Throw in an abnormal stressor that isn’t an everyday thing for me, and I can promise you that you won’t want anything to do with me that day.

I am in no way dismissing any of the mental concerns that people may suffer from. They are completely valid, and they are extremely difficult to cope with. I hope and I pray for those currently struggling with mental concerns. I hope and I pray that it doesn’t eventually turn into something that becomes psychological. I hope and I pray that your neurotransmitters are able to endure the stressors can come out of it normally so that you don’t end up like the rest of us.

But the words mental illness are thrown around just as loosely as anxiety, panic attacks, and OCD. Just because you have a mental concern does not mean that you have mental illness. If you believe that you may have a mental illness and not just a mental concern, please see a mental health professional for an evaluation before you start throwing the term around. The more it gets thrown around, the less valid those of us with mental illness actually feel. Telling people that you have something when you don’t, is a lie and quite frankly manipulative. It would be the same as you telling someone that you had cancer when you hadn’t actually been diagnosed with it. It is so important to see someone about it, because you may actually have a mental illness and any mental illness left untreated can be a disaster. But please do not refer to your mental concern as a mental illness unless you have been told that you in fact, have a mental illness.

If you or someone you know needs support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, or text START to 741-741

[understandingchaoss]

Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing

What now…?

Those were my exact words the first time I heard that this was the newest type of therapy I was going to be starting.

Quite frankly, it sounded complicated, weird, and too mechanical for my liking. 

It turns out that I was exactly right. It was way too complicated for me to fully grasp at first, it’s very strange and weird, and it’s probably the most mechanical way of working through emotional distress in existence. And I’m not a mechanical person at all. 

EMDR is used widely amongst therapists who specialize in the rehabilitation of post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s actually not extremely common, but it has fantastic results in the cases that it is used.

My psychiatrist has been trying to get me to do it for years, but each time he mentioned it, I just brushed it off. Up until my hospitalization for 72 hours in May, I wasn’t really open to going back to psychotherapy. For the majority of my high school career, I did the traditional emotional approach to working through emotional distress. Once a week, I went in, sat for an hour, talked about the emotions I had no idea how to identify, paid, and then left. I learned how to identify some of the emotions I was feeling in the end. But I didn’t feel like it had any structure, and I didn’t feel like it helped me much. I wasn’t about to go back and do it all over again. But part of my intensive outpatient therapy program was to connect with a therapy group. Group settings for therapy are not my thing in any way, shape, or form. They also require you to attend multiple sessions a week, something that would have been impossible for me considering I have Kaiser and I would have to drive over an hour away for each session. So I decided to just call some random lady that was on a list of therapists that Kaiser would cover in my area. I told her that I wanted structure; I needed some kind of treatment plan that was going to keep me on track. That’s when she mentioned EMDR as her approach to my PTSD. She said when you deal with the trauma first, almost everything else will begin to improve.

Thus began the many hours of research and questions that I always have.

My psychiatrist explained to me that EMDR is a mechanical way of treating emotional distress, unlike the tradition approach, like what I did in high school. Studies have shown that EMDR therapy proves that the mind can in fact heal from psychological trauma in similar ways that the body heals from physical trauma. When you cut your finger cutting something up, your body works to naturally and properly close and heal the wound. If something gets inside and irritates the wound, it creates a block and slows down the recovery time, and can often times make the wound worse. Psychological trauma does just the same. When repeated traumatic events (in my case, they occurred within a short period of time - about 3 years) occur, it slows down the recovery time of the psychological wound. The brain’s information processing system becomes blocked or imbalanced by the impact of a traumatic event. The emotional wound festers following the traumatic event, and can cause severe and intense suffering. Once whatever was blocking the system is removed, recovery resumes. 

I know that still sounds complicated. So here’s what my new therapist explained to me.

Anything and everything that happens within your daily life is processed within both sides of the brain. When a traumatic event occurs, it is first processed within the right side of your brain because your right side of the brain controls and processes emotions. The problem, however, occurs when the right side of the brain freezes and doesn’t communicate or process the traumatic even within the left side of the brain. When this occurs, the PTSD symptoms are then created as a way to cope with the trauma that the brain never fully processed. EMDR focuses on allowing the brain to once again communicate and process the trauma in the left side of the brain like it should have in the first place.

How?

That was my biggest question. 

When EMDR was first created, therapists used an object and moved it back and forth between your eyes just like a pendulum. This stimulates the brain and allows the right and left side to communicate with each other. However, studies have shown that tapping stimulates the brain just the same, in a much less distracting way. My therapist uses tapping, so the tapping - for me - has become what the eye movement would have done. 

The desensitization comes into play by exposing me to the past trauma, gradually. 

Am I crazy? Everyone keeps asking me why in the world I would want to go back and visit my past traumas. They act like I don’t constantly think about them each and every day. My trauma haunts me, literally. So going back and confronting them is scary, but it’s not like it’s completely out of the ordinary for me to do so considering they’re always on my mind. 

The reprocessing comes into play by my brain processing the traumatic event again, only properly this time.

This is where it gets weird.

On Monday, I sat in this very dim-lit room, with my eyes closed and a pair of headphones on, and my hands holding onto these two little objects, all of which were connected to this tiny little machine. 

And I’m going to reprocess trauma how again..? What’s a machine going to in order to help me reprocess all of this..?

The headphones created a sound in my ears that was a faint beeping sound. The sound was in rhythm with the buzzing that came through the two little things my hands held onto. The buzzing created what therapists refer to as tapping. Between the noise and the buzzing, my brain was stimulated and as a result of the stimulation, my right and left brain were forced to communicate with each other. My therapist coached me through everything. I didn’t have to talk if I didn’t want to go. But I was instructed to go back to one of the three traumatic events that has occurred, and reprocess it. She explained that reprocessing doesn’t always mean going back and thinking about specific things related to the trauma. Sometimes, it’s okay to use your imagination and process the event how I want to. Other times, it’s okay to think about those specific things. However, if I’m going to, I have to use my imagination on how to put those behind me. 

For example, many of you reading this know that I moved to Georgia in 2014 for stupid reasons. I was in a relationship with someone I never should have been with. My best friend, Emily, was in Europe at the time and kept asking me to come and visit her. He used to tell me constantly that it was never going to happen because we could never afford it. A year later, I was moved back home and on a flight to go see her because I worked hard to earn the money to do so, without him. The following year, I did it once again. Only that time, I got to experience multiple countries by train.

When I was instructed to go back and visit the traumatic event of me being with him as a whole, I got stuck on all of the other traumatic things that came along with it. The name calling, the comments of constantly putting me down instead of building me up, the occasional physical abuse, the severe emotional abuse, all of it came flooding back. It all hit me and I got extremely emotional. She stopped the machine for a moment and told me that I needed to come up with a way to send him off, send him away. I needed to send away all of the traumatic memories and thoughts that came along with it. 

So I did. By picturing Europe by train.

I pictured myself getting on the train at my favorite train station somewhere in the middle of Austria, leaving him standing on the platform, and letting the doors close. He began to get farther and farther away and the farther I got, the more peace I felt. I was going to enjoy the most beautiful scenery I had ever seen, and leave him standing there with nothing and no one, just as he made me feel for so many months.

I know that sounds insane, but the imagination can do some incredible things. And I can’t even begin to tell you how much empowerment I felt in imagining that. I can’t even begin to tell you how much power I felt myself take back and use to my advantage at the end of it.

I’m still baffled at how in the world something like this can actually make a difference, but it has. For the first time in years, I have actually been able to challenge my thoughts. His voice is the voice I hear constantly. For months, I always heard how useless I was and how I could never do anything right. Within the last week, I have heard that voice more times than I could count, just as I always do. Except now, I feel ten times more empowered, and I’ve actually been able to tell him to shut up and leave me alone, which is what I should have done way back when. I have felt more confident than I ever have because for the first time, I am able to challenge what I heard him say. 

This is only one of many sessions, and it’s only one of three traumatic events that I must work through. But I am very pleased with the results of my first session, and I am very pleased with how I have been feeling since then. 

If you or someone you know needs support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, or text START to 741-741

[understandingchaoss]

What I Wish People Knew About PTSD

I've expressed many times how irritated I get when people only associate PTSD with veterans. I do not dismiss their illness and the things brought on by it. They are just as valid as I am. Many people would likely think that's the one thing I want them to know about PTSD, but they're dead wrong.

What I want people know about PTSD, is that my trauma is not what defines me, and the people who have traumatized me do not own me.

See, with PTSD, the trauma almost becomes your life. Your abusers rule your life. When you think of a veteran coming back from war, the movies have you thinking that their everyday life is greatly affected. That is one of the very few things Hollywood has gotten correct when it comes to mental illness. Every single aspect of your daily life is affected once a traumatic situation occurs and you don't "bounce back" properly. PTSD is a result of not being able to "bounce back" properly from the traumatic event. 

When people associate you with trauma, or trauma with you, you begin thinking to yourself that you are your trauma; your trauma is what defines you. If your trauma defines you, then so do the people who have traumatized you.

Heck, why wouldn't it define me? There's hardly anything in my daily life that is still the same following my three traumatic events. I am not the same, my life is not the same, and my personality is hardly the same. So why wouldn't the trauma define me? Why wouldn’t those who have traumatized me define me?

I went back to psychotherapy for the first time in years this week. My new therapist reminded me that I am not what happened to me. She said that I am not my trauma, and my trauma doesn't own me. Most of all, the people who have traumatized me do not have the right to hold such power over my head.

For years I have suffered in shame, guilt, and embarrassment. Each morning when I wake up, I allow my abusers to have power over me. It's almost as if they control my life. They control my every move, my decisions, and they steal my time. 

I live every single day in fear that what has happened to me, is going to happen to me again. I am constantly trying to figure out who is going to hurt me, assault me, or betray me next. My abusers don't know it, but they control my life. They are the kings and queens of my life. 

I give them the power. I don't choose to, because I don't choose PTSD. But I do allow them to rule my life by allowing my illness to overpower me. Every flashback, every dissociative episode, every jumpy reaction, and anytime I am on guard or on high alert, I give them the power to haunt me. 

Someone made a great point not too long ago. They asked me why I allow them to still have power over me when they don't even know they have such a thing. I know for a fact that nine times out of ten, my abusers don't think twice about me. They don't care about me or what I'm doing or how I'm feeling. They don't care about what I eat, what I wear, where I'm going, or what I'm about to say. They don't care about any of that. Yet, here I am allowing all of those decisions to be based around what they would think or say or do to me. 

The traumatic things that have happened to me are basically all I think about. I can't tell you the last time I wasn't thinking about any of them. No matter where I go or what I do, what has happened to me is always there - always present. Every single day my abusers are given power over my life because what they did to me rules me. I don't know who or what I would be without my trauma. I'm terrified to find out. How in the world is that the way it's supposed to be?

It's not supposed to be like that. I should be able to make the same daily decisions everyone else makes without me thinking about my abusers. I should be able to choose what I want to eat, what I want to wear, where I'm going, or what I'm going to say without thinking twice about my abusers and what they would have said or done if they were still in my life. But PTSD doesn't allow that. It has my brain programmed to think that way.

The beauty of it all is that there are medications and there is therapy to help reprogram my brain. There are resources out there to help me get better. There are resources to help me get better, and take back my power. I have to choose to allow those things to help me get better. Each morning when I wake up and do so, I take back my power.

I have lost weeks, months, and years of my life because of my trauma. I can't get that time back, but I can get that power back. This is one, of many, declarations that I am making in order to take back my power. 

My trauma doesn't own me. The people who have traumatized do not own me. PTSD does not own me.

