Category: mental health

Is Living with a Mental Illness REALLY Living?

I know why it is called a panic attack.

Your body is being attacked, except the assailant lives inside your head.

Your body is flooded with burning hot adrenaline that feels like acid burning in your veins. You feel that acid pulsing in your nerve endings like it is trying to escape through your skin. It burns, but sometimes it feels like ice. The burn of cold, the heat of fire.

Speaking of skin, that feeling of pins and needles when a numb limb regains blood supply? That’s how the surface of your skin feels, from head to toe, like thousands of insects and spider webs crawling over you. You’re suddenly painfully aware of every article of clothing you’re wearing, or anything touching you, and the touch feels invasive. Like somehow your clothing is aiding your attacker and trying to suffocate you.

All the while, your heart rate increases, but the muscles in your body have tightened so much that each beat of your heart feels like a chore. The burn of adrenaline lingers there, and your heart feels compressed.

Air is nearly impossible, and sometimes you’re not even sure if you’re breathing at all. But you must be, because you’re alive, even if this doesn’t feel like living. You force your body to take a deeper breath only to realize it feels like breathing through a straw. Someone has removed all the oxygen in the room and you’re trying desperately to pull breathable air.

As though you’ve been electrocuted, your body is stiff and later when you’re finally released from the clutches, your body will ache and your joints will hurt. Then there’s what’s happening in the mind.

It can best be described as an active warzone. A flood of memories, and intrusive thoughts that weren’t asked for overwhelm the senses, and you learn your mind has the ability to feel it all as if it were real and happening in the present. Everything from imagining someone you love dying, to imagining an infidelity in vivid detail. And it loops, continuously, over and over.

Because the problem with your enemy residing inside you, they know every weakness. They know your greatest fears, they know what triggers the hardest. And it weaponizes all of it. It makes it all feel real, and every emotional reaction just creates a stronger neural pathway. Every part of you wants reassurance, reach out to the loved one you “saw” die, ask your partner if they’ve been loyal. But if you do, you’ll be deemed crazy, or your attempt to calm the chaos sounds more like an accusation.

No one outside of your head understands you’re calling for reinforcements because your troops are dropping like flies. Your troops, in this case, being all the coping mechanisms you’ve been taught, or learned, over the years in an attempt to strengthen your army. The positive self talk, the redirection, the cold water, the meditation. In this state, you are more self aware, and aware of your body, than you’ve ever been, and that self awareness cuts through every weapon in your arsenal unless you truly believe in what you’re saying. And if you see moving pictures in your mind? You’ll watch it all play out like a reel of all your worst fears. And you can’t escape the theater.

The words you need to hear to calm the hell inside your head will only cause more pain, to yourself and others.

The beating of your heart gets louder as it fights to pump life into you. You’re burning and freezing at the same time from the inside.

You can’t escape.

You can’t step out until things calm down.

You can’t sleep to have a moment of peace.

You’re the attacker and the hostage.

And if you do manage to sleep, it is from exhaustion as the adrenaline finally leaves your system, your muscles release their grip, and you physically can’t go any further. It is not restful, nor is it a guarantee that you’ll be free from the grasp because the torture can follow you into your dreams. Scientists believe dreams are the brain’s way of cleaning itself and removing waste, but for you, it’s just another avenue of torture.

And though you are running on empty, and you feel like you can go no further, you have to, because while you’ve been fighting a war with yourself, life continues on.

Life doesn’t care.

You have to pick yourself up and go to work, care for your home, and do all that life requires. Asking for a break to let yourself recover results in everyone calling you weak or pathetic. And you think, if they just knew or understood what you’ve just been through, or how hard you’re fighting to keep going, they would never think it. You start to wish your problems weren’t in your mind, but physically apparent, because then you wouldn’t be accused of faking it or being dramatic. But the truth is people don’t want to know the truth. They don’t care either.

And those you can confide in don’t understand either, because the words never come out correctly. You fight to be understood, to paint the same vivid picture for them that you’re tormented with. You’re fighting a war, they see it as you’re having a rough day. No, you want to rip your skin off and escape your mind.

You want it to stop.

