The Masks We Wear.

Recently, my fiancé and I started pre-marital counseling, which has been an odd transition for me after 8-plus years of seeing counselors individually. We are supposed to work through things like "how will you raise your kids" or "what is your approach to money management"; yet, our conversations haven't been able to address those topics quite yet. We have had to talk to death a challenge we are currently facing. While a necessary part of the couples counseling process, it has been painful and unpleasant. But it has also led to some pretty astounding revelations. Last night, my crippling fear of masks was the revelation of the hour.

Not masks like Halloween masks- albeit I will be the first to tell you that I am truly terrified of costumes that cover peoples faces- but the masks that we create and wear to protect ourselves from other people, from hurt, from ourselves. For years, I wore a mask. Every day, I worked tirelessly to make sure that no one would see the real me- the girl struggling with depression and anxiety, who felt like she couldn't keep herself glued together no matter how much primping took place. I wanted to be the perfect daughter, sister, student, sorority woman, employee, friend, sweetheart. Mental illness isn't perfect; it is messy. My mask covered that mess.

Until January 28th, 2016, when I decided to publicly take off my mask and toss it aside. That day, I promised that I would be authentic and real. I committed myself to sharing stories in order to help others see that mental illness is not something to be ashamed of or embarrassed about. I gave up the mask and it was scary and painful, but so worth it. Yet now, over a year later, I have found myself wearing a mask once again... pretending to be someone I am not. I find this mask suffocating and cruel. I want to fight it. Everything in my body is telling me to rip it off and throw it away with spite and anger.

But I can't. Because this mask isn't for me. It is for someone else. Sometimes we are asked to wear a mask in order to help others... like when visiting a sick friend and bringing cheer and smiles when all we want to do is cry. It may sound counterintuitive, but there are times when pretending is the best way to be authentic. Deep, meaningful love and tremendous care for others may mean gently settling into a part, a role, a place, a mask. It may be uncomfortable. It can bring great sadness.

That is the gamble that comes from sharing your life with others. There are days when you must wear a mask for someone else... to ease their suffering or to make their life better. But that doesn't mean that you lose yourself behind that mask. My revelation was that, although I hate wearing a mask, there is so much freedom in being able to decide when and where I will wear it. You have the control to decide the fate of your story, to decide who get to be apart of it and who gets to know it. That freedom is liberating. It is cleansing. While we all must wear masks from time to time, know that the decision to embrace that mask is yours alone.

“No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to himself and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be the true.” -Nathaniel Hawthorne in The Scarlet Letter

The Day After The Day About Love.

Valentine's Day is weird. Nearly everyone falls into two camps when it comes to feelings about the day- you either adore it and spend all day wrapped in bliss or you hate it and spend all day lamenting about how awful love is. For ten years, I thought that the only boyfriend that would ever stick around would be depression; we had a horribly unhealthy relationship, but he always stuck around even when I tried to date someone else. When I was ready to take (yet another) break from dating, I just happened to match with a smooth talker who convinced me that he deserved a chance. On one of our first dates, I could not stop myself from spilling every detail of my struggle with mental illness with this introverted, quiet man that had no idea what to expect from the loud redhead that he met through online dating. For some insane reason, he asked me out again and again and again- even after that embarrassing lack of constraint on that date.

About three months later, I woke up with high anxiety and knew that I was close to a breakdown. He could tell something was wrong just by looking at my face and soon found himself holding me as wrapped myself in a blanket burrito and sobbed uncontrollably. With a tear streaked face, I asked him if he thought I was crazy and if he still wanted to be with me. I had been through this before- meet a man, start to fall for him, and then the depression and anxiety scares him away. But this time proved to be different; he pushed the hair out of my face and said “I have been waiting for this. I want to see the real you- all of you. The perfectly imperfect you.”

I fell in love with someone who sees my mental illness as just another thing that makes me unique and wonderful. On the days that feel impossibly hard, he encourages me to try to take one step- get out of bed- and then another- make coffee- and another, until I feel confidently enough to take on the day. He reminds me to take my medication every day- he is a pharmacist after all- and tells me to focus on breathing when I feel an anxiety attack creeping in. I brought my mental illness to this relationship, but that doesn’t mean that it has control over us. My mental illness is a challenge that we embrace together, every day.

In October, we are getting married. My anxiety tends to be a party crasher and will probably show up without RSVPing, but we are ready. In life and love, there is nothing that is impossible when you have the hope and fight in you to keep pushing on.

PS Check out Ryan & Alyssa Photography! They took this amazing picture of us.

A Sister's Love.

