28.

Authoress, ptsd, three hopeful thoughts

Today is my 28th birthday. I generally don’t put much stock in them–it’s just another day when you get past a certain age, in my opinion. But my fella made today really special (breakfast and a mini scavenger hunt to my gift!), so it’s the best birthday I can remember.

Birthdays are significant to me for one reason: they’re proof that I’m still alive. It might seem silly to most people, but as quite a few of you know, those of us afflicted with PTSD tend to also be plagued by the belief that we’re just not going to live very long.

For me, this feeling of dread started when I was in my mid-teens. I thought I wouldn’t make it to sixteen, then nineteen, then twenty-one…and here I am at twenty-eight, having endured three lifetimes worth of horror and survived it all. Every year on this date, I take a moment to marvel at that.

It’s kind of incredible. And you, my readers–all of you–are incredible for hanging on and being alive. Remember that when the bleakness starts to press close and you feel like you’re buried above ground. You are still here, and you should be so proud of that.

Until next time, readers, stay safe and lovely.

 

Andrea Gibson – The Nutritionist

a cure for what ails you, three hopeful thoughts

Hello, readers!

Today, I want to share with you a poem/spoken word piece that has always deeply resonated with me. The first (and second, and third…) time I heard it, I was reduced to helpless tears. I had the privilege of meeting Andrea Gibson and seeing her perform about six years ago, when she was doing a show in my hometown of Dubuque, Iowa. I ended up getting a comforting hug and crying on her shoulder when I told her how much this poem means to me, and I will never forget that moment.

“The trauma said, don’t write this poem. No one wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones.” This, and the final lines: “Live. Live. Live.” will always make me cry–not from sadness, but from relief. This is the single most reassuring thing I have ever read (and heard) in my life.

When I discovered Andrea Gibson I felt, for the first time in my life, that I was not alone and that everything was going to be all right in the end. It was the first step in my long journey that eventually culminated in the ability to just sit with the pain and accept it for what it is. I have learned that no matter how low I feel, how dark the dark nights of the soul get, not every day will be like today.

The Nutritionist

The nutritionist said I should eat root vegetables
Said if I could get down 13 turnips a day
I would be grounded,
rooted.
Said my head would not keep flying away to where the darkness is.

The psychic told me my heart carries too much weight
Said for 20 dollars she’d tell me what to do
I handed her the twenty,
she said “stop worrying darling, you will find a good man soon.”

The first psychotherapist said I should spend 3 hours a day sitting in a dark closet with my eyes closed, with my ears plugged
I tried once but couldn’t stop thinking about how gay it was to be sitting in the closet

The yogi told me to stretch everything but truth,
said focus on the outbreaths,
everyone finds happiness when they can care more about what they can give than what they get

The pharmacist said klonopin, lamictil, lithium, Xanax
The doctor said an antipsychotic might help me forget what the trauma said
The trauma said don’t write this poem
Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones

My bones said “Tyler Clementi dove into the Hudson River convinced he was entirely alone.”
My bones said “write the poem.”

The lamplight.
Considering the river bed.
To the chandelier of your fate hanging by a thread.
To everyday you could not get out of bed.
To the bulls eye on your wrist
To anyone who has ever wanted to die.
I have been told, sometimes, the most healing thing to do-
Is remind ourselves over and over and over
Other people feel this too

The tomorrow that has come and gone
And it has not gotten better
When you are half finished writing that letter to your mother that says “I swear to God I tried”
But when I thought I hit bottom, it started hitting back
There is no bruise like the bruise of loneliness kicks into your spine

So let me tell you I know there are days it looks like the whole world is dancing in the streets when you break down like the doors of the looted buildings
You are not alone and wondering who will be convicted of the crime of insisting you keep loading your grief into the chamber of your shame
You are not weak just because your heart feels so heavy

I have never met a heavy heart that wasn’t a phone booth with a red cape inside
Some people will never understand the kind of superpower it takes for some people to just walk outside
Some days I know my smile looks like the gutter of a falling house
But my hands are always holding tight to the ripchord of believing
A life can be rich like the soil
Can make food of decay
Can turn wound into highway
Pick me up in a truck with that bumper sticker that says
“it is no measure of good health to be well adjusted to a sick society”

