In Honor of Carrie.

Mental health is messy. It is not glamorous, it is not fun. It makes people uncomfortable, so much so that those who share their stories are often told that they are oversharing or coming across as entirely disordered. That's what made Carrie Fisher such an amazing woman- she is the epitome of bravery. In spite of the big Hollywood expectations that surrounded her, she allowed her true, messy self to be seen. She made it okay to share our stories. She gave a big middle finger to the stigma that is associated with mental illness and lived so courageously. She will always be an icon in American cinematic history, but what I truly hope she is remembered for is her mental health advocacy. "At times, being bipolar can be an all-consuming challenge, requiring a lot of stamina and even more courage, so if you’re living with this illness and functioning at all, it’s something to be proud of, not ashamed of.” -Carrie Fisher

In honor of Carrie, I will continue to be seen as messy- to share my story, authentically and vulnerably. Because I believe that one day, people who struggle with mental illness will no longer face stigma and instead, will be supported and loved during their pursuit of overcoming their illness. I will live like the Princess, like the General in order to help others.

Photo from the Huffington Post's amazing piece on the OG mental health hero.

Finding Strength.

What's the Plan, Stan?

Every plan starts the same way- by thinking of the best possible outcome and figuring out what it will take to get there. Start your plan. What does your land of sunshine and unicorns look like? You can do this. It is time to start.

Know the Signs of Depression.

Know the signs. Seek help. Offer help. Let's get better, together.

Beating the Little Voice.

I originally started writing this for a scholarly, monthly e-journal for higher education professionals, but almost let the little voice in my head win: "this isn't good enough to share with your peers". The deadline grew closer and that little voice grew louder and more condescending. Through all the therapy, treatment, and medication, there are still times that the little "you aren't good enough" voice wins. Today, I am fighting back- I am beating the little voice...

I Have a Mental Illness, but I’m Not Crazy

According to the National Alliance on Mental Health, “one in four adults−approximately 61.5 million Americans−experiences mental illness in a given year”. With such a high percentage of our population facing mental illness, it is logical to assume that we will come into contact with individuals- colleagues, students, friends, or family members- who are tackling an unseen disease of the mind. Unfortunately, there is a dark stigma attached to mental illness and those who suffer from it; a stigma that can be broken down into five interrelated components: labeling, stereotyping, separation, status loss, and discrimination (Link & Phelan, 2001).

Labeling

Crazy. Over-emotional. High-strung. Wishy-washy. Needy. Too sensitive. Abnormal. Weird. These are all things I have been called over the last seven years- words that kept me from confiding in others because putting a name to my disorder would solidify the labels that I had so often heard. Because I was so afraid of these labels, I refused to acknowledge that I had a problem, thus avoiding the therapy and treatments that I desperately needed. Labels create an internalized stigma that can stop someone from seeking help. I have depression and anxiety that outwardly appears to be bipolar disorder, but that doesn’t define who I am or dictate my personality.

 Stereotyping

A quick Google image search of the phrase “mentally ill” reveals rows upon rows of thin, disheveled individuals with wild, desperate eyes. It was these pictures that came to mind when I first heard the words “bipolar disorder” escape from the mouth of my psychiatrist. Yet, recently, I was described as someone who “outwardly appears to be the girl next door.  Someone you would hire to babysit your kids or house sit for you while you are on vacation” (Coulter, 2016). This image is a sharp contrast to that of someone you would picture to be mentally ill. The stereotypical “mentally ill” individual is a fallacy; I have an illness, but I do not look sick.

 Separation

Making the decision to share my struggle with mental illness after almost seven years of suffering alone was one of the toughest decisions I have ever made, as the fear of backlash, rejection, and misunderstanding was overwhelming. I was very fortunate that the majority of the feedback that I got after first sharing my story was positive, yet I still received some harsh, hurtful criticism: “you are just doing this for attention” or “does this mean you are going to cry a lot more often?” The concept that mental illness and attention-seeking behaviors are intertwined is ridiculous.  Thoughtless comments like the aforementioned can cause divides within relationships. In a time of need, individuals struggling with a mental illness may find themselves alienated, ostracized, or separated from the people they need the most.

 Status Loss

As long as I can remember, there has been a little voice in the back of my head reminding me that I will never, ever be "good enough", thus feeding into my chronic depression. The most heartbreaking stigma that I have had to endure is that of status loss among the people I love most. My mental illness has always made me feel as if I am in need of repair. A colleague telling me that I shouldn't share my story with others as they may not be comfortable with me, or may not think I was competent at my job, solidified the notion that I was a broken girl who would never be good enough. Fortunately, this colleague was wrong- my mental illness has made me a more compassionate, empathetic advisor. I may be struggling to keep it all together at times, but I am not incompetent.