My sister, Stephanie, and I are as polar opposite as you can imagine. She is athletic, beautiful, introverted, and street-smart. I am artistic, awkward, extroverted, and book-smart. Growing up, we clashed daily and gave our parents a run for their money. However, through everything we did to each other (including multiple death threats, stealing each others' everything, and constantly beating each other up) we always, ALWAYS loved each other. She is both my foil and my soulmate. Which made it incredibly hard to ever share with her that I was struggling to make it through each day. I wanted to be her strong big sister- the person she could always rely on, the person she could look up to. If anything was ever to take that away, I was worried that I would lose prestige in her eyes. I wouldn't be as important. She would forget about me. Ever since I moved away for college, then graduate school, and now for my first job, I have feared that we would end up like so many siblings- distant and unconnected. She was my first and my best friend. What if my mental illness scared her away?

"The should haves and what ifs will eat your soul."

After being a part of 'This Is My Brave', I knew it was just a matter of time before she found out that I had been hiding such a big secret from her. So, like any terrified adult, I made the grown-up decision to send her a link to this blog and then run away, anxiously awaiting her response. A response that would actually have me laughing, instead of crying like I had anticipated...

"You ain't gotta hide yourself. People got shit going on in their lives and no one should be ashamed to hide anything. In a world full of Bruce Jenners, be a Caitlyn." -Stephanie

That's my sister, y'all. Accepting, loving, and a little weird. 23 years of putting up with one another and I should have expected nothing less from her. I think she always had an understanding that something was not quite right, but that wasn't necessarily important to her. Our relationship is stronger than anything that life may throw at us- mental illness, distance, whatever. I will always be Stephanie's big sister; however, it seems like I still have a lot to learn from her. Thank you, Nan.

Family Secrets.

When I was first diagnosed with bipolar disorder in September of 2009, I made the promise to myself that no one would ever know. I wanted everyone who met me to think I was perfect- an unattainable goal that no one can ever meet. A mental illness would mean that I wasn't perfect; that I was broken and flawed, a reject from God's assembly line. The shame of having a mental illness would drive me to great extremes, including lying to friends, family, boyfriends, and bosses. If my depression chained me to my bed for a day, my excuse was that "my car wouldn't start" or I had "caught a stomach bug". If I couldn't contain my emotions- sadness, anger, anxiety- then I was "just on my period". This sham went on for nearly 6 years. I was afraid that, if people found out about my mental illness, then everything that the depression and anxiety had been telling me would be true. No one would love me. My friends would leave me. My family would be embarrassed of me. As the years (and therapy sessions) went by, I started to overcome this fear and became more and more comfortable with sharing my story with others. First, my sorority sisters, then boyfriends and other friends. But I could never find the courage to talk to my family about it.

I am so very blessed with two of the most amazing parents on the planet, a sister who is both my foil and my soulmate, and an army of aunts, uncles, cousins, second-cousins, and people who aren't biologically related, yet absolutely part of my family. I was so deeply ashamed of my diagnosis- the idea that I could possibly bring shame to them was paralyzing. Mulan had nothing on me...

"Dishonor. Dishonor on your whole family. Make a note of this- dishonor on you. Dishonor on your cow." -Mushu to Mulan, Disney's Mulan (1998)

The thing that truly scared me the most was that I was afraid that they would blame themselves. That they would see my depression as a result of something that they did- that they weren't loving enough or didn't give me enough attention. Often, when trying to process mental illness, people seek something or someone to blame. I was terrified they would think it was their fault, that it would hurt them, or bring them guilt. That would be the farthest thing from the truth ever possible. I had an amazing childhood. I come from a family that bubbles over with love for each other. Although far from perfect, my family is perfect to me. The idea that they may feel like they were to blame for my mental illness felt like it may kill me. I couldn't bare to think of it.

So I decided that they would never know. The manager of our insurance account, my mom knew I was seeing a therapist and that I was struggling with anxiety and some depression- but what college student isn't? She would get the bills from my doctors, so there was no use trying to hide everything from her. But my dad and my sister? I couldn't let them know. I couldn't let the facade of the perfect daughter and sister drop.

That is, until I decided to start this blog. While home for Christmas break this past year, I knew I needed to tell them myself rather than let them read about it secondhand. I sat down in my father's office- him behind his desk, I in the recliner across from him and my mother on the bench next to me. I remember that my mom was doing laundry in the adjacent room so I could smell the clean, fresh scent of detergent- I thought "please help me clean this air, make this easier". Through tears, sobs, and snot, I explained to my parents that I had been struggling with a mental illness for years and that I was going to start sharing this story, my story- with them and with strangers. My dad's response?

"Okay. You know I love you and am going to support you no matter what."