I have never trusted anyone with the pulled back bow of my spine the way I trusted ones who come undone at the throat
Screaming for their pulses to find the fight to pound
Four nights before Tyler Clementi jumped from the George Washington bridge I was sitting in a hotel room in my own town
Calculating exactly what I had to swallow to keep a bottle of sleeping pills down

What I know about living is the pain is never just ours
Every time I hurt I know the wound is an echo
So I keep a listening to the moment the grief becomes a window
When I can see what I couldn’t see before,
through the glass of my most battered dream, I watched a dandelion lose its mind in the wind
and when it did, it scattered a thousand seeds.

So the next time I tell you how easily I come out of my skin, don’t try to put me back in
just say here we are together at the window aching for it to all get better
but knowing as bad as it hurts our hearts may have only just skinned their knees knowing there is a chance the worst day might still be coming
let me say right now for the record, I’m still gonna be here
asking this world to dance, even if it keeps stepping on my holy feet

you- you stay here with me, okay?
You stay here with me.
Raising your bite against the bitter dark
Your bright longing
Your brilliant fists of loss
Friend

if the only thing we have to gain in staying is each other,

my god that’s plenty

my god that’s enough
my god that is so so much for the light to give
each of us at each other’s backs whispering over and over and over
“Live”
“Live”
“Live”

You can watch one of the many versions of Andrea performing here, and I encourage you to check it out! It’s a great reminder that no matter how lonely we get, none of us exist in a vacuum.

Continue to raise your bite against the bitter dark, friends. Fight as hard as you can, because the world sees us as broken. Refuse to give up. Fight to show everyone that you matter, that you are more than the sum of your parts or the chemicals inside your brain. You are more than a diagnosis, a code on a medical chart, the endless insurance claims and the bills and the medications you swallow every day just to feel okay.

You are a human being, first and foremost. I hope none of you ever forget that. You matter. Your life matters. You are worth something to the universe not because of who you are or what you’ve done, but because you’re here. And you’re going to be okay.

News Day Tuesday: More Progress on Mental Health Care Parity?

a cure for what ails you, three hopeful thoughts

Good afternoon, readers!

It’s no secret to most of us that securing quality mental health care can be frustrating, if not seemingly impossible. In 2008, the Mental Health Parity and Addiction Equity Act was passed, which basically ensured that insurance companies were not allowed to discriminate against mental health care when offering coverage–benefits for these services had to be more or less equal to the benefits offered for standard medical and surgical care. (You can read more about the act here!)

I was nineteen years old when the act was passed, and it was a huge moment in my life. But things are still not great; many insurance plans have extremely strict limits on the number of counseling visits allowed per year (the insurance plans I’ve had in the last ten years have placed a limit of twelve appointments per calendar year), and there is still much to be done before we can honestly say that mental health care is equal, in the eyes of insurers, to other types of medical care.

For one thing, enforcement of the parity law tends to leave much to be desired. The task force, which formed in March of this year, has identified the following objectives in reforming mental health care parity:

  • The Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services is awarding $9.3 million to states to help enforce parity protections. California, New York, Massachusetts, Oregon and Rhode Island were cited as models of promising enforcement efforts.
  • A new government website will help consumers identify the right agency to assist with their parity complaints and appeals.
  • A newly released consumer guide will help patients, families and providers understand their rights and look into whether they have experienced a parity violation.
  • The Department of Labor will report each year on its investigations into parity violations

-npr.org, “Federal Panel Calls For Stricter Enforecement of Mental Health Care Parity Law”

Though I am a bit skeptical that any great strides will be made in the immediate future, I am trying to remain cautiously optimistic that within the next few years, we’ll be able to enjoy equal benefits for mental health care.

My current insurance plan offers a very limited selection of counselors and psychiatrists, and wait lists are often several months long. I had an intake appointment a few weeks ago and am still waiting to hear back on whether or not the counselor in question will even accept me as a patient. I know my experience is not unique and, even more disturbingly, there is the continued dearth of hospital beds for people struggling with severe mental illness who need immediate hospitalization to survive.