 Discrimination

The scariest part of publicly sharing my struggle with mental illness was knowing that there would be some discrimination that would follow. Widely publicized incidents like the Sandy Hook shooting and the attack on Charleston's Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church Large have caused fear to rise in the throats of those who hear the words "mentally ill". Large studies conducted in 1996 and 2006 showed that "Americans grew less willing over time to befriend or work with someone with schizophrenia, and more inclined to see people with the disease as violent and dangerous" (Szabo, 2014). Navigating mental illness can be a scary thing, but I promise you, I am not to be feared.

A recent study found that over half of college students are experiencing some form of mental illness (Zivin et al., 2009), thus leading to a reasonable conclusion that, even if you or a colleague is mentally well, you will interact with someone who is not well within the college setting. Mental illness- whether it be fleeting or chronic- needs to be talked about. The more conversations that are had, the less power the stigma attached to mental illness will become; thus, empowering those living with mental health issues to seek help, get better, and persevere.

References

Coulter, J. (2016, May 12). How a Cat and Young Woman Save Lives. Retrieved June 15, 2016, from ConquerWorry.org: http://www.conquerworry.org/blog/5-12-2016

Link, B. & Phelan, J. (2001) Conceptualizing Stigma. Annual Review of Sociology 27(3): 363–85.

National Alliance on Mental Health. (n.d.). Any Mental Illness (AMI) Among Adults. Retrieved June 15, 2016, from National Alliance on Mental Health: http://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/statistics/prevalence/any-mental-illness-ami-among-adults.shtml#sthash.UGAqHdQD.dpuf

Szabo, L. (2014, June 25). Cost of Not Caring: Stigma Set in Stone. USA Today , pp. 14-20.

Zivin, K., Eisenberg, D., Gollust, S. E., & Golberstein, E. (2009). Persistence of mental health problems and needs in a college student population. Journal of Affective Disorders , 117, 180-185.

You Matter.

Just in case you ever, ever doubted it- you matter. You are here for a reason. Sometimes, life is going to be hard, so hard that you may want to give up. It is okay to feel weak and to question your journey. Those are the moments that will help you grow stronger. Whatever you do, don't give up. You matter.

Year Seven.

The 4th of July has always been a day that has been marked by insane adventures for me- this year I was moving in 95 degree South Carolina heat after spending the weekend in the mountains, two years ago was spent at a theme park with my family, four years ago was filled with creating new art for an upcoming move, and seven years ago was spent on a family vacation through Tennessee. Just my parents, sister, and I on a month-long trip through the state. I had happened to have just gone through a traumatic break-up, was experiencing some really dramatic highs and lows in rapid fire, and was battling some of the ugliest internal monsters I had ever seen. I was on a speeding train towards disaster.

Because of the glory of the Timehop app, yesterday I had the jarring experience of looking back at the photos from the vacation (below). That person is someone I don't recognize anymore- so thin and gaunt, hiding anger, anxiety, frustration, depression, self-loathing all beneath the surface of a too-tight smile. That person scares me and comforts me. Two months after that vacation, I hit rock bottom and started to seek help. That moment in my life represents the worst struggle and the best decision I have ever made.

In a perfectly serendipitous turn of events, I ended up in the Smoky Mountains once again this 4th of July weekend. This time, my days were spent relaxing with my family, the datemate, his family, and friends. I felt calm, controlled, and happy. It was the perfect way to mark year 7 on my journey towards getting better. Every single day is a struggle, but that doesn't mean that you give up on finding serenity. It makes the great days even sweeter, the love even deeper, and the hopefulness even stronger.

Enjoy the small things today. Find something beautiful. Cherish it. You ARE making progress.

This past weekend. Vacation with the datemate. My progress.

Tonight.

Tonight, I am angry. Furious at the universe for cursing me with this life. All week, things have been going wrong- nothing on my to-do list has been accomplished, my truck needed more repairs for the second week in a row, my body is tired and achy, my time spent at work has felt meaningless, I have pushed my boyfriend away (again), and experienced failure in the harshest way. For a "normal" person, this may just seem like a bad week. But for me (and my friends, depression and anxiety) this week is a downward spiral towards a really negative place. Tonight, I want to scream and cry and rip from my chest this feeling of crushing defeat. My tongue becomes a weapon, ready to lash out at anyone who tries to reason with me. "Everything is going to be okay. Things happen for a reason. Next week will be better." Every cell in my body is screaming in reply- you are wrong. I want to show them how wrong they are by breaking them down with my words. I want to bring them to my level so I am not so alone in this pit of despair.

Tonight, I am self-aware. I can feel my racing heartbeat in my toes, my muscles tensing up, and my skin becoming claustrophobic. I feel trapped in the muggy heat of my own body. The breathing exercises, the mantras, the medication, the habits, the triggers. I know what they all are, how they play into this disease, and how I can use them to move myself towards a better place. But I am tired of fighting a battle that I know will not end- I am disgusted with this body for betraying me with its chemical imbalances, hormones, and the broken neurotransmitters.