If you or someone you know needs support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, or text START to 741-741

[understandingchaoss]

My New Diagnosis and What It Means for Me

Personality disorders have got to be one of the most stigmatized mental illnesses in today’s day and age. When I say personality disorder, the first thing you probably think of is multiple personality disorder. What you probably didn’t know is that there are at least 10 known personality disorders. What you also probably didn’t know is that there is no such thing as multiple personality disorder these days. Multiple personality disorder is now known as dissociative identity disorder, which is typically brought on by trauma. I have a minor case of this disorder. But that’s another topic for another day and another post. I however haven’t had much of a problem coping with that diagnosis.

But then there’s borderline personality disorder aka my new diagnosis.

During my time in the psychiatric unit, I was terrified that the psychiatrist there was going to give me another diagnosis. But my assumption was that he would misdiagnose me with bi-polar disorder; which is something that I do not have, but is something that many people believe I must have only because it seems to be so common these days. He told me that all of the diagnoses that my current psychiatrist of 7 years has given me are spot on. Although, he stated that he felt strongly that I had borderline personality disorder, and felt that if I speak to my current psychiatrist about it, he would probably agree. The only reason my current psychiatrist has never given me the diagnosis is because he’s never performed an evaluation for it; which is something that must be done upon diagnosis of BPD.

Before we go any further, I’d like to say something about labels. Many people consider a diagnosis a label, something that can be dangerous, because these days, there is a label for anything and everything. If I were evaluated, I would probably be diagnosed with another 5 mental illnesses. But I don’t need a diagnosis for every single little behavior or emotion in my life. However, I will admit that having this new diagnosis has helped me tremendously because it’s a very unique disorder. It has very unique characteristics and behaviors. Many of which I have, but for a long time, none of it made sense. I wasn’t educated on BPD, so it wasn’t something I ever thought of. But there are so many things in my life that make perfect sense now, and I am so thankful for that.

Now, borderline personality disorder is defined as a pattern of feelings and behaviors that seem appropriate and justified to the person experiencing them, even though these feelings and behaviors cause a great deal of problems in that person’s life. It typically includes several symptoms like, inappropriate or extreme emotional reactions, highly impulsive behaviors sometimes associated with inappropriate and intense anger, and a history of unstable relationships. Other symptoms which aren’t as common, include, frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment, recurring suicidal behaviors or threats or self-harming behavior, such as cutting, intense and highly changeable moods, with each episode lasting from a few hours to a few days, chronic feelings of emptiness, having stress-related paranoid thoughts, and having severe dissociative symptoms, such as feeling cut off from oneself, observing oneself from outside the body, or losing touch with reality.

I’d like to walk through each symptom and explain what each one is like for me personally, as this disorder varies so much from person to person.

Inappropriate or extreme emotional reactions Upon explanation by the psychiatrist, I learned that this does not always mean that I’m going to lash out and react like a 5 year old; screaming at the top of my lungs because I was told no. He explained that it also means that I am highly sensitive and react with great emotional intensity. My feelings and emotions related to my interpersonal relationships are very intense, so when difficulties and conflict surface, it can cause me to feel extremely anxious, angry, or sad. In my case, I feel more anxious and sad more than I feel angry. During these conflicts, I begin to feel extremely overwhelmed very easily, and the intensity of my emotions feels much greater than normal. As a result, my anxiety becomes much greater and I have a very difficult time trying to calm down once I am upset. However, there are also times where I can do a complete 180 and instead feel disconnected, empty, detached, or numb. I have yet to figure out why it is that I can feel one way during some conflict and the complete opposite during other conflict. The psychiatrist also explained that different types of self-injury are common during the times of feeling numb. I haven’t cut myself in years, but I have an extreme addiction to food, so a lot of things about my eating disorder make a lot more sense now.

Highly impulsive behaviors Most people with BPD find themselves in fights, extreme conflict, or verbal arguments. They do not act before they speak, and it can often land them in jail or the hospital. I do not have those kinds of impulsive behaviors, thankfully. But the psychiatrist did explain that my addiction to food is all based a lot on impulse. Impulse occurs as a reaction to an event that has caused you to have an emotional response. My eating disorder is often triggered by specific events, causing me to have an abnormal emotional response. For some people, impulsive behaviors can include spending sprees, unsafe sex, reckless driving, and substance abuse.

A history of unstable relationships The psychiatrist explained that the abusive relationship that I endured is a perfect example of this symptom. People with BPD often intentionally - but sometimes subconsciously - pick fights with the people close to them. This can lead to abusive relationships, and extremely rocky friendships. Someone with BPD will sometimes intentionally pick a fight to “test” the person. They use those fights as a way to see if the person that claims to love them will actually leave them or not. While I was not the abuser, I did instigate a lot of the fights to see if he would actually leave me. This is where I have a hard time with guilt. Because I instigated a lot of it, I feel as if I asked for it to happen.

This symptom stems into; Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment Someone with BPD experiences intense fear of abandonment. A good example of this symptom in my life is when someone is only but a few minutes late to plans that we have, but my immediate thought is that they forgot about me, hate me, or had something better to do. The longer I wait for them, the more intense the thoughts get. The read recipients setting on the iPhone is my own worst enemy. If I am in the middle of an intense, emotional, or in-depth conversation, and the person clearly reads the message but takes a few minutes to respond, or doesn’t respond at all, my immediate thought is that they hate me and can’t stand to continue the conversation. In my mind, the “abandonment” implies that I am bad; almost as if the abandonment is my punishment for being bad.

Recurring suicidal behaviors or threats or self-harming behavior, such as cutting This is where part of me feels as if I’ve had BPD since my childhood or teen years. One symptom does not mean I’ve had it all along, but this particular symptom was very dominant for me for many years. Along with my unstable relationships, and extreme emotional reactions, I would not be surprised if I’ve had BPD for years without knowing it. I began cutting myself at the age of 14. Almost immediately, it became a full-blown addiction. I’m talking about the kind of high that drug addicts experience, I experienced. Not from the drug itself, but from the psychological high. It has been scientifically proven that the same hormones and chemicals that are released in your brain during a drug high are released when you cut yourself. It became an everyday thing for me. It was almost as if I HAD to do it. It wasn’t even a choice at that point. Eventually, I began having extreme suicidal thoughts and a few tendencies as my depression got worse. Because I was hospitalized only a week ago, it is clear that my suicidal thoughts have not subsided. Even after being discharged, they seem to be recurring.

Intense and highly changeable moods, with each episode lasting from a few hours to a few days This is a big one for me. Everyone experiences changes in their mood. Sometimes they’ll last for a few hours to a few days, just like someone with BPD. But the one thing that sets those people apart from those of us, who have BPD, is the fact that the mood swings don’t usually interfere with their everyday life. A person who does not experience other symptoms of BPD, can still generally function during a mood swing; they can still interact with their family, go do to work, and still be successful. For those of us with BPD, the mood swings can interfere with every single aspect there is in life. What defines this symptom, according to John Cloud from an article in TIME Magazine, “is the sufferers’ inability to calibrate their feelings and behavior.” I am unable to adjust my feelings and emotions - and sometimes even actions - to properly fit a reaction to a “normal” situation. I have days where the mood swings feel so intense that they feel uncontrollable. I have called into work because the mood swing I experienced that day was much too intense, and I just couldn’t bring myself to function correctly.

Chronic feelings of emptiness For those of you who read my previous post about my time in the psychiatric unit last week, you will recall that I talked about the void, and how I felt this overwhelming feeling of nothingness. Nothingness - to me - also means emptiness. When something is empty, you have nothing. This is exactly where I feel my feeling of reaching the void came from. The void is what caused me to have suicidal thoughts to begin with. So when I was told that I had BPD and the psychiatrist explained all of this to me, it made perfect sense as to why I felt that overwhelming feeling of nothingness.

Having stress-related paranoid thoughts We all hear that stupid saying of “You’re so paranoid. Stop it.” Trust me, you would know it if you were paranoid. And trust me when I say that you would not throw that phrase around if you really knew what it was like to be paranoid. I personally feel like this symptom and the symptom of abandonment go hand-in-hand. Paranoia is usually only brought on during times of stress for people with BPD. Whereas people with schizophrenia or paranoid personality disorder experience paranoia to the extreme; i.e. belief that the government is listening in on your phone calls, or that your spouse is having an affair. Paranoia related to BPD is very different. A good example would be if you were in a store and ran into some people that you know. You have a brief conversation with them and then say your goodbyes. For someone with BPD, that’s a stressful situation alone. But then you suddenly hear them laughing as you walk away, and you immediately feel paranoid that they are laughing at something you said, something you’re wearing, or by the way you walk. This causes you to feel as if they are belittling you or are planning to humiliate you the next time that they see you.

Having severe dissociative symptoms, such as feeling cut off from oneself, observing oneself from outside the body, or losing touch with reality For years, I have associated my dissociation with my PTSD/panic disorder because it is brought on by trauma. Within the last year, the dissociation has become much more frequent and much worse. While it still is associated with my PTSD/panic disorder, I had no idea it could be associated with BPD until I began my research, just as I do whenever I receive a new diagnosis. Dissociation is my least favorite thing about PTSD and BPD. Everything feels unreal. I could be at home or somewhere that is very familiar to me, and everything will still look strange, feel strange, or seem unfamiliar. I often have a “zoned out” look that I feel sometimes makes me look psychotic, even though I’m not. Dissociation is defined as a disruption of the normal integrated functions of your consciousness, identity, perception of the environment, or memory. There are several different dissociative identity disorders which is another topic for another day. Dissociation is often used as a coping mechanism to cope with past trauma. But the dissociation associated with DID and BPD differ because of the severity levels. The dissociation found in BPD is not as severe as that found in DID, which explains lot for me.

They say that the name for borderline personality disorder is misleading. I agree, to an extent. But in a way, it also makes sense because so many things about the disorder are borderline to other things. If I have learned anything by receiving new diagnoses, it’s that I cannot allow the label to become my identity. BPD is not my identity, but it surely brings a lot of things to light, and so many things make sense for me now. Mental illness is confusing. I am not the kind of person who can be diagnosed with something and move on from it. I have to know about the diagnosis, I have to know the ins and outs of it. I have to understand something before I can move on from it. This post is mostly for my own understanding, unlike most of my other posts. This illness is still new and fresh to me, and breaking it down bit by bit for myself helps me to understand why I am the way that I am. But my hope is that this will also help others. Borderline personality disorder isn’t very common. But it’s common enough that you likely know one person with it. The best thing anyone can do for someone like me is to learn why I am the way that I am. Being educated on mental illness is the best way to learn.

The symptoms listed in this post should not be used for self-diagnosis. The only way to be diagnosed with borderline personality disorder is to see a mental health professional and undergo an evaluation.

If you or someone you know needs support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, or text START to 741-741

[understandingchaoss]

My Time in the Psych Ward

Throughout the years during my struggle with mental illness, I always told myself that I would never end up in a psychiatric hospital. I had friends who came home with horrific stories, and I’d read countless articles on how awful the experience can be. I was prideful, and swore that I wouldn’t ever get to that point. I didn’t think ending up in one was something that would help me. I don’t think I’ve been anymore wrong about anything in my entire life.

I have been evaluated by a crisis clinician from Tuolumne County several times. The first time was an awful experience, and I probably should have ended up in a psychiatric facility, but the clinician didn’t believe anything I told her. The second time was during a severe panic attack, and I wasn’t exactly a danger to myself. The third time, was actually just recently.