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News Day Tuesday: Local Mental Health Resources

a cure for what ails you, abuse, anxiety, medication, News Day Tuesday, ptsd, therapy, three hopeful thoughts

Good afternoon, readers! This time, let’s talk local resources for mental health care.

I saw a wonderful counselor through the Johns Hopkins Student Assistance Program (which I’m eligible for because my significant other is currently a student). I’ll share more of the personal details in a post later this week, but the counselor I met with gave me some information about local resources I had no idea existed, and I’d like to pass those on to you. I feel they’ll be particularly useful to anyone in the Baltimore area, but I’m sure there are similar programs throughout the country.

First is Sheppard Pratt. Being new to the area, I was unfamiliar with this hospital, but they have a program specifically designed to help people dealing with all sorts of trauma.

The Trauma Disorders program at Sheppard Pratt specializes in dissociative disorders and CPTSD, which is exciting because I had no idea these types of programs existed anywhere. They certainly weren’t a thing in the Midwest, where I’m from. It’s an inpatient program, which isn’t a good fit for me for a number of reasons, but I plan to reach out to see if they know of any good outpatient therapists who are well-versed in these issues.

It’s comforting to know that there are facilities that offer support specifically tailored to complex post-traumatic stress disorder, which can present challenges to many therapists. I found one therapist during my time in Madison who seemed to know quite a bit about PTSD, including my dissociative symptoms, but she went on maternity leave shortly after I began seeing her. My subsequent searches for therapists was largely unsuccessful, which is not a negative reflection on any particular counselor–as I said, it can be a tricky affliction to effectively treat. I’ve been told that because of the depth of my dissociative symptoms, I’m not a great candidate for EMDR, which eliminates one of the most widely-used techniques for treating PTSD.

The second resource I learned about last Friday is the Baltimore County Crisis Response, which offers not only crisis intervention (as the name suggests), but also a 24-hour hotline and–this is the most exciting part–one-time psychologist and psychiatrist consults, which are particularly useful for people who are in a transitional period and looking for providers in the area but need refills of medication or therapy. That’s right, readers; there’s actually a place you can go for those all-important refills you can’t get anywhere else, which means no more rationing of medication to make it through.

The counselor at JHSAP was also kind enough to email me a long list of references for therapists in the area. Admittedly, I’ve been procrastinating a bit and haven’t gotten around to checking them out, but it’s on the list for this week.

Are you aware of resources and programs in your area, readers? Are they easy to locate, or do they require a bit of digging?


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Recovery is a verb: It’s what you do!

a cure for what ails you, anxiety, call for submissions, medication, rapid-cycle bipolar disorder, relationships, three hopeful thoughts, Uncategorized

I’m not going to lie–moving to Baltimore has been a bit of an adjustment for me. The whole new city, new places, new people thing doesn’t faze me, partly because I’m here with someone I love and care for deeply and can lean on, and partly because I was so desperate to get away from the Midwest, to start fresh and re-invent myself again.

The part that’s scary is not having much of a support system yet. I’ll admit it; I’m frightened because right now I don’t know many people and the ones I’ve met (and like immensely!) are my fella’s classmates. I’m in that awkward transitional phase where an introvert suddenly has to start over and find friends in the area to hang out with, and as someone who’s generally a homebody, it’s tough. It’s especially hard right now because I’m taking a gap semester to adjust, work on the blog and CTL, and find a grad school down here to continue my work toward a Master’s in Counseling Psychology. What that translates into is a lot of long days where I have to figure out what to do with myself.

I’ve had a rough few days. It always seems to hit around this time of year–I love autumn and it’s always been my favorite season, but as someone with relatively severe bipolar disorder, my brain chemistry doesn’t like the changing of the seasons so much. I’m hopeful that this year it won’t be so bad, as I’ve heard the seasons are a lot milder here in the Southeast. Still, I came to the realization last night that I need to change my meds a little bit, which is nothing unusual for me. (I have some beef with the texture of my uncoated lamotrigine tabs, which makes snapping them in half to add a half-dose for nighttime a little unpleasant texturally-speaking, but that seems pretty minor in the grand scheme of things.)

