Tag: Mental illness

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.

The True Power of Positive Mental Attitude

The True Power of Positive Mental Attitude

I get a lot of comments on my tattoos. Sometimes they’re positive, sometimes negative. You get used to it after some time, and the explanations can become jaded. But a nice woman came in to get a room, and asked me what this tattoo was all about, because it looked cool.

I don’t know what possessed me, but I decided to give her the actual meaning behind it.

I asked if she was familiar with YouTube, to which she said she was. I told her there was a man, named JackSepticEye, who does a lot of charity work, who makes people laugh, who publicly fights depression, and maintains a message known as PMA.

“What is PMA?” She asks. Her questions are genuine.

“Positive Mental Attitude.” I explain, “As a person who suffers from a mental disorder on a daily basis, I got this tattoo to show my support for him, his movement, but also a reminder to myself when things get bad.”

She’s fallen silent. I look up at her, having been busy looking down at the computer screen checking her in. Had I gone too far?

She breathes what I can only describe as a sigh of relief and says “I’m going to have to tell my husband to look him up. He’s bipolar, and he could use a bit of positivity in his life like that.” I looked at her, and we had an unspoken understanding. Mental illness is hard on everyone. It’s hard for the person dealing with it, and it’s hard for those we love. I set my professionalism aside, and told her she was awesome.

I’ve had people walk out of my life, cast me aside, because they “couldn’t handle” my “crazy”. Indeed, I’ve destroyed friendships with my “crazy”. To have her standing in front of me, and tell me of her husband’s condition not because she was ashamed, or because she hated him, but because she saw someone who understood from both sides how stressful and difficult it could be… I told her she was awesome, and thanked her for being a good person.

A man was sitting in my lobby at the time, and overheard everything. He’d needed a place to stop to change his daughter’s diaper. As soon as the guest left, he approached the counter and handed me $20. I was shocked and said “Sir, you don’t have to do that.” He shook his head, waved his hand, and said “Thank you for letting us stop. Keep up that positive mental attitude.” Then he walked out as I thanked him.

THAT’S the power of Positive Mental Attitude. That’s the TRUE POWER OF PMA.

Ignorance Must Be Blissful

Hello everyone!

I don’t know how familiar you are with the concept of Pinterest, but for those of you in the dark, allow me to shed some light on the subject. Pinterest is a website/app where people can find funny, relatable, educational, or inspirational pictures, and “pin” them so their followers can legally stalk them see what they’re up to or interested in st the time. Subject matter ranges from photography, fails, memes, recipes, self help, humor, etc. Imagine it, I’m you can find it. Anyway, when you click on a picture, it will give you similar ones in the general category you’re looking into. I have a point to all of this, I swear.
So, like many others, I have a Pinterest account. I mostly use it to stalk celebrities find funny pictures to brighten my day and waste time.

Until tonight. Tonight, I’ve stumbled across something that truly makes me I’ll. I won’t be posting the picture, as I do not want to draw more attention to the image itself, but I do want to draw attention on the subject matter.

The image features the wrist of a young girl, fresh, red blood pools on her skin. There appears to be razor marks as well, indicating self harm. I hate seeing pictures like this to begin with, but the message accompanying the image is what disturbs me. “I’ve been diagnosed with depression, give me 100 repins and I swear I’ll stop.”

There are so many problems with this post, I’m not even really sure where to properly begin.

One, I understand not everyone is a psychologist/psychiatrist, and not everyone has a mental illness, or understands how they work. But depression does not automatically mean you’re obligated to become a cutter.

Two, cutting is the physical manifestation of an abstract, illogical, emotional pain. It is a wound on your soul now made visible. Why would anyone photograph this for the sole purpose of showing it to anyone, let alone the internet?

I’m a cutter, but unless I want you to see it, you’ll never know it’s happened. I am guilty of taking pictures, but not for show and tell. I take them so I can look back, and remember the pain. Remember what led to the scars. Try to keep myself from doing it again. So far, it does seem to work.

Three, self harm is not something to mock, or take lightly. It is a problem, and doing it for attention only discredits those of us with a real problem. Doing it because you want people to pity you, or because you want the romantic image of the man of your dreams kissing your scars, are not proper reasons to harm yourself.

The reality of self harm is not romantic, or beautiful. It’s disgusting, and shameful, for the person doing the harming. It means constantly having to make wardrobe changes to cover the scars, or new wounds, and often times being uncomfortable.

It means having to constantly feel everyone’s eyes on you, and knowing they’re judging you in some way (be it pity or otherwise).

It means people touching your scars and constantly having to answer the question of “what happened to your arm?”

Boys don’t place loving kisses along your arm and tell you how beautiful they are, and even if they did, why would you mark up your own body just for that? Some guys have a feces fetish, are you going to eat shit next to impress the menfolk? (Sorry to anyone reading who might have a shit fetish)

Four, why would anyone repin something like this? Again, I understand a lot of people are ignorant to the world of mental illness, and perhaps you think you’re doing good, but you’re actually enabling more harm. 
Say this girl is real, and she does have a cutting problem. She sees people fawning all over her, and giving her the attention she so craves. It won’t stop. She’ll cut again, post again, to gain even more likes and followers. So begins a nasty, never-ending cycle.

If you really want to help people who self harm, talk to them when they’re ready. Help them seek the help they need. Do your research, educate yourself using credible sources, and try to help. But repinning, or reposting an image will not help. It will not make the pain go away.

I, for one, grow such and tired of the lacking knowledge in this world regarding mental illness. I think it should become mandatory for all to learn about them, and stop romanticizing this stuff.

Scars can be beautiful, because they make up who you are. The pain you’ve lived through, the times when you wanted to give up but fought a little harder is evident. Don’t be ashamed, but don’t make a pubic spectacle of yourself in the process.

All of us have pain. Some of us wear it visibly, others keep it hidden and tucked away.

I also urge you, my readers, to educate yourself. Ask questions, learn from others, be understanding, but don’t be blinded.

If you are a cutter, I also urge you to try your best to find an alternative. It’s easier said than done, I know, but try.

Thank you all for reading, and I hope I’ve helped a little.

Mental Illness Is…

Mental illness is sitting in your car trying to gather enough courage just to go inside. Sometimes even your own home.

Mental illness is painting on a smile, just so no one can see you tearing yourself apart.

Mental illness is sometimes hating thee people you love more than anything, because it is a welcomed relief from hating yourself.

Mental illness is sitting alone in your car crying because it’s the only place no one can see you.

Mental illness is thinking suicide is the only way out of a bad situation, because you’re scared of what’s coming next.

Mental illness is listening to someone say unnecessarily hurtful, anger filled things to the people you love…only to realize you’re the one saying the negative things.

Mental illness is wanting to be alone, but wanting people to refuse to leave you alone.

Mental illness is believing you don’t matter….and if someone tells you differently, you believe they’re lying.
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Mental illness is mentally scripting out your suicide letter, and trying so hard to mentally word it in such a way that everyone knows it wasn’t their fault, there was nothing they could do.

Mental illness is being overly controlling in other aspects of your life, only because you’re losing control in every other aspect…..

Mental illness is a swirling black void filled with all the terrible things you’ve done, all the terrible things you’ve said, and every day it tries to consume you.

Mental illness is paranoia, questioning every little thing anyone says, over thinking, over analyzing, and assuming everyone is trying to get you. Or, other side of that coin is thinking everyone is your friend even with mounting evidence they are not.

Mental illness is pain.