On May 2, 2017 I was taken to the emergency room for yet another evaluation. This time was different though. I woke up that day, and swore I had reached “the void.” The void is something I picture as nothing. Literally just nothing. It looks almost like a dark room that is never ending and I spend all of my time running around it, trying to find my way out. I felt this overwhelming feeling of pure nothingness. I was suicidal once, for a long period of time. I remember feeling like I had no purpose to live for, and there was nothing else left in this life for me. This time was different. I think about death a lot, but never about the actual dying part. Last week, I woke up, and just flat out wanted to die. I had reached the void, felt completely numb, felt absolutely nothing, and was done with this life. I have known for a long time that I have purpose. I learned that I had purpose in this life not long after I got through my suicidal stage. There are countless things in this life that give me purpose. It wasn’t that I wanted to die because I didn’t feel like I had a purpose. I wanted to die because I was so sick and beyond tired of dealing with the pain, guilt, chasing the light out in the distance that I couldn’t seem to reach, and the never ending feeling of sadness. For the last year or so, the thought that has constantly been in the back of my mind is, “What if I never get better? What happens if I have to live this life feeling like this until the day I die from old age or natural causes?” That wasn’t something I could deal with. I thought that death now sounded like a better idea than continuing this fight for - approximately - the next 60 years. So I came up with a plan.

It was Tuesday. I had my weekly appointment with my counselor. I was going to shut up about how I was feeling and pretend nothing was out of the ordinary. I was going to head to work for my normal Tuesday shift, then head home and do the deed. Overdosing sounded like a good idea to me. Because typically, if you survive, there’s a high chance you experience severe brain damage. So I figured that even if I survived, I wouldn’t be in the right state of mind for the rest of my life to understand the concept of mental illness. If I was going to survive, I would have rather ended up a living vegetable than fight mental illness.

The issue is that I couldn’t lie to my counselor. I couldn’t pretend nothing was wrong. She’s known me since the day I was born; she’d probably be able to see right through me anyway. I knew I needed help. So I just came out and told her. I mostly just admitted it on impulse. She followed protocol, and we made some phone calls to my psychiatrist and my insurance carrier. Everyone we talked to advised us to either call 911, or take me to the nearest emergency room. We bypassed 911 and went straight to the emergency room. I called a dear friend of mine who I knew would be right there with me. She met us there, because my counselor couldn’t sit there all day with me, which I understood. I waited several hours before I was able to talk to someone from behavioral health. I was terrified, because the chances of her being just like the first woman I talked to in 2012 were pretty high. She couldn’t have been more compassionate, understanding, and sympathetic. She took 3 pages of notes and wrote some of my answers down word for word. I have Kaiser, and the nearest facility is over an hour away. She said that instead of sending me to their emergency room and taking the chances of someone from the neighboring county not putting me on a 51/50 (an involuntary 72 hour psychiatric hold), she was going to place me under a 51/50 herself; that way, they couldn’t NOT do anything. I waited a total of 10 hours for Kaiser to let our emergency room here where they were going to send me. I knew I was going to a mental hospital. I knew I was getting sent away. That thought was terrifying, because you never know for how long. Plus, everyone was probably going to think I was psycho after all of this. Eventually, I got word that I was being sent to Sacramento. I was to be transported in a cage car because I was considered a threat.

Way to go Laura, you really screwed up this time.

I arrived at 2am. I was told I could not wear my bra unless they cut my wire out. I was told I had to take off my ring and rubber bracelet. I was told I could not wear any clothing that had strings or wire. Why? Because all of those things are considered a possible weapon for self-harm, or harming another person in a psychiatric facility. I was told my entire body had to be inspected so that they could monitor any cuts or bruises that I may pick at, or create on my body. I was told I would have to surrender anything and everything in my possession with the exception of paperback books, and my clothing that met their standards. They gave me time to write down a few phone numbers so that I could make phone calls to those closest to me during my stay. Other than that, I would have zero contact with the outside world.

I slept approximately two hours that night.

I woke up to discover that being in a place like that was not going to be what I expected.

I was considered a threat to myself and those around me. I didn’t think about what the consequences were going to be. With the exception of the doors to each room for the patients and the doors to the room where we had group therapy, each door was locked and could only be opened with a device that had a chip in it to be scanned on a scanner that the nurses and doctors had. There was absolutely no way for me to escape even if I wanted to. With the exception of attending two 20 minute group therapy sessions a day, I figured I’d be sleeping, because what else was there going to be for me to do?

I found out that my psychiatrist - who I would be seeing later that day - would give me a red band. That red band allowed me to go to the cafeteria to eat three meals a day and to go outside into the courtyard, where the only thing I could see from the outside world, was a small portion of blue sky. I take mental health medications twice a day on my own time. So twice a day, I had to line up and wait for someone to dispense them to me. The pills were put into a small cup and I was given a little thing of water. I was stared at by the nurse while I tipped the pills into my mouth. I was to show her that I had indeed swallowed them. I was supervised 24/7. Literally. They did room checks every 15 minutes including while we slept. Our doors to our rooms were to be left open so that they could come in to make sure we hadn’t harmed or killed ourselves. I didn’t really see how that was possible.

Everything was considered a weapon to cause personal harm or harm to others. The pillows and mattresses were made impossible to suffocate yourself with. There were no curtains, curtain rods, or lamps. The beds were connected to the walls. The chairs were impossible to pick up, because there was no opening underneath. Every single chair was completely covered at the bottom with nothing on the sides to pick it up by, and there were weights in the bottom of each one. It made it so difficult to even slide 5 feet across the floor. There were no toilet paper holders; just a perfect hole in the wall for the roll to sit in. There were no handles in the shower to control the temperature because they can be easily removed to cause harm. The water temperature was one of those ‘you get what you get.’ I couldn’t use pens. If I wanted one, I had to use what was only the inside of one, where the ink sits. The plastic from the outside of the pen could be used for harm if broken. The flimsy pen was impossible to write with, so I stuck with markers. Any and all everyday objects suddenly became a weapon, and I learned how much I take for granted each day real quick.

Way to go Laura.

I tried to distract myself by reading. The group therapy sessions killed a little time throughout the day. The three meals a day and short time outside twice a day also killed a little time. But for some reason, one day felt like an eternity.

I gained an incredible amount of sympathy for those who suffer from other mental illnesses that I don’t. Not that I didn’t already have sympathy for them before. But this experience opened my eyes. The facility I was in had at least four units - that I knew of. Three of them were adult units, and one was for adolescents. People were sorted in the units based on their level of insanity/psychoticness. I was thankfully put in the “lower unit.” Meaning that I was considered high-functioning, experienced minimal hallucinations, and was not considered a severe threat like those in the other two units were. The other units held people who lashed out, and would often get physical or become verbally abusive with the staff as a result of their medications, hallucinations, etc. I met a lot of people that were just like me in my unit. We sat and had normal, functioning conversations. I got to share my story and listen to other stories that inspired me. There were a few people who I thought belonged in the other two adult units, but I wasn’t the one making the judgement. During our three meals of the day, all the units came together, and that was where I got to experience what most would consider the stereotypical psychiatric facility patient. To me, schizophrenia almost seems as if the person is possessed. The adults in the other two units were clearly schizophrenic, and that was the first time I had dealt with it first-hand.

For some reason, people seem to think that those are the kinds of people that belong in these kinds of facilities. That thought breaks my heart into pieces. It breaks for the people who are just like me who experience the stigma behind it all. One of the nurses explained that he preferred our unit because we were high-functioning. Part of me is proud to be high-functioning. I like being able to - for the most part - act and live like an everyday, normal person. The issue with being high-functioning is that when situations like this happen, I am stigmatized, judged, and often pushed aside. No more than 2 people from my job have seemed genuinely concerned. That concept doesn’t bother me. What bothers me is that I feel like they haven’t been genuinely concerned because I never seemed that bad. I haven’t shown any signs in the months leading up to this event that something has been very wrong inside of my head. I fear incredible judgement once I return to work, because instead of being concerned, I feel like they are going to just think I’m flat out “psycho” and won’t want to associate with me.

The movies and the books make psych wards out to be these awful, demonic places that either brainwash people, make their situations worse, or medicate them so much that they aren’t even in touch with reality.

I am here to tell you that these facilities are not like that. Sure, you always have the few oddballs, but from what I experienced, my high-functioning unit was nothing like that, and I wish people would understand that all we want is help.

It’s so difficult for me to express to someone that something isn’t okay; that I’m sad or even kind of want to die. The part of me that doesn’t want to die is why I reached out for help instead of following through with my plan and I got help. I surround myself on social media with people just like me, and I have gotten an overwhelming amount of love, support, prayers, and compassion. I have received so many messages full of hope and kind words letting me know how proud they are of me for allowing myself to admit that I needed or wanted help. I hope and I pray that the people I got to meet during this experience received the same kinds of messages.

At first, I wasn’t going to write about this experience. I didn’t want to admit to the world that I ended up in a place that so many people deem as unhealthy for mental health patients more than they deem it a safe haven. I still fear judgement and stigma; this entire situation is going to permanently alter my life, both good and bad. But if I keep quiet about this, how many other people just like me feel exactly the same way and keep quiet themselves? Someone has to talk about the nasty parts of mental illness; someone has to talk about this kind of stuff. If I don’t, who will? Instead of allowing the judgement and stigma to knock me down, I will allow this situation to be something positive.

If I’m being honest, part of me feels worse about being home. Part of me feels like I shouldn’t have come home. But the psychiatrist himself told me there wasn’t much he could do for me. I am better off here, surrounded by the people who love me, instead of talking to them on a phone with a cord only three inches long so I can’t choke myself. I am better off here surrounded by the few people who haven’t judged me for ending up in such a place.

The thought of knowing that I’ve ended up in a psychiatric facility breaks my own heart. But I am so proud of myself for telling someone of my plan instead of carrying through with it. I am so proud of myself for going to such a place - even if it was against my will - and receiving the care and help that I so desperately needed, even if it wasn’t much of either.

The following is an excerpt from several journal entries I made during my 72 hours in the psychiatric unit.

I met two sweet girls. They have been my safe haven in this place. They are just like me. But most of all, they are strong; I see so much strength in them. I admire them, and I will never forget them. One girl in particular alarmed me at first. She doesn’t speak, and she doesn’t sit still. During my first group session, I heard someone laughing behind me. I wondered why anyone would be laughing during a time like this. Come to find out, she isn’t like the rest of us. She spends no more than 30 seconds in her room, which is at the very end of the hall, just next to mine. I can hear her laughing in there, and she flushes the toilet much more often than she must be able to actually use it. She walks out of her room after 30 seconds, still laughing, and walks all the way down the hall and into the day room where we have group. She sits there for no more than 30 seconds, laughs, and then heads back to her room to do it all over again. I can’t help but wonder what the voices must be saying that seems to be so funny.

I met a sweet nurse this morning. She sounded Jamaican, and had the cutest accent. I spent the morning crying uncontrollably in my room. She happened to walk by and see me in my bed with tears flowing. She came in and asked why I was there. I told her, and her reaction was to tell me how beautiful and strong I was. She said that I need to wake up every single morning and tell myself how cute I am and how loved I am; so that maybe I can get better. I spoke to Kat this morning. She said she was proud of me, and wanted to hear how I was doing.

The woman who administers meds saw me crying uncontrollably this morning. She was very sweet and gave me my medication that I take for anxiety, and told me that they were going to take very good care of me. The woman who leads group has a comforting peace about her. She puts me at ease. Steven called today. He sounded worried, and wanted to know why I hadn’t said anything to him. My heart broke knowing that I hadn’t told him, but he understood, and we both cried. Emily called and told me that she was proud of me for not trying to do this all by myself; that she was proud of me for getting the help that I needed. They check on us every 15 minutes, which I thought was strange at first. But now I understand. I don’t like that I have to leave my door open all of the time, because the lights in the hallway are so bright.

Emma called this morning. She asked lots of questions, and told me she missed me. It was good to hear her voice. Juanita called this morning too. She wanted me to know how much she loved me. She said Laura (my step-sister) wanted me to know how proud she was of me for admitting that I needed help. Mama calls a lot, and I know she’s worried. I hope she knows that I’m safe here. I miss her. And her cooking.