And when you understand the depth of how terrible it is, and the lengths you’re willing to go to make it stop, you suddenly begin to understand why people turn to drugs, to sex, to alcohol, anything to make it stop. You understand how addiction works. It doesn’t just make you feel good, it is like a balm to an infected wound that has been festering and destroying you for years. You understand why people end their own lives, because it means escaping a torment that no one seems to have the answers for, and stopping the pain.

Then the part no one talks about is trying to live after the attack. Looking at your partner and remembering the image your mind created, the emotions you felt, of seeing them engaged with another. Seeing your loved one and remembering the image you’re mind concocted of their violent and gruesome death. Because it feels real, every actual real interaction is tangled with the reality your mind created. You have to sift through, and analyze, every emotion, every memory, which causes you to become more tangled in the vines of despair.

Because the people around you don’t have to do that.

You begin to think maybe you are crazy.

The false memories start to steal your actual memories, and soon you forget the tiniest details. You forget to take the trash out, you forget to do the dishes, you forget, because your responsibilities are buried in a cemetery of the rest of your failures. You forget names, birthdays, and entire people.

Maybe you are crazy. Maybe they’re right.

But when you try to explain all of that to someone outside the warzone? It sounds like making excuses. Like not taking responsibility. So you apologize for every little thing. But then you’re told to stop apologizing.

And every failure is just added to the arsenal to be used against you later.

It’s never ending.

Every explanation feels like an excuse, every question is an accusation. Everything that calms the chaos kills the order.

And you try. You try to learn better ways of dealing with things. You try to find healthy ways to make it easier. You go to therapy. You try to do better. But even that becomes a chore because now you have new habits to learn, old habits to break, and when you’re overwhelmed, the old habits come back like muscle memory you long for your body to forget. You think to yourself “if I just do this, it’ll get better. I’ll be free.”

You won’t.

And, of course, when it doesn’t, or you can’t keep up, you feel like a failure. You know you’ve disappointed everyone closest to you. You think maybe you’re just not trying hard enough. But you’ve given everything you are, everything you have, can no one see your tank is empty?

It is a game that you designed, but you’ve rigged it so it is impossible to win.

Clarity

Hello, everyone. It’s been a long time since I’ve updated this blog. I thought I’d share some updates regarding recent events. Before I begin, however, it should be noted this blog is for mature audiences. This also acts as a content warning for discussion of mental health, self harm, and s*icide. I am going to be open, and honest, as I always am when discussing my mental health, but I understand it is not an easy discussion for all to have. You have been warned.

For those who know me personally, you know October is a very difficult month. As a (not so) former goth kid, October used to be my favorite month. I loved immersing myself in the culture of spooky, finding new house decorations (because we all know Halloween decorations are year round). And then I lost someone very near and dear. I didn’t get to tell her goodbye, there was so much left unspoken between us that it left a giant hole that took years to recover. Then I lost my grandfather, the only grandparent I really knew or gave a shit about. October is also my birthday month, and as the years tick by and my circle of friends shrinks, the day is more depressing than celebratory. Finally, there is the loss of Dave. Readers of my blog might recall the post I made about him shortly after he passed in February 2020.

I first noticed my mental health taking a downward spiral towards the end of September. Whether it was in anticipation of the following month, or another trigger, I am unsure. What I do know is I was thrown into an unfamiliar social gathering and completely froze. Now, to understand why this is such a big deal, you need to know me as a person. I have extreme social anxiety, and I’m actually quite shy. But I’ve learned if I can entertain the crowds, hide the fact that I’m terrified beyond all comprehension, I get less attention than I would if I hung to the wall in a corner. To me, it is all a performance, which has brought on feelings of being a fraud from time to time. Needless to say, no one ever believes me when I state how truly introverted and shy I am. But at this particular gathering, I completely froze. Everything I’d taught myself about navigating social situations went out the window. I had two mild panic attacks and had to excuse myself while I reminded myself how to breathe.

The next indication was having a full blown anxiety attack after my shift at work. I hid in a corner and fought my brain to stay grounded in reality all the while clawing at my skin and stimming uncontrollably. It lasted about twenty minutes before releasing me from its grasp. I was exhausted afterward.

Back in the old days when I started to slip down the dastardly hole of severe depression, I would self harm. Nothing serious, but enough to require my attention. When my emotions got too overwhelming, it helped me turn an abstract concept into a physical pain that I could care for and fix. The price for that is self harm is an addiction. I started self harming again, small cuts across a tattoo that I hate, and wore several long sleeve shirts. I also banked on the hope that if my sleeve were to slip and my cuts were to show, no one would question it because mental health in such an obvious fashion makes people uncomfortable. People will typically avoid that which makes them uncomfortable.