Important side note and disclaimer: I don’t recommend anyone tweaking their meds without the express permission and guidance of a psychiatrist–luckily, mine helped me develop a seasons guide to use in situations like this, where I’m unable to get in to see a doctor to make adjustments. I’m still within the prescribed dose range and am only doing this to get myself through until I’m able to start seeing a psychiatrist down here.

The other night, I finally opened up. My last relationship–a five-year marriage–was somewhat disastrous and left a ton of emotional damage. As some of you may remember, I was out of work for thirteen months because I was simply too ill to hold down a job with regular hours, and staying inside most of the time with little to do means I got a lot worse before I started getting better. I don’t want to become a dependent. I don’t want to be needy. I want to be a partner, a strong woman who is capable of supporting herself and living her own life and not feeling sad and lonely and, perhaps worst of all, soul-crushingly bored when I’m alone during the day.

To counter this, I’ve been making myself a little “schedule” for each day, just little things I can do to keep myself busy so that at the end of the day, I feel like I’ve accomplished something. It helps a little; I don’t feel as melancholy and like I wasted the day. But it’s still very much a process. Recovery is not something you either have or you don’t. It’s not like you either are or aren’t “recovered.”

Each of us has natural ups and downs in life, regardless of how well-medicated we are. We can take our pills every day and go to therapy and exercise and be social and do everything right, and we will still have low periods. It’s the nature of the illness. It doesn’t mean that we’ve failed on any level or that, as I believed for years, that we’re unsuitable partners, sons, daughters, friends. It just means that we have an illness and we’re doing everything we can to fight it. Despite our best intentions, it is always going to be there, and I’ve found that accepting that fact has it a lot easier to live with.

I’m trying to make friends with my brain again. I’m trying to make friends with the ugly voice in the back of my mind that tells me I’m not enough. It’s the same one that brings up such tiny, insignificant things from decades ago and nags me about how these events, most of which I had little control over, make me bad or less-than in some way. I talk to the negative thoughts. I tell them to shut up if I’m feeling peevish or overwhelmed, but I also try to be sympathetic. I try to rationalize with the parts of me that are still trying to drag me down.

I still externalize what I’m feeling and pretend I’m a therapist and my client is me-but-not-me, a person who has the exact same concerns and emotions and neuroses that I do. If I separate myself from the negative feelings and thoughts, it’s easier to cope. I feel a sense of power over the thoughts. I counter them with the A-B-C-D-E method of learned optimism, which, thankfully, is effective more often than not.

And most of all, I am still working hard to be kind to myself every day. When I’m feeling bad, I try to remind myself of everything I’ve accomplished so far in spite of these huge obstacles and the weight I’m still carrying around.

On a happier note, I found out that Johns Hopkins offers free counseling to students as well as family members and significant others, so I’ve put in an appointment request for short-term counseling to get me through until my Medicaid (ugh) paperwork is finished and I can find a long-term therapist and psychiatrist again.

In the meantime, I’m trying to practice good self-care and take pride and enjoyment in the little things in life, whether it’s nailing a tough piano piece or simply tidying up the apartment. I don’t want to go back to my life being all about pain. I want to keep moving forward, to keep doing more. I have huge goals for myself in life, and I refuse to let this illness keep me from accomplishing them. My stubbornness has kept me alive for 27 years, and I need to harness that and use it as a recovery tool.

Where are you in your recovery, readers? Do you have any helpful tips to share?

As always, stay safe and lovely and well. I’ll see you all again next Tuesday for another exciting News Day! And keep those submissions coming–I want as many unique voices and stories on the blog as possible!