There are no toilet paper holders, and there are no trash bags. My room has a blue wall, and the rest are tan. There are pretty shelves for me to put my things on. There’s a big, beautiful window looking outside. But there’s a film over it so that I can’t see out of it, and that makes me sad. The phone is like a payphone, and the cord is no more than 3 inches long.

I’m sad that I’m here. I’m sad that I let it get to this point. But everyone has told me how proud they are of me for getting help and taking it seriously.

The psychiatrist said there isn’t much he can do for me, because I know where I am and I’m not utterly confused about what’s going on. He said he’ll keep me for a few days and wants me to take plenty of time to think about things. He said I need to think of things that I can change in my life; otherwise, nothing is going to get better. I feel like I have too much time to think. He told me that as a child or teenager, you are designed to learn how to deal with life-stressors. Because I endured trauma during the most important time in my life for my brain to be developing, I did not learn how to deal with the same stressors that others learn how to deal with properly. I missed that part entirely and now I have to fight extra hard to catch up to everyone else. The dietitian came to speak to me about my eating disorder, which is something I wasn’t expecting. She was nice and wanted to help.  

I’m lonely here. I’m sad that no one has come to visit me, and I go home today.

If you or someone you know needs support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, or text START to 741-741

[understandingchaoss]

What Recovering from PTSD Looks like When Society Says I Can't Have It

We all know what post traumatic-stress disorder is. We all know that most people who come back from war experience it. In fact, about 30% of men and women who experience war zones are diagnosed with it.

But what about the rest of us? What about those of us who never experienced war but have been diagnosed?

An estimated 7.6% of Americans will experience PTSD at some point in their lives with women twice as more likely to experience it than men. Events leading up to or causing PTSD can consist of sexual assault, a traumatic car accident, childhood abuse or neglect, emotional and physical abuse, finding a loved one deceased, or the suicide or death of a loved one.

Those who come home from war and experienced PTSD are completely valid. I in no way ever want to experience what they had to experience. But when they are honest with their loved ones and admit that they have been diagnosed with PTSD, their feelings and emotions are validated, and actions following the diagnosis are validated.

But for some reason, my emotions, feelings, and actions are not. That is simply because I am not a veteran. Society has made me feel as if I am not allowed to have PTSD if I did not go to war. 

To most people, I don’t show symptoms of my illness. No one even knows I have it unless I tell them. But my second most dominating illness following my depression, according to my psychiatrist, is PTSD. I don’t have any bruises or scars to show for the trauma that I have endured; therefore, according to society, I must not have it.

I spent the majority of my life carefree. Post traumatic-stress disorder never even became a thing for me until I was in high school. I am still not at the point in my recovery where I can openly talk about my traumas, but most people are aware of the three major events that occurred. Unfortunately, because I do not feel comfortable talking about them, my illness is invalidated. I’d like to say that the details of my trauma are not important, and that in this case, they don’t matter. But they are important and they do matter because unless I speak up about them, society says that I didn’t endure trauma and that I shouldn’t have ended up with PTSD.

But here’s the truth, I have experienced sexual assault that has permanently damaged me. I require a good amount of physical space from people, particularly men. I am constantly looking at the people in my life wondering who is going to assault me next, and when it’s going to happen. I have experienced abuse, both mentally and physically that has completely warped my perception of love and what it is supposed to be like. I may never have another healthy relationship again because of it. I hope and pray that isn’t the case though. I am extremely “jumpy.” I feel on edge constantly. I do not do well with others who raise their voices, yell at me, or come up behind me and scare me. I have experienced a situation within the church that I still to this day haven’t really accepted. It has permanently affected the way that I look at the church and it’s leaders. I am extremely terrified that I will never be able to attend church the way that I used to be because of it. I currently do not attend because if I don’t attend, it doesn’t give anyone else the chance to do what has already been previously done.

As a result of my trauma, I have an extreme and unrealistic fear of going anywhere in public alone. I am constantly aware that those who have traumatized me, will already be where I am attempting to go. It keeps me from going to the grocery store, so I often do not have an adequate amount of food in my house. It keeps me from casually walking into a gas station to pick up something. It keeps me from being the independent person I was raised to be. I am in constant fear that they will show up to where I work, so I’m never 100% comfortable in my workplace. 

Not only that, but the fact that people tell me that I can’t have PTSD or that I shouldn’t have PTSD just adds to the hurt and trauma. I already feel invalidated. I’ve felt invalidated since everything happened and I tried to speak up about them for the first time. On top of that, I’ve got people left and right telling me that I’m not allowed to have PTSD because I didn’t go to war and fight for our country. I am denied many of the services that veterans receive because of the fact that I’m not one of them. That isn’t their fault and I do not hold it against them. But it honestly down right sucks for people like me. I want my illness and the feelings and emotions and actions that come along with it to be validated just like theirs. 

Some days, I can’t eat at all, other days I eat way too much of my comfort food. I have terrible nightmares that interrupt my sleep constantly. I have flashbacks that are so debilitating; sometimes I can’t even function correctly afterwards. I have dissociative episodes several times a week. I can never rest. I can’t tell you the last time I actually felt relaxed. My mind is constantly in fight-or-flight mode, doing its best to protect me from those who have previously traumatized me and those who may traumatize me in the future. 

I have fought long and hard in my recovery journey. But I fight especially long and hard in my recovery from PTSD because of how debilitating the entire illness is. I have spent countless nights trying my best to fall asleep instead of listening to the intrusive thoughts or paying attention to the flashbacks. For a long time, I felt that I could not tell anyone what was really happening or how I was really feeling because of the stigma that surrounds PTSD. I am not allowed to have it, therefore, I cannot speak about it. I am expected to sit down and shut up about my trauma, because in reality, people don’t even see any of the events that have happened to me as traumatic. I am just some girl who “overreacted” to certain events in her life.

I have tried my best to keep finding the strength every single day to speak up about what has happened to me and why it has affected me the way that it has. I have apparently ruined the reputations of some of the people who have traumatized me. But part of being a survivor and not a victim, is speaking up against those who have traumatized you and not allowing them to keep you quiet. I have tried many, many different combinations of medications and I have put in many hours of therapy sessions that rip my heart out, but end up healing it in the end. I have had to try and fail before I could take a step forward. I’ve had to be painfully honest with my mental health providers, my family, and my friends. I have fought the stigma by being painfully honest. I’m sure half of them didn’t want to hear it, or even believe it. But by my speaking up, they understand more of PTSD and what traumatic events can do to people. I have had to put myself through more pain just to work through the initial pain. I have had to stop avoiding every personal, upsetting, and triggering question. The more I avoid, the more steps backward I take. I have to face those questions that I so desperately do not want to answer in order to make any kind of progress. The more questions people ask, the more I am able to think about the things I have tried so hard to bury deep. I can’t face any of those things if I continue to bury them.

I wish that I would have been able to stop PTSD in its tracks before it got out of hand. But I have to accept that I couldn’t, and so does society. I have done everything that I can to help myself improve and beat this illness. Society is going to have to see that, because I stopped shutting up about it a long time ago.

If you or someone you know needs support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, or textSTART to 741-741

[understandingchaoss]

Surviving Mental Illness in Adulthood

Approximately 1 in 5 youth aged 13-18 (21.4%) experiences a severe mental disorder at some point during their adolescence. 

I can’t really say I grew up with mental illness from an early age. I don’t recall things starting to feel abnormal until I was about 12 or 13 years of age. However, I do know that I have always had problems sleeping. So maybe insomnia was always present. I used to have this tremendous fear of fire. I thought that just about anything and everything would cause a fire. I feared that we would lose our house, and that I was the only one that would make it out alive. So when it came time to fall asleep, not only could I just not fall asleep because my brain didn’t allow it, but I couldn’t relax because I thought something was going to catch fire. If and when I did actually fall asleep at night, staying asleep didn’t exist. I don’t know where the fear started from, and I don’t remember at what age it began. But I can at least say that the only time I can ever recall sleeping soundly - whether that be falling asleep right away or staying asleep - was when I was about 15 or 16 and began taking an anti-psychotic medication that knocked me out cold. 

I didn’t grow up with bipolar disorder or paranoid schizophrenia; I actually don’t have either to this day. But many children, who develop a mental illness very early on in life, typically show signs of one or the other. It’s common, and most people don’t shame the child or their family for it. My childhood was happy. I felt perfectly fine and normal until I was in the seventh grade.

I remember telling my mom that something didn’t feel right when she asked if everything was okay. I was a kid. I had no idea that my neurotransmitters were no longer firing properly and that my hormones and chemicals were way off balance. 

Heck, I didn’t even know what a neurotransmitter was and I had no idea my brain even produced chemicals and hormones. I just knew something inside of my head didn’t feel right. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t embarrassed to go to the doctor and begin my journey on medications. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t embarrassed about having to sit down with the school counselor twice a week and my psychotherapist once a week. But I was embarrassed mostly because it was all a new thing, and it wasn’t what the “cool kids” were doing. Honestly, it seemed like everywhere I went and everyone I met, didn’t really seem to care or mind, or even have anything to say about any of it. ADD and ADHD are extremely common among adolescents. Children with either developmental disability almost always see a psychiatrist and take medications. Everyone knows that, and the stigma surrounding it isn’t too bad. It’s just the same surrounding kids who have depression or any other common mental illness. Except most children outgrow both ADD and ADHD once they reach adulthood, and eventually no longer have to see a psychiatrist and take those medications. This, my friends, is where the problem starts.

I, as a child, was expected to grow out of my mental illnesses once I reached adulthood just like almost any other child would do with their developmental disabilities. I felt immense pressure to do well and be better and become normal again once I rounded the bend in my high school career and hit my final year before becoming an adult. Why? Because as an adolescent, my mental illnesses weren’t even viewed as mental illnesses; they were viewed as developmental disabilities that I would eventually grow out of.

Here I was becoming an adult, moving out, paying my bills, and taking care of myself and my own responsibilities. Everyone had high hopes for me. Everyone expected things to suddenly be sunshine and rainbows once I hit 18, because only children have mental illness since it’s only a developmental issue and not a possible lifelong thing, right? Here I was doing all of the things everyone expected out of me, except I had to sit down and shut up about my mental illnesses because I felt as though I wasn’t even allowed to have them any longer.

I still, to this day, see my child psychiatrist. I still, to this day, am on medications. I still, to this day, am in counseling. I still, to this day, deal with the same mental illnesses, as well several others that developed in my adulthood. I am ashamed that I still, to this day, can admit that I see the same guy that society deems as an under-educated “doctor” who only uses his title to make money off of me. I am ashamed that I still, to this day, can admit that I take several of those little pills on a daily basis that society deems as some compacted mixture of crap that the pharmaceutical industry has designed only to say they will fix people like me, but they won’t. I am ashamed that I still, to this day, can admit that I sit down with a woman, on a weekly basis, that society deems as unfit to guide me and help me because she too is only there to make money off of me with the promise that she can fix me. I am ashamed that I still, to this day, can admit that not only do I still deal with the same mental illnesses I was diagnosed with all those years ago, but I also deal with several that developed after I turned 18. 

The only reason I am ashamed to admit those things, is because society has made me feel as if my mental illnesses have been invalid since the day I became an adult. My life didn’t turn out the way everyone expected. I was extremely driven, motivated, and energetic about life and all it had to offer. But I didn’t go off to college like everyone wanted, and I’m not motivated like I used to be. I still struggle with daily life. I’m still doing all of the things I used to do - that I apparently should have stopped doing the day I turned 18 - that I now need to continue doing in order to heal and recover. It’s almost like I let everyone down by not being able to flip a switch in my brain and snap out of what they thought was just a “phase.”