Tonight, I am my disorder. I am a living, breathing caricature of the chronic depressive disorder, generalized anxiety, and obsessive compulsive behaviors cocktail that lives in my brain. I don't like it- I hate it quite honestly. This disease that drags me to the darkest of places. That causes me to lose control of my emotions, my physical being, and my own stream of consciousness. That causes me to embarrass myself by crying in the middle of an aisle at Lowe's because they don't have a plant I want. I am no longer me- the pieces of my identity are overshadowed by my disorder.

Tomorrow, I will keep fighting. I will do whatever it takes to pull myself from this awful place I am in tonight. It may take weeks or days- I didn't come here overnight and I won't be able to leave the same way. I will stick to my therapy plan and I will force myself to prevail. This is a battle that will never end, but that doesn't mean that I am going to quit. Not tonight.

Bad Eyebrows.

Sometimes, depression can sneak up on you- coming out of nowhere to hit you like a semi-truck. It starts leaving its hints of its arrival days or weeks before it actually settles in. Little things like taking an extra 10 or 15 minutes to fall asleep or not really being hungry come meal-times. For me, there is one thing that always gives away the impending arrival of my old friend depression- bad eyebrows. When I start to fall into a low period, I find myself caring less and less about how I look- I won't take the time to do my makeup or fix my hair or most drastically, pluck my eyebrows. All of a sudden, I will look in the mirror and realize that those two furry caterpillars on my face are the sign that I might need to take a mental health day to take care of myself. How do I feel? Where am I on the scale- 1 being happy and 10 being depressed? Have I experienced any triggers recently? Have I been taking my medication?

They say (whoever 'they' are) that you should never take advice from someone with bad eyebrows. However, I am going to challenge that as I sit in front of my computer screen with some pretty terrible eyebrows that haven't been attended to in about 2 weeks and ask you to take some advice from someone who is still learning to figure out how to navigate the world of depression. Learn what the signs of depression are for you. Whether you have chronic depression or just tend to fall into small bouts of it from time to time, knowing what the signs are will help you get better quicker. You can step in front of the sadness, frustration, and apathy to start addressing what may be causing those feeling. You can can overcome.

Find your equivalent of bad eyebrows. It may make all the difference.

How a Cat Saved My Life.

There are two things that anyone who meets me knows to be true: I am lowkey obsessed with my puppy and I am a very proud crazy cat lady. I'll share more about Minnie the puppy later- she has already had her 5 seconds of fame on this blog. Today is about Addy, my cat and the reason I am still here on this earth. The semester of college right after I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder was the worst of my life. I was in a terrible relationship with a real loser. I was on a highly competitive, world-ranked winterguard team which I never, ever felt good enough for. I stupidly decided to take on way too many credits in school. I had just joined my sorority and wasn't prepared for the time/energy/self commitment. I was struggling to figure out my identity as someone saddled with a mental illness. Essentially, I ran myself into the ground and then decided to dig a little bit deeper- just for good measure.

Somehow in the middle of all this, I found some time to adopt a kitten. I grew up around animals and had convinced myself that if I got a kitten, everything would magically get better. My aunt (another crazy cat lady) took me to the local Humane Society to "look around", knowing fully that I couldn't leave without my own ball of fur. So insert Addy- the cutest, spunkiest kitten you'll ever meet.

Unfortunately, getting a kitten didn't solve all of my problems- shocker, I know. I found myself sinking deeper and deeper into depression, which felt impossible to overcome. I felt like my only out would be taking my own life. Living each day was so hard- all I wanted was some peace. Suicide seemed so serene, like I could finally get some rest.

I planned everything out- I cleaned my apartment so no one would have to bother, figured out my method- something simple and painless, and wrote a goodbye to everyone that I loved. However, there was one problem. I had no idea how long it would take for someone to realize that I wasn't answering my phone or showing up to things. I was worried that Addy would have to go too long without someone giving her food or water. I couldn't be responsible for both of our deaths. So I drove the 45 minutes home to drop Addy off at my parent's house. That is when everything changed.

My mom had come home early from work that day and had already started dinner. My plan to drop off Addy and run was no longer feasible- I had to stay and pretend to be the happy, wonderful daughter and sister my family knew. It was all too much and for the first time in my life, I finally broke down and talked to my mom about what I was feeling. I told her I was so unhappy that I considered suicide. The pain in her eyes was more than I ever wanted to see. I knew I had to find my courage and do whatever it took to get better. I couldn't hurt my family by taking my life- my personal pain would never amount to the pain my death would have caused them.

I started seeing a new therapist the next week.

I will often think back to that day- my decision day where I chose life over death- and think about what would have happened if I had never gotten Addy or didn't care about her well-being. Suicide isn't rational- I'm thankful that it isn't. My concern for a kitten saved my life. So when people reproach me for being a crazy cat lady, I couldn't be more proud. For if it wasn't for a sassy cat and an irrational love, I wouldn't be here today.

Considering suicide? There is help. The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is always there to listen- 1 (800) 273-8255.