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News Day Tuesday: Press Release – CPTSD.help

News Day Tuesday, ptsd, stigma, three hopeful thoughts

Greetings, readers! It’s News Day Tuesday once again, and I have something exciting to share this week. A little over a week ago, I was approached via email by Adriaan Bouman,  a web developer from Holland who’s created a new online community called CPTSD.help. The following is the press release I received:

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:

CONTACT:
Adriaan Bouman
CPTSD.help
info@cptsd.help

https://cptsd.help/

Introducing CPTSD.help

– Community-based recovery –

Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder: Knowing the name of it helps. Knowing that you’re not alone helps even more. CPTSD.helpis a secure, online, real-time chat platform where members can share experiences, offer support and discuss recovery topics in a safe space.

“Recovery can only take place within the context of relationships; it cannot occur in isolation.”

– Judith Lewis Herman

While C-PTSD is not yet recognised within the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM), it is defined as a psychological stress injury, resulting from continuous or repeated trauma over which the victim has little or no control, and from which there is no real or perceived hope of escape.

Web developer, Adriaan Bouman, created this open-source chat site not as a substitute for traditional therapy, but to establish a community that could help others on the road towards recovery. “In my own personal discovery and research I found that there are three main phases,” Bouman explains. “The first is diagnosis: identifying your condition as C-PTSD. The second phase is the journey towards recovery: a very personal journey. And the third is the period after recovery.”

This platform is for the many individuals within the middle phase. It’s for those who have identified their condition and are embarking on the journey towards recovery. Although that journey is always incredibly personal, it does not have to be taken alone.

CPTSD.help also links to many of the online resources that already exist, but what sets it apart from the rest is that its interactive nature encourages the dialogue necessary for understanding, grappling with, and hopefully overcoming C-PTSD. Discussion topics range from managing emotional flashbacks, finding the right therapist and mindfulness, to relationships, family, work, and even politics and philosophy.

Counsellors and therapists are also encouraged to join the community,” states Bouman. “The future aim is to have regular online Q&A events with experts; not only therapists, but also community members who have recovered from C-PTSD.”

– MORE –

While we may not know how many people suffer directly from the condition, we do know that there are millions out there who have been exposed to trauma on a continual basis. CPTSD.help allows us the opportunity to share valuable information, gain insights, and develop a community voice to demand a space in the DSM in the near future.

ABOUT CPTSD.help

Adriaan Bouman is a freelance front-end engineer and web developer from Holland, working out of Barcelona. He is not an expert in C-PTSD. His vision is simple: by building the platform for community engagement and support, those experts will eventually arise and help guide those still starting their recovery journey. No stranger to the power of online communities and international collaboration, Bouman brings a wealth of expertise in terms of digital and user experience design, to ensure CPTSD.help remains a secure and interactive platform for safe chat.

– END – 

I’m intrigued, to say the least. In general, I don’t jump into online spaces about mental illness because I usually go online to distract myself from whatever’s going on inside my head. However, this community is one to watch and I’m definitely going to be checking it out.

What communities are you into, readers? Have you had any experiences with targeted sub-Reddits (r/bipolar, for example)? What are your thoughts on an online community that includes patients as well as mental health professionals?

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News Day Tuesday: New drug for PTSD!

a cure for what ails you, medication, News Day Tuesday, ptsd, three hopeful thoughts

News on mental illness (aside from the usual stories about police brutality and the fact that mental illness physically alters your brain) has been somewhat scarce lately, readers. However, I did manage to scare up an article about a new drug for PTSD called TNX 102 SL, which is absorbed sublingually (under the tongue, like lorazepam and other anti-anxiety meds) and reportedly helps with some of the more disruptive symptoms of PTSD, like arousal/startle response, anxiety, and negative thoughts.

The drug is related to a muscle relaxant called Flexeril. I’ve heard of muscle relaxants being used to treat startle response in the past, but I’ve never tried anything of the sort before. I typically rely on lorazepam to control acute symptoms, like when I’m out in a crowded public space and begin to feel the good old irritability and hypersensitivity to sound kick in.

I’m pretty excited that new treatments are even being tested for PTSD, honestly. The startle response is definitely the worst symptom for me–any sudden noise, no matter how small, can provoke an ear-piercing shriek and a huge bump in my heart rate. And because I have chronic pelvic pain that’s partially caused by trigger points, the instinctive tensing makes the pain multiply, which makes me more miserable, and it becomes this whole endless cycle that’s really hard to break.