But let me set something straight.

My psychiatrist, at any given moment after I turned 18, could have sent me on my way. He specializes in psychiatry for adolescents, something that I no longer am. But he chose to continue treating me and continue educating me, not because he views me and my illnesses as a bag of money, but because he is the most patient, compassionate, understanding, and sympathetic psychiatrist I have yet to come across. He wants to help me and he wants to see me better. I am the one who makes the decision to continue seeing him and to continue filling my prescriptions. He, in no way, makes me feel like I have to do those things. My medications are my choice and the pharmaceutical industry does not have me brain washed. Trust me when I say that none of you want to see me or interact with me when I am not on medication, because for me, medications actually work. Brace yourselves for this one; my therapist, the person that everyone seems to view as some lady that has no idea what she’s talking about and ruins people’s lives in return for money? I don’t pay her. And no, my insurance doesn’t pay her either. Shocker, isn’t it? This woman is someone who has known me since I was in my mother’s womb. She has been a part of my life since the day she looked down at my face some 22 years ago. This woman, out of the kindness and compassion of her own heart, counsels through the church and counsels me just because. She’s not there for my money. She, like my psychiatrist, wants to see me better and wants to help me get there. 

But now, if I was a child, still under the age of 18, I wouldn’t have to explain those things. I wouldn’t have to sit here and explain all of that to society, because as a child, all of those things are normal to do. It was normal for me to see those people, and it was normal for me to be on medication. I have a hard time trying to understand why it’s so different now that I am an adult. If anything, adulthood is the problem.

Adulthood is exhausting. Or maybe it’s only exhausting because of my mental illnesses. I don’t know, and I may never know. All I know is that everyone has always told me adulthood is exhausting and stressful. They were right. Except adulthood has also been the best years of my life so far. As exhausting and stressful as it is, I have enjoyed being able to take care of myself and take myself on trips around the world and treat myself. In the midst of it all, I still have to deal with the ever-lingering mental illnesses. I can’t ignore them just because society thinks they should have gone away years ago. But if I’m being told that adulthood is stressful and exhausting, and I in return come back at them with the fact that my mental illnesses are still present, and the newly developed illnesses are a partial result of adulthood, I am judged, scolded, misunderstood, and stigmatized. I am allowed to be an adult and be exhausted and stressed, but I’m not allowed to have mental illness as a partial result of those things? Quite frankly, I don’t understand it one bit, and I actually want to incoherently scream for a few minutes because of it.

I have to wake up every single day, slap that smile on my face that so many people say lights up a room, make myself look presentable, and go about my day as if nothing is wrong even though all of my chemicals and hormones are off balanced, and my neurotransmitters don’t fire properly; but I am now an adult, and adults aren’t supposed to have mental illness. By the end of every single day, I am exhausted from having to pretend that my brain suddenly transitioned properly into adulthood just as my body and maturity did, all because society and stigma say that’s the way it’s supposed to be.

Having mental illness as a child was simple; it was actually quite easy. Get up every day, take your meds, head to school, basically ignore how you felt because you didn’t know how to identify any of it; walk out of class early one day a month because it was time to go see the psychiatrist about those meds you took that morning. Sit and talk with him and mom for a solid hour, then head home. Can’t forget about those weekly sessions with the psychotherapist, and maybe the occasional questions to answer that the people around you would ask. You answer, and go about your day, because no one thought anything of it. No one thought anything of any of it because you were a child and that made mental illness normal.

I didn’t feel out of place back then, because no one shamed me for it. But I sure as heck do now, and people sure as heck shame me for it now. 

I don’t like being an adult with mental illness. I don’t like knowing there is such a large stigma behind it all. I don’t like having to deal with the nasty remarks or the disrespectful comments. I don’t like dealing with the judgement or assumptions. I don’t like any of it.

I am an adult that unfortunately, never “grew out of” her mental illness. But I am also an adult that has still made something of herself despite having mental illness. I am an adult that is fighting with her life and every ounce of her strength to win this war. I am an adult that hopes to one day live a life without mental illness, with the normality I used to feel as a child before it all started. I am not supposed to feel ashamed to have mental illness as an adult.

If you or someone you know needs support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, or text START to 741-741

[understandingchaoss]

The Harsh Reality of Living With Trauma

As the years have passed and diagnoses have come and gone, I have long accepted most of them. I have adjusted myself and my life to help live and better cope with them. Throughout the years, I have taken advantage of the time I have had to get to know myself. Mental illness has changed everything about me; some of those things are good, and some are bad. I like to think that I’m relatively in-tune with myself, my emotions, and the illnesses I live with so that I can continue to better myself and work my way towards no longer living with them.

Yet, here I am; struggling, hurting, and quite frankly, getting worse; or so it seems. I have made so much progress within the last four years. I don’t feel suicidal, but I think about death. I don’t want to relapse, but that seems like the only option in order to cope, because that’s all I ever knew. I know I’m better, because I used to think about suicide daily, and I used to want to relapse, and that’s no longer the case. I ask myself what my problem is at least 12 times a day. Although, I’m not really sure why, because I already know the answer. There is one little word that is constantly lingering over my head and eats me alive.

Trauma.

I haven’t dealt with post-traumatic stress disorder for as long as I’ve dealt with my depression, insomnia, or anxiety. But I feel like it’s been long enough that I should at least be a little more in-tune with it; I should at least have more of a hold on it so that it doesn’t have such a hold on me. PTSD is a disorder that some - not all - people develop following a traumatic event or witnessing a traumatic event (i.e. combat, rape, death of a loved one by suicide, a car accident, emotional or physical abuse, etc). Individuals that develop PTSD do not recover from the experience properly. The trauma can actually cause their brain to malfunction, and they fail to recover like most individuals are able to do. The amygdala, hippocampus, and ventromedial prefrontal cortex are all affected following the traumatic experience, which impacts the stress mechanism we all have. Thus, the survivor continues to discern and respond to stressors differently than someone who recovered normally from a similar experience. If you would like to read more about how the 3 areas of the brain that are affected, click here.

PTSD is the most painful, frightening, and debilitating thing I have ever experienced in my entire life. With it come panic attacks, flashbacks, intrusive thoughts, and dreadful memories I never asked to happen, let alone asked to remember.

I am not going to go in-depth about my experiences, as I am not currently in a place where I can openly talk about them with just anyone without feeling shame and humiliation. But I will say that as of right now, there are 3 specific experiences that rule my life; they vary from mental and physical abuse, sexual assault, and an indirect situation I experienced in the church. They all date back only within the last 4 years. They are still fresh and new, and I have not yet fully accepted them.

I live in a small town where you can’t really escape anyone or anything. This town is also where 2 of the experiences occurred, so daily life is exhausting. One of the most common symptoms of PTSD is the avoidance of people or places that can trigger a past event. Living in this town makes this nearly impossible to do, as much as I would love to do it. If I am driving by myself, it’s easier to avoid the places that I want. But sometimes when I’m with friends, it’s inevitable. At this point, I don’t even say anything anymore, because it’s almost as if every single place I go in this town somehow reminds me of what I don’t want to remember. So instead of making things extremely difficult, I just shut up about it and internalize how it makes me feel until the feelings, emotions, or flashbacks pass. I don’t want to burden the people I love who want to do things with me just because of an experience that occurred that I should have reacted to normally in the first place. The exact places where the 2 experiences happened in this town are places I will not go. But even places I went with these people - traumatic experiences completely unrelated - are triggering (one of these days, I will talk about why I was going places with these people, and living a normal life with them and yet still experiencing the unthinkable). Walmart, grocery stores, rivers, lakes, certain roads; just about anywhere. There are places in this town that I absolutely love, which are now permanently scarred. Just remembering that I was in a specific place with the person sets me into a frenzy of emotions that I do not want to feel. The amount of stress the avoidance of things puts on me is incredible. Sometimes, a lot of it is subconscious; in my subconscious mind, I know I have to leave my house and that I’ll most likely come across a person, place, or thing that will trigger me. Each day is exhausting knowing that no matter where I go, and no matter what I do in this town, my experiences will always be with me. And I hate that.

The traumatic experience that occurred outside of this town is somehow still triggered almost daily. Although, it’s usually triggered as a result of a word, phrase, smell, or someone coming up behind me and scaring me, whether it’s intentionally or unintentionally. It has completely warped my perception of what healthy relationships and friendships are supposed to be. I don’t want to remember certain smells, and yet, it seems like everywhere I go, I keep smelling something that reminds me of what used to be.  

Flashbacks are probably what I would categorize as the worst symptom of PTSD. This is where the trauma really takes hold of me. Flashbacks debilitate me, and I completely disassociate from myself and everyone around me during one. I do not know how long my flashbacks actually last. I never know when they’re going to happen. I never know exactly what is going to trigger them. It’s almost like the onset of a panic attack, minus the panicking and physical symptoms of one. The best way I have ever been able to explain a flashback, is that my mind and eyes are a projector. Picture yourself sitting in a classroom looking at whatever is on the projector screen that the teacher has up. That’s literally what it looks like in front of me, because I am the projector. I completely freeze, my body doesn’t move, and I’m pretty sure I don’t even blink. Whatever I was doing or whoever I was with before it started, does not exist any longer. I watch myself enduring the traumatic experience across the room, right in front of me. I know I’m sitting there watching. The part of me that is enduring the experience keeps wondering why in the world the part of me who is watching isn’t doing anything. Why does she keep watching this happen and keep allowing it to happen? WHY ISN’T SHE DOING SOMETHING TO HELP ME? Sometimes I feel like my flashbacks are some twisted way for me to try to change the past. I never did anything right away to get myself out of the 3 traumatic experiences. Heck, I didn’t even know one of them was even traumatic until at least a year after. I am angry at myself for not doing anything about them. I am angry at myself for continuing to put myself in the position of it happening. I am angry at myself for not stopping it. If I could have just stopped it, my life wouldn’t be a living hell. Maybe my flashbacks are a way for me to change that; to go back and do what I should have done. But I can’t, and I don’t. I watch myself scream at the part of me who is watching. She’s screaming at me to do something, anything. But the part of me who is watching does nothing, she doesn’t even move. There is no emotion on her face, almost as if she just doesn’t care. She sits there and watches until it’s over. Just like the shaking of the head and excessive blinking Raven Simone did on That’s So Raven after she’d have a vision (my favorite show as a kid, by the way), I come back to reality. I can find myself anywhere from pulled over on the side of the road not knowing how I got there, in the store staring at the package of chicken I had in my hand, in the car with friends, in my room, in the shower, or at work. Following a flashback, I am usually exhausted for the rest of day. I need to lie down and cry it out. Most of the time, I’m not able to. I internalize what I just experienced in the flashback, and that probably begins a vicious cycle since I never deal with any of it.

Nightmares are a weekly thing. Thankfully, not every single night, but they’re enough to interrupt my sleep when I seem to need it the most. Intrusive and frightening thoughts are a daily thing the second I step out my front door. What if I see them today? What if I see someone else that reminds me of them? What if another traumatic experience happens to me today? What if I get raped or abducted? What if I get into a car accident on my way to work? It’s almost as if the traumatic experiences caused some kind of paranoia. I am constantly preparing myself for the worst. If I prepare myself for the worst, maybe it won’t affect me so badly, because I was already ready for it.

