Living with mental illness
My adventures in living with mental illness; namely Bipolar II disorder, PTSD, and trichotillomania.
Welp, it has been one year since I started this blog. I’ve logged over 60 entries, writing almost every week for the past year. I’m not sure what to make of it all. A lot has happened. A lot has changed. I’ve gotten a lot off of my chest, and have read many responses from you, dear readers, that have given me hope.
Read MoreAround the sixth grade I casually mentioned to my best friend’s mom that I sometimes heard voices. “You know, hearing voices is a sign of insanity,” she said. I felt so ashamed in that moment. I decided that “insane” was something I didn’t want to be. So, for twenty years I kept my mouth shut about it, until recently.
Read MoreI know I was going to write about dissociative disorders this week, but I can’t do it…not yet. Because, I felt that you should know that I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay for awhile, and I can’t keep pretending to be okay. I’ve somehow unearthed a mountain of shit, and it just keeps getting bigger. I’ve been trying to ride the waves of a long, major depressive episode, and I can’t do it alone anymore…I’ve determined I need a “bigger boat”. Yes, folks, I’m quoting Jaws here.
Read MoreI looked back and I saw a woman. She was afraid, trapped, suffocating. She had been abused. She had been used. She had been manipulated. Every day she was living at the end of her rope, trying desperately to hold on for dear life.
Read MoreI’ve been sick the past few days and have neglected to keep up with my writing for the A to Z Blogging Challenge. It seemed to work out, though, as these three letters kind of go together: they all express needs that people with mental illness have at some point: the need for deeper conversation; the need for patience; and the need for quiet. So, here are my entries for the past few days.
Read MoreThere’s a very thin line between stability and crumbling back into a depressed and anxious mess that I walk every day. It involves a tremendous amount of energy to stay balanced. Every day I have to choose whether it is worth it to keep going with that stability. Not taking care of myself is always the easier option but, I know what that feels like, and I know I don’t want to feel that way again. I don’t want to vacillate between feeling 1,000 emotions at once and feeling completely numb…it just doesn’t feel good.
Read MoreAt the time of writing this I've almost been through one whole week of my Intensive Outpatient (Psychiatric) Program. It has been a roller coaster of a week, feeling all sorts of emotions...even ones that I didn't realize I had in me. When I first started the program I was completely anxious about going through therapy with a bunch of strangers and sharing scary parts of my life with them but, to my surprise, it's gotten easier. Why? Because each time I share something, there's at least one person who has been where I've been, or are currently in the same spot. And there are so many instances where others have shared something and I've nodded my head with–eyes welled up with tears–and thought, "me too."
Read MoreI'm at the bottom of the outside edge of a crater staring up. In front of me are 1,020 steep and uneven stairs to get to the top of the crater's edge. The climb is almost completely vertical (at least it feels that way). The "stairs" are wooden boards shoved underneath an old railway track of some kind. They are not up to code. Some are wonky, some don't have any ground beneath them, and some of them force you to practically climb up them with your hands. This is my hike for the day: to make it up all of those steps, (and climb a little further) to get to a supposedly amazing viewpoint.
Read MoreIn one week I will be taking a medical leave of absence and checking into an intensive outpatient psychiatric program. While I don't know all of the details of the program yet, I know that it involves various types of therapy sessions several days a week, and will last at least a month. This is hard for me to admit; it's hard for me to share. I have just as many preconceived notions about what this program will look like as you're probably having right now. (Movies involving hokey portrayals of group therapy sessions come to mind.) But, despite my preconceived notions, and despite the anxiety I have about participating in something like this, I know it's what I need to do. I know it's what I need to do if I have any chance of getting better.
Read MoreI had two big realizations recently. The first is this: all of this time that I've been living with mental illness, I was under the assumption that I would be cured someday. Cured of depression, anxiety, trichotillomania, and everything else I live with. I thought it was all just a sickness (like coming down with the flu), and if I found the right combination of medications and participated in the right combination of therapies, I would eventually be fixed and function like a normal human someday. But then, it hit me: what if I can't be cured? What if my mental illness is not like a sickness, but something inside me that is permanently broken—something that will always be a part of my life? What if I'm broken in a way that can't be completely fixed?
Read MoreIt's Christmas Eve day today: the time to celebrate the birth of Jesus. My family has a tradition of observing this holiday by going to a beautiful candlelit service at church and singing hymns of rejoicing. Joy to the world, the Lord has come. But I don't feel joy. I don't feel like celebrating much. And I don't go to those candlelit church services anymore, because I know that all I will feel is pain, sadness, and anxiety.
Read MoreFor most of my life, religion (specifically Christianity) has been a part of who I am. I was baptized as an infant; grew up going to church every weekend; went to a Christian university for undergrad; and was a youth ministry leader for many years. You may be wondering what this has to do with my mental health, and I suppose the answer is that my faith and mental health have always had a complicated relationship with each other.
Read MoreOne of the hardest parts of living with anxiety and depression is coming to terms with reality; realizing my own limitations because of my illnesses. When I was young, I was told that I could be anything I wanted to be—no dream was too big—and I believed that. I started compiling a long list of dream jobs early on: a veterinarian, a musician/singer, a ballerina, an actor/comedian, a fashion designer, a philosopher, a chef, a writer...the list goes on. I have always had plenty of ideas of what I want to do (in a perfect world, I'd do them all) but the struggle has been figuring out what I can do.
Read MoreI'm curled into a ball on the chair in the corner of my bedroom. I'm in my pajamas that I've worn for the past 24 hours. And, of course, I haven't showered in those past 24 hours. My eyes are puffy and my face is wet from the tears that I've been crying for no particular reason other than it hurts to be alive right now. I'm full of emotion: sadness, hopelessness, fear, anger, guilt; but, at the same time, I feel numb. I feel everything and nothing all at the same time. I am one flaming-hot mess.
Read MoreIn my last three posts I shared what it's like (for me) to live with anxiety, depression, and trichotillomania. To summarize: living with mental illness involves some very bad days, where it's really hard to function. But, in this post I want to shift gears and talk about what I actually do on those bad days to make functioning a little easier—besides therapy and prescribed medications, which I fully support and recommend. I'm also hoping (selfishly) to get a little advice from you, dear readers, on what helps you get through those bad days, so that I can add more "tools" to my toolbox. The list below is categorized by illness but, obviously, there will be some things that are helpful across the board.
Read MoreFlying through the air from 11,000 feet feels more wonderful than I ever thought it could. The wind holds me up, smashes against my body, and I feel safe. Safe through the 10 seconds of free fall. Safe with the swift jerk of the parachute deploying, and safe during the 5 minutes under canopy, gliding nearly at eye level with Mt. Hood, above the Oregon farmlands. So, why is it I feel safer up here than I do with my feet planted firmly on the ground?
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