I’m also hopeful that some new treatments that help with sleep but don’t leave me a groggy mess the next day will pop up. I sleep very lightly now and have a hard time falling asleep. I usually use either lorazepam (if the insomnia’s not too bad, though I need at least two milligrams to get a good night’s rest) or quetiapine/Seroquel if I’m really sleep-deprived. However, even though those drugs work in the short-term, I end up sleeping way longer than intended and am basically a zombie the next day.

Readers, what do you think of this drug, given what limited information we have so far? Would you try it? What do you use to cope, either medically or psychologically?

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This week has an been a wild ride!

a cure for what ails you, medication, ptsd, rapid-cycle bipolar disorder, three hopeful thoughts

This story actually starts at the beginning of July, about a week after we moved to Baltimore. I applied for Medicaid through the healthcare marketplace, as did my fella. Since we listed each other on our applications (not knowing any better) and he filed after me, his app bumped mine out. I was never informed (oops), so I sat around for over a month wondering why I couldn’t get coverage and going through the frustration of weekly phone calls to check on my application, to no avail.

So that brings us to this week, when I finally ran out of my carefully-rationed venlafaxine. I’m supposed to take 75 mg a day, and had been taking 32.5 every other day to make sure I could stretch it because I had no other options. I took my last dose on Monday, and it took about a day and a half for the symptoms to start up. And man, did they come back with a vengeance.

I had two nearly-sleepless nights because of the brain zaps and headaches. My application had been received, Medicaid promised on Tuesday, but I had to give them more time to get me an ID number. Meanwhile, the depressive symptoms, combined with the stress of the whole unfortunate situation, snowballed into something truly awful.

The little sleep I did get this week was plagued by night terrors, involuntary twitching, and (so I’ve been told) a lot of whimpering in my sleep, some of which woke me up. I finally got my scripts filled today, after a bit of a fight regarding the dates on the prescriptions, then came home and promptly collapsed after taking one of my newly-procured venlafaxine.

Moral of the story: Withdrawal is exhausting. It’s hard on the patient, and it’s hard on the patient’s loved ones. Fortunately, my brain immediately grabbed that medication and held onto it ferociously, and I woke up feeling much better (perhaps because I slept like the dead for two hours).

This week was a test of my will to fight and my mindfulness skills. I didn’t cope as well as I had hoped–little things sent me into tears, and I was generally irritable the entire time. I didn’t like being around myself. I was plagued by guilt. I felt, for the first time in years, trapped in my body and helpless to fight my invisible tormentor–the bipolar disorder that had, once again, taken hold despite my best efforts to fix the situation.

The good news is that I’m on the mend. I now have insurance, so I can start shopping for a good psychiatrist/therapist/every other kind of doctor I have to see because my body’s kind of a wreck and I have a bunch of chronic illnesses that tend to require a lot of maintenance.

Have any of you had to detox against your will? I hope not, but from what I’ve been reading, it’s frighteningly common. Stay safe, readers. Hang in there–it’s finally the weekend, and I hope all have a lovely one. 🙂

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New Risk! Story!

Authoress, call for submissions, news and goings-on, rapid-cycle bipolar disorder, three hopeful thoughts

Happy Caturday, readers!

Just wanted to post a quick update to let you know that I’m still here and that I finally got it together enough to whip up a demo for the lovely Kevin Allison of the Risk! podcast. I performed in the Live from Milwaukee show in November and he approached me shortly before Christmas to see if I wanted to do another story on growing up/living with bipolar disorder, which I instantly agreed to–unfortunately, life kept getting in the way and I kept procrastinating. Fortunately, the demo is complete and I’m just waiting on my potato-quality internet to send it off. 🙂

On a more personal note, I’m relocating with Paul to the Baltimore-ish area in about a month and a half and am really looking forward to scoping out the advocacy and storytelling scenes down there. Also, I really want to branch out and start interviewing/gathering stories from other people living with mental illness, so if anyone’s interested in participating, definitely reach out.