Trauma can cause memory loss. I used to think this was great. All 3 of my experiences were ongoing for an extended period of time. So I know that there were a lot of things that happened throughout each of them that I just don’t remember. I used to think, sweet; that’s one less thing I have to remember or try to deal with. Boy was I wrong. Each day, randomly, a new memory will pop into my head. A memory I had never thought about until that moment. A memory I never consciously knew happened until that moment. The brain blocks out a lot of things as way to cope. Instead of dealing with stressors like it should, it tries to block things out and it can actually cause that memory to no longer consciously exist. My psychiatrist explained it to me like a filing system. Your brain takes memories and thoughts and files them away in certain places. The brain will put some away in a file that it will always go back to; aka its conscious memory file. Other memories will be put into a file that the brain doesn’t bring out as often; aka its subconscious file. Quite often, the brain will file those memories away the second they happen. This explains why I never consciously think about them. Every now and then, that file gets opened and a memory is brought out, causing me to suddenly, consciously, remember something that I, all along, subconsciously knew happened. I hate when a new memory comes about. It seems like there’s already so much I don’t want to think about, that there couldn’t possibly be anymore out there.

Trauma has completely convinced me that I am not worthy of love. It has bound me to itself; sometimes it feels like I’m bound to it for an eternity. But then I remember that’s not rational. It has convinced me that what happened to me is my fault and that I deserved every bit of it. Trauma has warped my perception of what love is supposed to be, and convinced me that what happened to me, was love. It has convinced me that I am a victim, not a survivor. Trauma has robbed me of life. It has robbed me of the zest I used to have for life. It has robbed me of enjoyment, love, peace, joy, trust, and happiness. It has robbed me of a healthy way of dealing with things, and a normal life. It robs me of every ounce of hope I am ever able to muster up. Trauma has made me its own personal prisoner. It makes my own skin feel like my own personal prison cell; a prison cell crawling with bugs and all I want to do is claw my way out of it; except I can’t.

I hate everything about trauma. I hate everything about PTSD and all of the things that come with it. I hate all of the memories I am stuck with. Despite my faith and what I know is right, some days, I even hate the people who have traumatized me. I am slowly learning that being able to admit that is healthy, as long as I work every single day towards love and forgiveness for those who have hurt me.

The last 14 months have been nearly unbearable, but therapy has been my saving grace. I have learned so much about PTSD, my trauma, and how to conquer my demons. All of the things that trauma has convinced me of are not true, and my counselor is the one who taught me that.

I am worthy. I am SO worthy of love and gentleness. What happened to me is not my fault, and I did not deserve any of it. I am not a victim. I am a survivor. I am not what happened to me. I am not defined by the actions of those who have hurt me. I am not a reflection of the actions from others. Love is not supposed to hurt, whether it’s a relationship or a friendship. Love is not supposed to leave you traumatized. Trauma has kept me silent for so long. But it will no longer keep me down and keep me quiet.

Someday I will know why all of this had to hurt so much. Someday there will be a purpose to all of this, and I will be able to use it for good. I am not brave yet, but I’m going to be.

If you or someone you know needs support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, or text START to 741-741

[understandingchaoss]

My Prison Cell

Some days it feels as if death and eternity are fighting for my soul; trapped inside of me at war with one another. I long for joy; for the good in this life, something that provides hope. Yet, hope is the most difficult thing to find in this hate and fear stricken world. After all, it’s the world that taught me self-hatred all those years ago.

I want so badly to have control. I wake up each morning ready to continue fighting this war so that I may finally have control of the things I want most. But I hold much too tight to those things. I squeeze the life out of what it is that I try so hard to hold onto. It feels like I’m losing more and more control with each passing day as the things that I love slowly slip from my fingers. I wake up each morning ready to fight, just to lay down once again each night feeling more defeated than yesterday.

All my life, I have searched for an escape; a place to run, a saving grace. My soul weighs heavy with the pain it has endured; my heart forever scarred with the trauma that it has suffered, and my mind overwhelmed with the dreadful thoughts and memories that it so badly wants to forget. I am trapped inside this prison we call life, and the cell is that of my brain. There is no light, no joy, and no purpose; only a life sentence. Only my mind and me, left at war with each other for the rest of our days. 

I can run, but I can’t hide. I’ve attempted to escape hundreds of times. Everyone else around me has succeeded at escape, while I get caught in the chains that drag me right back into that cell. I can’t break from the chains; they convince me that I’ll never escape. You cannot escape the chains that are that of your own mind.

I fight and I fight and I fight. I scratch and I claw to escape my prison cell. I scratch and I claw to escape myself. I want out. I don’t want this anymore. I don’t want to live in this prison cell any longer. I don’t want to spend each day attempting to run, and getting nowhere doing it. I need something to pull me out. I need something else to take control, because I can’t do it any longer. But what I need is what I keep fighting. What I need is hope and healing, yet I keep running from those things. Running means you refuse to admit there is a problem. Running means you refuse to acknowledge the wounds that scar your heart. Running means you reject healing and recovery. Running means you reject love. Running means you reject hope.

There comes a time when running away is no longer what should be done. One day, you wake up, and you decide that you no longer want control; you don’t want to keep using every ounce of strength you have left to keep fighting for control each and every day while death lingers over you; taunting you and laughing at your pathetic efforts.

So why not give into death? Why not give into the thoughts of putting an end to it all with just one fateful decision?

With death comes the absence of life. Death means no chance of light; no chance at healing in this lifetime. Death means you have given up on the hope of healing and recovery. If I choose to give up control but still choose life, I am choosing hope.

Healing means pain. It means facing the messy parts of life. It means facing the trauma and the hurt that I fought so badly to bury six feet deep. Choosing life over death means making a conscious decision to face reality. I must take the hurt and the pain and all of my illnesses head on. Choosing life over death means choosing hope. Choosing hope means that you have not given up the fight, but that you have given up control, because it wasn’t even your control to be fighting for to begin with.

Hope is not just a feeling, or an expectation and desire. Hope is an anthem. Hope is the anthem.  

When hope burns inside of you, running away isn’t considered and option. Hope is what allows me to face the harsh realities of mental illness, and still believe that there is a purpose in all of the pain. I’m tired of trying to run. I don’t want to continue my attempts at escaping, only to get dragged right back into that prison cell. I want to face what needs to be faced, and heal from it all. I may not ever forget the pain, and there is a chance healing may not even come in this lifetime. But that is a chance I am willing to take for the sake of my own life. I want to someday say that I didn’t fight for control, but that I fought for hope.

Hope allows me to see the end in sight, no matter how far off it may be. Hope is my motivator to wake up each day and fight this lifelong war.

I am not where I want to be, or where I ought to be, but hope allows me to look at life in such a way that someday, I won’t feel like this. Someday, death will not silence me; my chains will not keep me contained in my prison cell and my mind will no longer be that prison cell. My heart may be forever wounded and scarred, but those wounds and scars are where the light shines through. It’s time that I stop preventing that light from shining through.

The wounds, the pain, the hurt, the trauma; all of it, is inescapable. Pain is inevitable. But we have the choice to choose whether or not we will allow those things to hold us down and keep us locked in our prison cells.

Hope is the anthem, and this is my anthem:

I will not run from the darkness and pain. I will not hide from the hurt, and I will not hide from the trauma that so badly needs to be recognized and dealt with. I will not shy away from healing. I will not focus on darkness, when the light is trying its hardest to shine through. I will not hide from what needs to be faced. I will scream of hope at the top of my lungs until the world hears its message.

My lungs and I were born to fight. Sometimes I’m not sure what I’m fighting for. But death ain’t the only end in sight, ‘cause this ain’t a battle it’s a lifelong war. My heartbeat, my oxygen, my banner, my home; my freedom, my song. Your hope is the anthem of my soul.

Hope is the Anthem, Switchfoot

You’re a version of yourself, but you’re not the same. You try to keep the wound camouflaged, and the stiches heal but the years are lost, and another bottle on the shelf can’t numb the pain. Why’re you running from yourself now? You can’t run away. ‘Cause your scars shine like dark stars. Yeah, your wounds are where the light shines through. So let’s go there, to that place where we sing these broken prayers where the light shines through. The wound is where the light shines through.

Where the Light Shines Through, Switchfoot

If you or someone you know needs support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, or text START to 741-741

[understandingchaoss]

Encouragement Didn't Save Me; Cold, Hard Truth Did

We all like to hear what we want to hear when we’re going through difficult times. On my bad days, I always want to hear someone tell me how strong I am, how my courage is something to be proud of, or how loved I am. Unfortunately, most of the time, what I want to hear, is not what I need to hear.

Don’t get me wrong, hearing those things on my bad days are great. But when that’s all I constantly hear, I feel as if I’m being ‘babied.’ I feel like a child that needs validation from others to gain some sort of satisfaction or some kind of self-confidence. In no way is that healthy for myself, or the person I’m expecting it to come from.

I can honestly say that there are many, many things in this life that have saved me. My faith will always be the first. But there are so many small things in this life that have saved me that most people would overlook. Sure, my friends and my family who have always been there for me. But what about that spectacular sunset last week that I couldn’t seem to take enough pictures of? How about that sweet couple I served at work months ago that reminded me that my life is worth living, even when they know nothing about me? What about the time spent with my two best friends that always consists of broken sentences because we can’t catch our breath from so much laughter? What about that day I had a few weeks ago that seemed so wonderful it was almost too good to be true? It sure was full of sweet serendipity. It wasn’t by chance that I began looking at life in such a way. It wasn’t by chance that I began paying attention to all of the small details of life that took my breath away.

What about the few people in your life that have spoken truth? Not what you wanted to hear, not the sweet, compassionate, and loving words you wish to hear. I’m talking about such truth that it hits you like a ton of bricks, completely changes your perspective, and whips you into shape.

As much of my life is a blur, I cannot recall who, except that it has been multiple people throughout my lifetime. I cannot recall when it was, or where I was. All I know is that it was during my darkest of times. I’ve always been awful at reaching out to those around me when I need it the most. I’ve never been entirely sure why. Maybe because I don’t want to burden them, maybe because I know what some of them are going to say and I don’t want to hear it - whether it be good or bad - or maybe because I would much rather wallow in my sadness because that’s what’s comfortable. In the few times that I have reached out, some I don’t regret, because what saved me were these words and the lesson I learned from the different ways people had of speaking the truth;

“You have the will to live. Somewhere, deep down inside of you, it’s there. The people around you can tell you that you’re loved, worthy, and courageous all they want. But none of that means anything when you don’t even believe them. Your will to live will never be found in what other’s think of you, no matter how convinced you are of it. Your will to live will be found in hope and whether or not you desire to see the other side; the side that is full of light and the overwhelming feeling of joy. Your will to live will be found in whether or not you wish to experience more of this life. Do you want to see tomorrow’s sunset and that concert you have planned for next week, or the next adventure you get to take with your best friends? How about when you meet new friends that will hold a special place in your life? The littlest things you have found a reason to live for up until now still matter. What about your wedding day that will be filled with so much love or the days of simplicity and joy spent at home with the person you’re meant to be with? What about your love of seeing other countries and experiencing their culture? If you ever decide that children are in your future, think of the day you’ll get to see that precious little face for the first time. What about your next delicious meal, your next rainy day that you love so much, or your next discovery of your new favorite song? Your love for writing and using your story to encourage others may someday turn into something much bigger. Do you really want to throw all of that out? Do you really want to give all of that up? Think long and hard about what you might be missing out on, what you will be giving up. Is your will to live strong enough to make it through to the other side to see those things? Or are those things worth giving up to end a pain that just might end up being temporary? You have a choice to make and a chance to take. Is your will to live strong enough to make that choice and take that chance?”

Anyone willing to speak such things to me deserves an incredible amount of recognition. Not only is that a lot for me to take in, but it takes a very special person that views life on a much deeper level to think of life in such a way, and to share it with someone like me who is hurting. So if you are someone who has helped to change my perspective and you’re reading this, thank you. I don’t remember much from the very first time looking at life in such a way was brought to my attention. But I do certainly remember that it hit me like a ton of bricks. That had to have been years ago, assuming that I heard it right around the time I began recovery. To this day, it still hits me just as hard.