The final straw, however, was my brain sending me from a gentle spiral all the way into a full nose dive to rock bottom. It happened so quickly even I didn’t have time to prepare. My nerves were shot, my anxiety at an all time high. I was uncomfortable in my own skin and my mind was so loud it took every ounce of focus just to function from day to day. And then the realization that no matter what I do, no matter how good I am, this is never going to stop. A never-ending cycle of ups and downs, of reality forming and breaking before my eyes that leaves me scrambling to rebuild. A perfectly logical decision one day turns into a terrible decision the next, and all have the potential to absolutely destroy my life. And it is never going to stop.

I’ve always known this, but when you’re drowning in a blackened pit searching for a way out, realizations such as these are truly devastating. I hurt myself again. It didn’t take it away. And I decided it was the end. It was time.

I won’t say I didn’t cry. I did. I cried a lot. Sadness, relief, anguish, joy…all combined into one. Soon it would all stop. Soon the pain, the rushing thoughts, would stop. Soon I would know peace and escape this hell.

I executed the plan perfectly, said my goodbyes, my I love you’s. Took off for the cemetery where Dave rests. I let myself cry, mourn, but ultimately everything felt very final. No one knew where I was. No one knew I wasn’t home. It was late, it was dark. It was perfect. I walked into the cemetery where dew had already begun to gather in the grass. It was so dark, I could see every star in the sky above my head. It was quiet. I sat beside Dave and I talked. I said out loud all the things I’d bottled up, all the feelings I’d kept hidden with nowhere to go. I was honest with myself. I laid back and enjoyed the stars. And my mind was quiet. My soul at peace. Soon.

On my way back to the car, I paused and asked for a sign that I should continue on. Right in my line of sight, a shooting star streaked across the sky. Not much of a sign, I’d seen three just like it only moments before. I sat in my car, turned on my music, dumped the pills in my hand….. And nothing happened.

It didn’t make any sense. My set up was perfect. No one could interfere. No one was rescuing me….. I could feel the pills in my hand so heavy. Waiting. I knew what they’d feel like in my mouth, I knew what they’d taste like. I wasn’t afraid. But I couldn’t do it. I sat there for an hour just holding the pills. My mind was still quiet. My soul still at peace. But my hand wouldn’t move. I grabbed my phone and texted a friend, asking her to call me. The first thing I said to her was “I am an actual fucking coward.” “Why?” “Because I can’t do it.”

The next day I was left feeling very confused. What stopped me? What force lives deep down, hidden from even me, and stilled my hand? I don’t know. But something stopped me, and chose to continue living. Even if it meant pain. The ultimate question I was then left with… Was why? I contemplated on this all day. I’m no closer to an answer now than I was in the graveyard. And maybe I’m not supposed to make sense of it.

There is a song I’ve been listening to by a song artist named Citizen Soldier. Fantastic artist, highly recommend him. The song is called “Thank You for Hating Me”. The title is self explanatory, but essentially he thanks the people who hated him, tried to break him, because their hate made him stronger than he ever thought he could be. It made me realize something about myself.

I hate myself, or so I claim. But I do my best to avoid situations where I’ll be embarrassed, humiliated, or harmed. If I actually hated myself as I claim, why should I care? Why am I afraid of failure if I’m already a failure? So either I hate myself, or I don’t hate myself as much as I think. Maybe I don’t hate myself, but I don’t know how to love myself.

Today, however, has been one of the best days. I have laughed, genuinely laughed. Mostly at myself. The interactions with people today have been more real, not just a stage performance. I have enjoyed it. And the best part is….. It’s mine. It isn’t a chemical forcing my brain to be happy. It’s my happiness. And that is so rare. I don’t know how long it will last, but I’m going to enjoy it while it is here.

Maybe it’s okay that I don’t have life figured out. Maybe not having all the answers isn’t a bad thing. Maybe one day I’ll learn to love myself. Or accept myself at the least. It’s even possible that maybe something did die that night, and something else took its place. I don’t know. I might never know. But what I will say is I’m so thankful to so many of my friends who listened to me and refused to pass judgement. I am grateful.