Big things ahead, readers! This girl is hungry.

Roar, roar, the thunder and the roar.

a cure for what ails you, Authoress, explanations, major depression, rapid-cycle bipolar disorder, stigma, three hopeful thoughts

I am in the throes of my first major depressive episode in over six months. I know exactly what caused it—money problems, worrying about my grandma (who is now 91, essentially nonverbal, and raised me on her own, which basically makes her my mom), frustration over the slow divorce process, trying to figure out what’s going on with my headaches—but remained wilfully ignorant of the warning signs because I hoped it would pass.

I finally accepted/realized what was happening in my brain last night. I’ve been really horrible to myself lately in terms of inappropriate guilt and self-loathing. I’ve been blaming myself for a lot of things, most of which are completely out of my control. Once again, it’s not that I’m unaware of these problems. It’s that I have no idea what to do with the insights.

But I’m trying to stay positive because I know this will pass. My depressive episodes tend not to last very long—usually a month or two, and I’m about a week and a half into the really bad phase of this one. The final divorce hearing is on November 5th. Last night, my ex and I had an appointment at Green Path to figure out the debt situation, which is bad but not as bad as it could be. My fella’s coming back from his latest business trip tomorrow night. I’m one step away from completing my graduate school application; all I have left is the personal interview.

And I’m reminding myself of my plans for the future, too. Once I have my license, I plan to work as a counselor for a while, then go on to pursue a Psy.D and possibly a degree in Criminology as well, just for kicks. It’s looking more and more likely, given the progression of my various illnesses, that I won’t be able to have kids by the time I’m ready—and even if I’m able to retain some shreds of fertility, it’s probably not a good idea because I have so many health problems that are heritable. In other words, I have no reason not to go ridiculously hard at the school/career thing.

Once I’ve attained a certain level of credibility, I want to combine my love of/talent for writing with my passion for psychology (and, of course, fighting the stigma) and gain access to a psychiatric hospital with the goal of eventually writing a book about the hospital, perhaps some of the staff, and most importantly, the patients.

I want to tell their stories. I want to show people that we’re really not that scary. Even when our brains are doing some freaky and perplexing things, we still have hopes and dreams and fears and all the other little things that make neurotypical people “tick.”

I want to paint a picture of the hospital to prove that Hollywood has it wrong—I had the opportunity to tour the state hospital in Independence, Iowa as a senior in high school and found the facility stunningly different from what we’re fed through popular media. I’m tired of cringeing every time I hear the words “multiple personality disorder” on TV or see a straitjacket Halloween costume. I’m tired of being “The Other,” and I suspect most of you are, too. I’m tired of being seen as exotic and dangerous and unpredictable and sort of otherworldly just because my brain tends to misfire sometimes. I’m tired of having my struggles used for shock value. I’m tired of seeing symbols of our oppression used as fashion statements by the oblivious.

I want to fix that obliviousness or die trying. This is the one topic that has gotten me consistently fired up, regardless of my mental state. Even when I’m so far down that I can barely get out of bed, I can still muster up enough passion to call out the horrifying things I see, to correct the misinformation, to have a meaningful dialogue where I and the other person walk away feeling as though we’ve learned something.

As a nihilist, I reject the concept that anything has any inherent meaning; therefore, I don’t believe in the idea that anyone has a “calling.” That being said, I find this to be a very hopeful philosophy because it means each of us can choose our path in life. I believe that the things I’ve been through, the abuse and my brain chemistry and the various horrors I’ve seen, were formative in such a way that I feel compelled to devote my life to psychology. I guess this is how theists feel when they decide to become members of the clergy.

At the very least, I have to believe that my suffering (though I hate using that word because it feels incredibly maudlin and self-absorbed) has meant something. I have to believe that it’s redemptive and that it’s not too late for me, that my life has meaning. I constantly look for motivators, little signs that I’m meant to be here and that my existence has a purpose. I think that when a person is pushed to their absolute limit, they either try to find a reason to stay alive or they completely give up on life. I’m not ready to give up.

I am tougher than Chinese algebra and I am going to be okay.