If I have learned anything on this journey, it is that my worth and will to live is not found in anyone else. I am not worthy to continue living on this planet just because someone says so. I am worthy to continue living just because. My will to live cannot come from waking up tomorrow and wanting to hear someone tell me how loved I am, or from waking up tomorrow and wanting to hear someone remind me of how courageous and inspiring I am. My will to live cannot come from someone else giving me validation. My will to live can only come from one thing; hope.

When I look back on what I can remember about my life, so much of it is absolutely wonderful. It has been filled with so much laughter. I think laughter is what keeps me going a lot of the time. But in laughter, comes so many different emotions. Joy is my favorite. But out of laughter and that joy also comes memories. We always seem to remember the times we were laughing the most out of any other memories. When I look back on the nights when I came much too close to giving up, or the nights when I gave into relapse, I am honestly extremely disappointed in myself. I am disappointed that I seriously thought this life wasn’t worth living. I seriously thought that giving up all of the things that most people have to look forward to without even realizing was worth it. I seriously thought that my will to live never even existed. I didn’t want to live to meet any of those new people, or have adventures with anyone. I didn’t want to live to experience other cultures or get married. I didn’t want to live to see that next sunset because that would mean another day of a living hell. I didn’t want to live to see or experience any of it. See, none of those things mattered, none of them gave me a will to live. Why? Because I was continuing to find my will to live in those around me and the encouragement they had for me. But none of that ever did anything for me. None of what anyone was saying to me was going to change how I felt about myself. I didn’t believe them when they said I was loved or worthy. I certainly didn’t believe them when they told me that I was courageous for never giving up. None of those kind words changed anything. The only thing that was going to change anything was my perspective. The only thing that was going to do anything for me was my will to live for the things to come.

When it’s all said and done, the basis of my will to live comes from hope. You can’t find much of that - if any at all - in others, or even in yourself. Hope is what keeps me going; because I look forward to whatever it is that is ahead. The things I once thought that were worth throwing away in return for my pain to go away are now what I look forward to. I hope that all of those things will happen. Some already have. There’s always that chance some never will happen. But in place of that, will be something else just as exciting that will. Whatever that is, I have hope in looking forward to it. There is an excitement in the things unknown, and the things that have yet to happen. There is anticipation that builds inside of me each day. Each day is unknown in what it will bring to the table, but that’s what keeps life exciting. My will to live will always be found in the hope of tomorrow.

If you or someone you know needs support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, or text START to 741-741

[understandingchaoss]

Do Not Tell Me I'm Skinny When My Eating Disorder Says Otherwise

“I’m going on a diet because I’ve gained way too much weight. But that isn’t something you have to worry about.” “You’re lucky you don’t have to go to the gym.” “You’re so lucky that you can eat whatever you want without getting fat.” “You’re so skinny and I don’t understand how.”

Those are some of those common ways I am indirectly told that people are “jealous” of the way that I look. I would be lying if I said hearing those kinds of things didn’t hurt my feelings. I struggle daily with an eating disorder and my appearance. I would bet money on the fact that most of the people reading this do not know I even have such a thing.

I have what is called anorexia nervosa binge eating-purging type. There are three different disorders in that one diagnosis, and most people know what each one means individually; but what about combined? 

The problem is that when most people picture what anorexia looks like, they picture a girl in the hospital, weighing less than 80 pounds who is on her death bed because she never eats. Most people picture binge eating as some overweight 50 year old woman, lying on her couch eating potato chips all day, while the working class pays for her to do so. Purging isn’t as commonly known, but for those who have heard of it, most picture it as a girl hurling her lunch into the toilet because she didn’t want to allow her body to retain its nutrients, after all, that would mean she would gain weight.

I have spent years fighting with the voice in my head that screams much too loud for my liking. My eating disorder is what I like to call my inner demon. It convinces me that I have gained too much weight and now have to pull out my “fat pants” because I went up a whole pant size after a bingeing episode. It convinces me that the only solution to losing any of that weight is to starve myself. The voice sounds horribly familiar. Maybe even my own? I’m never able to distinguish. Whatever and whoever it is, it brainwashes me into thinking I’m not good enough, and that I certainly don’t look good enough to the outside world. 

Before we go any further, I’m going to set a few things straight.

First of all, all of those stereotypes are all wrong. Second of all, science is a fascinating thing, so I’m going to throw in a little education session.

Any and all eating disorders can affect anyone of any age, size, and gender. Men, women, children, and the elderly can all battle eating disorders.

Anorexia nervosa - contrary to popular belief - is actually not the most common eating disorder in America. For some reason though, it is the most glorified. It does, however, have the highest mortality rate of any other eating disorder. If you were to google it, the direct definition is: a lack or loss of appetite for food. This is where most people like to do what’s called a self-diagnosis. Except following that definition, it states as a medical condition. A medical condition is a medical condition only by diagnosis done by a medical/mental health professional, not self-diagnosis (so if you believe you may be having symptoms, see a medical/mental health professional for evaluation). With anorexia, the body is denied the essential nutrients it needs in order to function properly. As a result, the body is forced to slow down all of its processes and conserve whatever energy it may have left. The “slowing down” state can have serious medical consequences such as:

Abnormally slow heart rate and low blood pressure, which mean that the heart muscle is changing. The risk for heart failure rises as heart rate and blood pressure levels sink lower and lower.

Reduction of bone density (osteoporosis), which results in dry, brittle bones.

Muscle loss and weakness.

Severe dehydration, which can result in kidney failure.

Fainting, fatigue, and overall weakness.

Dry hair and skin, hair loss is common.

Growth of a downy layer of hair called lanugo all over the body, including the face, in an effort to keep the body warm.

Just because someone has anorexia, does not mean that they will end up in treatment, will die from it, or will look like the typical stereotype. It is rare, but not completely unheard of for children under the age of 10 to develop anorexia. It can also be present in adults of any age, sometimes being present until the day that they die of natural causes unrelated to the eating disorder – if the eating disorder does not claim them first. 

The following symptoms must be present for a potential diagnosis.

Inadequate food intake leading to a weight that is clearly too low.

Intense fear of weight gain, obsession with weight and persistent behavior to prevent weight gain.

Self-esteem overly related to body image.

Inability to appreciate the severity of the situation.

Obsessive counting of calories/compulsive exercising (does not need to be present for diagnosis, but is very common in extreme/severe cases)

Binge eating is actually the most common eating disorder in America weighing in at 2.8% of all American’s. Binge eating directly translates to: the consumption of large quantities of food in a short period of time; recurrent episodes of eating large quantities of food (often very quickly and to the point of discomfort); feelings of loss or control during the episode. Binge eating usually takes place as a way for an individual to use food as a way to cope with or block out feelings and emotions that they do not want to feel. Individuals can also use food as a way to numb themselves, to cope with daily life stressors, to provide comfort to themselves, or to fill a feeling of worthlessness they feel within. A person struggling with binge eating will typically have a depressive episode following the bingeing episode, which usually consists of having feelings of shame, distress, or guilt. The following symptoms must be present for a potential diagnosis:

Eating, in a discrete period of time (e.g., within any 2-hour period), an amount of food that is definitely larger than what most people would eat in a similar period of time under similar circumstances.

A sense of lack of control over eating during the episode (e.g., a feeling that one cannot stop eating or control what or how much one is eating)

Marked distress regarding binge eating is present

The binge eating occurs, on average, at least once a week for 3 months

The binge eating is not associated with the recurrent use of inappropriate compensatory behaviors (e.g., purging) as in bulimia nervosa and does not occur exclusively during the course of bulimia nervosa or anorexia nervosa (I will address how my diagnosed eating disorder is possible with this as a symptom of binge eating shortly)

Binge eating episodes must have three or more of the following for a potential diagnosis:

Eating much more rapidly than normal.

Eating until feeling uncomfortably full.

Eating large amounts of food when not feeling physically hungry.

Eating alone because of feeling embarrassed by how much one is eating.

Feeling disgusted with oneself, depressed, or very guilty afterward.

Purging type is most often associated with bulimia, because a form of purging is self-induced vomiting. However, purging can also consist of the sudden restriction of food, engaging in abuse of laxatives, diuretics, or enemas after a period of bingeing. An individual can have purging type without having bulimia.

How is anorexia nervosa binge eating-purging type even possible then? That was the question I kept asking when the therapist I was seeing during my four years of high school informed me that I fit the criteria. I did months’ worth of research. Unfortunately, there is not a lot of information available for such an eating disorder as it is classified under an Eating Disorder(s) Not Otherwise Specified (EDNOS) because of the fact that there are only certain symptoms from each disorder’s criteria found in other eating disorders. This means that I might only have two symptoms from one disorder’s criteria, but four from another, and only one from another. EDNOS was designed for such cases. From what I could find, I learned that it is most commonly associated with trauma. My eating disorder started out as frequent binge eating. I remember wanting to literally eat everything in sight. I wanted anything that consisted of carbs, fats, and sugars. As a result, I gained an immense amount of weight in a very short period of time. At that time, I had always weighed between 120 pounds and 138 pounds. So when I suddenly gained enough weight to shoot me up into the 200s, I felt disgusting. I was mad at myself for gaining that much weight, and allowing it. I was mad at myself for using food as a way to cope. So instead of putting myself on a healthy diet, I just flat out stopped eating. Most days, all I would have was an apple when I woke up and a small meal for dinner. I did that only because I was on medications that required food intake before the dosage. My bingeing episodes would last for months at a time, and my purging episodes would last for months at a time, which is why the three are able to occur at different times, but still simultaneously exist in the same diagnosis. According to my previous therapist, this type of eating disorder is extremely harmful to the body. Of course, all eating disorders are. But she informed me that I was literally putting my body through shock and trauma. Just as my brain was in shock as a result of the trauma, I was doing the same exact thing to my body. Anorexia/purging can slow down your heart rate, lower your blood pressure, and lower your cholesterol; while binge eating can speed up your heart rate, raise your blood pressure, and raise your cholesterol. By alternating back and forth between the two very suddenly, the body can go into a state of shock. 

Now, why do I not want to be praised for the way that I look when I go through a period of purging?

Imagine that you suffer from a series of mental illnesses, but one in particular is the only one that can, possibly, directly kill you, and yet you are receiving praise for the very symptoms that are destroying your mind and body. I am literally being praised for destroying my body. I am being praised for restricting my food intake for one period of time, and eating much more than I should for another period of time. I am being praised for harming myself.

So yes, gaining weight is something I have to worry about. No, I am not lucky I don’t have to go to the gym because I’m basically destroying my mind and body while you’re doing it the right way. No, I am not lucky I can eat whatever I want without getting fat, because I can definitely gain more weight at a faster rate than most. I am skinny because of an eating disorder, that’s how. I do not recommend it.

The only reason the majority of people around me do not know that I have an eating disorder, is because most people who binge and then purge, do not look unhealthy or underweight. But believe me when I say that I know exactly when I’ve gained weight. I don’t even have to step on the scale. I know when I’ve gained even three pounds; because I can see it. My eating disorder warps my perception of myself in order to be convinced that I am much too fat and I need to lose some weight. I don’t go from 80 pounds to 200 pounds overnight, so most people don’t believe me when I say that I used to weigh over 200 pounds. However, if you put pictures side by side of my different weight fluctuations over different periods of time, you would most definitely be able to see a difference.

Contrary to popular belief, eating disorders are actually not a choice. They are complex illnesses with biological, psychological, and environmental causes. They are in fact classified as a mental illness. I know that no one forced this disorder upon me. So if no one did, what did? That voice inside my head tells me that I brought it upon myself. In fact, it screams at me that I’m to blame. But no one person or thing is to blame for my eating disorder, including myself. It is a combination of neurobiology, family of origin, social and societal environments, and trauma. Depression almost always goes hand in hand. When you have depression, you lack the psychological means to deal with life stressors. As a result, your brain seeks a way to find relief in any way that it can.

Years later, and I still struggle with my eating disorder. I still fluctuate in weight frequently. But I am not responsible for the onset of my eating disorder. But I am responsible for my recovery and freedom from it. I must forgive myself for developing the eating disorder. I must forgive my brain for not being able to cope with the stress of life and the trauma I have endured. My eating disorder is an outward manifestation of inward confusion, anxiety, and distress. In order to find freedom, I must first deal with what it was that caused that confusion, anxiety, and distress. It becomes difficult to do so when I am being praised for destroying myself. It causes more confusion and anxiety within my head, thus causing me distress and to take several steps backwards.

I did not choose my eating disorder. My eating disorder chose me. But I can choose recovery from it, and I can choose to find freedom from it. Do not praise me for my illness. Do not praise me for hurting myself. Do not praise me for expressing my confusion, anxiety, and distress in an unhealthy manner. In fact, I don’t want any praise at all, because in the end, the glory and praise isn’t given to me. But if you must praise me for my courage or strength, or whatever it is you’d like to praise me for, praise me for my choice of recovery and the courage and strength it took to make that decision. Because at the end of the day and at the end of the road of my battle with my eating disorder, my choice of recovery is the only choice that will ever matter.

If you or someone you know is struggle with an eating disorder - or you suspect that they may be struggling with one - and needs support right now, please contact the National Eating Disorders Association at 1-800-931-2237 or text NEDA to 741741 

If you or someone you know needs support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, or text START to 741-741

[understandingchaoss]

Just letting everyone know that I changed my URL for the first time since I made this blog in 2010 and that you all aren't crazy. I figured it was time to have it match the blog I have on squarespace. It fits me better after all these years. Carry on. :)

[understandingchaoss]

10 Ways My Mental Illness is Invalidated

If someone were to ask me where my identity and validation of who I am as a person comes from, I could confidently answer it. I know where my true validation comes from, and Who the source of that true validation is. However, that does not go to say that I still feel invalidated. In fact, regardless of the truth, I still feel invalidated every single day of my life. I am not seeking some kind of self-satisfaction when I say I am looking for my mental illness to be validated. My self-confidence isn’t as low as it used to be, and that’s something I used to crave. I not only speak for myself, but for the entire mental health community, when I say that all I want is for my mental illness to be validated. I want the feelings and emotions that come with it to be validated. I want someone to look me in the eye - even if they don’t understand what I endure - and tell me that what I’m feeling is real, my mental illness is real, and that there is nothing wrong with that. 

I will openly admit that my mental illness is one of the few things I’m still extremely uneasy about. It’s a highly sensitive topic in so many ways, and I feel as if I have to walk on egg shells when I try to talk about it. My point is, is that it shouldn’t be like that! Most people do not have to walk on egg shells when they talk about their family, what they’re passionate about, their favorite color, or where they’re from. Just as all of those “normal” things are a part of one person, my mental illness is a part of me. That isn’t something I should be ashamed about.

But guess what? It is.

Why? Because the world has put mental illness into a little box that only they can take the lid off of. Except that lid only comes off when they say so, and under their circumstances. Mental illness is not openly talked about because society has such a narrow minded opinion about the entire concept of it. No one wants to talk about it because it isn’t what’s “normal.” No one wants to talk about the nasty parts of it; no one wants to talk about the scary parts of it. But I am here to normalize it in the sense that it is so much more common than you think, and I am here to talk about the nasty parts of it, the scary parts of it - the parts of it that you don’t want to talk about.

Here are some of the most common ways my mental illness is invalidated on a daily basis (daily basis is also not an over exaggeration).

1. “Oh honey, we’re all a little insane on the inside”

Hahahah. Wrong. I’m not so sure you understand what insane REALLY means. Insane is not being more weird than other people. It is not occasionally thinking bad thoughts. It is not that awful quote that’s there to apparently motivate you change your life up - “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.” No, insane is directly defined as being in a state of mind that prevents normal perception, behavior, or social interaction; seriously mentally ill. Now, I’m not saying I’m like this on a regular basis. But when I fall into a dissociative episode or a breakdown brought on by my PTSD, I literally feel insane. Not the kind of insane where I could or would be classified as a psychopath or sociopath (yes, there is a difference), but the kind of insane where I have overwhelming thoughts of wanting to die with no particular plan in place, which makes me feel even more mad inside, curled up in the fetal position, and unable to determine what is reality and what is not. Most of the time, I contemplate whether or not it would be smart to voluntarily admit myself. I always decide against it, for some reason.

2. “Everyone has bad thoughts.”

Bad thoughts as in you want to die because you feel like the most worthless human being to ever walk the planet so you come up with a plan to die? Bad thoughts as in you’ve been evaluated by behavioral health several times? Bad thoughts as in no matter how many positive things there are in your life, you can only ever see the negative? Bad thoughts as in you can sometimes only ever focus on your past traumas no matter how hard you try to focus on anything but that? Or bad thoughts as in you feel a little depressed when you think about your life because it isn’t what you pictured it would be like?

3. “By you entertaining the thoughts, it only makes your problems worse.”

First of all, they aren’t “problems.” They are real disorders. Second of all, 97% of the time, I don’t actually entertain them and give them an opportunity to keep racing. They are persistent thoughts that most of the time, cannot be stopped. My neurotransmitters do not fire like yours do, therefore, I do not “think” myself into an episode. If I am triggered, I still do not “think” myself into it. 

4. “No man is going to love you with all that baggage.”

My mental illness has become a big part of me, in a very positive way. As terrible as it may be with all of the mental breakdowns, panic attacks, depressive or dissociative episodes, and awful thoughts of wanting to die, for the right person, it will not be baggage. Someone is going to love me exactly the way I am and help to guide me to an even better me that does not allow it to rule my life. And I will never again settle for someone who does otherwise. DO NOT EVER make me feel as if I am not worthy of love just because my brain does not function properly. DO NOT EVER make anyone feel as if they are not worthy of love just because their brain does not function properly.

5. “Maybe if you would exercise, you might feel a little better.”

This is one of the very few things where I will tell you that you’re right. Exercise would definitely make me feel better, the problem is depression. Depression is a vicious cycle that consists of low energy levels and fatigue that leads to the use of coping skills to try to reduce the anxiety to a manageable level. That typically does not work (in my case), which leads to increased guilt, hopelessness, and ineffectiveness. Fatigue keeps me feeling as though my body is too heavy to even go to work, let alone go work out in my free time. My job alone feels like a workout for someone as fatigued as me because I walk at least 10 miles per night. Low energy keeps me in bed on my days off, unless there are things I have to get done in town or people I promised plans with. Somewhere down the road, I begin to feel some kind of motivation to work on my coping skills, which almost never work. I feel worthless and hopeless because no matter what I do, nothing helps me get better; thus starting the cycle over again. There is no spot in there for me to have motivation to work out, because I always feel fatigued and exhausted. So yes, you are right; exercise would make me feel better. But believe me when I say that fatigue and exhaustion are much greater.

6. “If you wake up and immediately start thinking positive thoughts, you wouldn’t be so depressed.”

Yeah, maybe if I was someone who only had depression on a spiritual, emotional, or circumstantial level. But I’m not, therefore I can think positively all I want, but that isn’t going to make my neurotransmitters fire any differently, or even correctly for that matter. 

7. “Maybe if you didn’t sleep so much, you would feel better.”

Sometimes I want the whole world to take the medication I used to take – for approximately 5 years – so that they could understand why I slept so much. Sure, everyone reacts differently to medications and I was on an extremely low dosage, but 10 hours was the average I needed in order to not wake up feeling as if I still had the medication in my system. That medication eventually stopped being effective and I recently started my journey to find a new one. The ones that I have tried since have either not helped me sleep at all, or have caused me to sleep just as much as the one I was on for years. Over sleeping as a result of depression aside, I still take sleeping medication. I’m not talking about melatonin or valerian root; not even things like ambien or lunesta – the kinds of sleeping aids you see on television. I’m talking about antipsychotic and mental health medications that are sedatives. Therefore, I’m going to sleep as long as I need to in order to not wake up feeling awful. If I don’t do so, I wake up with less sleep feeling more depressed than normal.

8. “Maybe if you would reach out to the people who say they’re there for you, you would start to see an improvement.”

I’m not so sure the world realizes how much of a burden you feel you are to others when you have mental illness. I would love to reach out to the people who have proven to be there for me. I would love to tell them exactly what’s going on inside of my head. I would love to ask for help. But when you have so many illnesses that you could count them on two hands, you decide against that because in reality, who in the world would want to listen to someone that has that much stuff going on inside of their head?

9. Jokes about sexual assault, suicide, and self-destructive behaviors.

Sexual assault is a real thing, and it happens so much more often than this world thinks it does. It is defined as any type of forced or coerced sexual contact or behavior that happens without consent. It can range from rape, attempted rape, molestation, to harassment and threats. Any person, who has endured sexual assault of any form, knows how difficult it is to recover from it. When ANY kind of joke is made about it, it invalidates those of us who have been assaulted. It can often make us feel as if it was our fault that it occurred. Believe me when I say that when a joke is made about it, I feel as though the person is indirectly saying that what happened to me is a joke. The same goes for suicide and self-destructive behaviors. Suicide is a serious thing and people think it’s a joke when someone feels enough pain, internally, that they must take their own lives in order to relieve themselves from that pain. But yet murder isn’t made out to be a joke. It is no joke that people have tried to kill themselves. In fact, is an extraordinary story when someone can say they tried to kill themselves; that means they are here and still fighting. Why are people still making jokes out of the subject? Self-destructive behaviors can range from eating disorders, alcohol abuse, drug addiction, sex addiction, self-injury (i.e. cutting, skin picking, head-banging, hand-biting, excessive skin rubbing and scratching), and suicide attempts. These are serious behaviors that are a cry for help, not a cry for attention. The people who are not yet in recovery need help, they need people to reach out to them and show them that there are so many other healthy ways to be expressing their negative emotions. It is not a joke that people partake in such behaviors. 

10. “If your faith in God were better, He would heal you.”

I have never hidden or denied my faith. God is the only reason I am still alive at this point, and Jesus is the only reason I still have hope. But the level of my faith does not determine my time of healing. God can heal miraculously; healing can come to those who were only saved last week. I’ve seen it happen and it’s a phenomenal thing. But if God was going to heal me like that, He would have already done so. I have learned to accept that He has not chosen that path of healing for me. I hope and I pray that He will choose to heal me before the die that I die, so that I may enjoy this life for what it truly is without mental illness being present. But if He doesn’t, no matter what, heaven will be the place I get to spend an eternity without it. I could have the strongest faith in this world and I would still be fully convinced that God has chosen to heal me over time.

There are so many other things I could add to this list, but these are the 10 things that I hear the most often, and they are the 10 I have the strongest opinions about. My hope is that those who make jokes about mental illness, or say things that could easily make the mental health community feel invalidated, will take a step back and reevaluate their words. I’m not asking anyone to walk on eggshells around those of us who suffer from mental illness. I’m asking for those people to look at things from the bigger picture. Get rid of the narrowmindedness, because those are not the only opinions that matter.

Mental illness was not made to be this tragically beautiful and poetic thing that some people think it was made to be. It is terrifying, messy, and an indescribable thing. Out of that, is where the beauty comes from. But that’s where people put their blinders on. We have to talk about the messy parts before we can see the beautiful parts. We have to talk about what hurts before we can see the beautiful parts. I will keep talk about those things until society can see that it isn’t such a scary topic after all. I will keep talking about those things until society no longer makes the mental health community feel invalidated.

If you or someone you know needs support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, or text START to 741-741