It felt so anticlimactic. I had waited nearly 6 years to tell them that I was sick and the response I got felt so easy and relaxed. Like I had just told them that I was starting a new job or buying a new car. That's when I realized that it didn't matter that I had a mental illness, I was still me. My depression and anxiety had never defined me, thus my family saw me for who I was. I was the one who had built up this idea that their love could be swayed by the revelation that I was not their perfect daughter or sister. Their love would never change- mental illness is no match for a family's love.

And for that, I am most thankful.

A Follow-Up.

After posting Falling in Love When Depressed, I learned something that I have long tried to preach to my students, yet apparently have not done a very good job at internalizing. Intent versus impact. When I wrote that blog, my intent was to share how I experience relationships as someone with a chronic mental illness. My hope was that the blog would help others that may get stuck in the same routine of self-sabotage when in romantic relationships. When I 'give and give and give', it is not to my relationships or to individuals. It is to my own self-doubt. That is my fatal flaw. That is why many of my relationships have failed. While building a support system over the last 10 years, I have learned that this tends to be a common problem for people who suffer from depression. We do not believe that we are worth the love that is given to us, thus we reject it and hurt our friends, families, and loved ones in the process.

Unfortunately, the impact was that some individuals took to speculation regarding the former boyfriends that I eluded to in the post. The point of the post was not to throw anyone under the bus or paint anyone in a malicious light. I made sure to have an in-depth conversation with the man referenced in "my last serious relationship before meeting datemate" to let him know what I was writing about so that he would know that it was not about him or about our relationship, but about how my mental illness impacts my life. He gave me his blessing. We ended on good terms and continue to be on good terms.

Saying that, I have not always been the most upstanding person when it comes to dealing with exes and failed relationships. I would like to blame part of that on my obsessive behaviors or anxiety or depression, but there is no one or nothing to blame but me. The easy route has always been to hide behind my mental illness; yet, over the last few months I have learned that this doesn't make the hurt go away- it only spreads it wider and deeper. Sometimes hurt makes us say and do terrible, awful things. I have let wounds fester and resentment grow. For that, I am sorry. I am sorry for what I have said about others and for how that may have impacted their lives. I am sorry for who I let myself become at times.

Each relationship I have been in has helped to mold who I am today. However, those relationships are now over and are of our own private business. This blog is about my personal experiences with mental illness- I never want it to be construed any other way.

This is my life, my journey. I am still learning to stay healthy, be a better person, and let positivity prevail. Thank you for being a part of that.

Falling in Love When Depressed.

I am one lucky lady. 8 months ago, I started dating one of the most amazing human beings to ever grace this earth. He is a level-headed, introverted gentleman- I am grade A, regulation crazy. It is an odd, but perfect fit. Before I met the datemate (as I so affectionately like to call him), I had let my mental illness call the shots in my relationships. I settled for less than I was worth because my anxiety had me convinced that I did not deserve to be happy. I dated men who saw my depression before they saw me, who used my low self-esteem to grow their own egos, who took advantage of the victim mentality that I had internalized. Although not every gent that I dated fit the aforementioned bill, more often than not I found myself in relationships that fed my mental illness rather than help to overcome it.

In my last serious relationship before meeting datemate, I found myself spiraling out of control, caught in the throws of a major depressive episode. I had lost myself in my attempts to be "good enough" for someone that I had placed upon a pedestal- they had lived through pain and come out on the other side okay; maybe I could to. I gave and I gave and I gave of myself until I had nothing else left to give. In the end, I had my heart broken because I had finally given so much that I was a shell of a person. When there was nothing left, he was gone thus throwing me even deeper into the cycle of self-loathing, depression, and unbearable hopelessness. We are both left to blame for this failed relationship, yet I am the only one to blame for what it did to me.

Being in love with someone else when you have a hard time loving yourself is incredibly difficult. I have been so amazingly lucky to find someone who is willing to teach me how to fall in love- both with him and with myself. There are days where I will ask "are you sure you love me?" a dozen times or will obsessively replay conversations in my head, convinced that datemate is going to break up with me over a misplaced word. Fortunately for me, it doesn't matter how many times I need to ask for reassurance or how many times he has to drive me to McDonalds for a post-anxiety attack Happy Meal. Datemate sees how a mental illness impacts me, but he does not let it define me or our relationship. I am not my depression or anxiety- something he knows well and does a fantastic job of reminding me of.

Beyond building a strong relationship with a foundation of trust, understanding, and patience, we are partners who attempt to push each other to be better people- not just for each other, but for ourselves. He reminds me to take my medication (a fitting job for a pharmacist), always makes me feel beautiful, and gently lets me know when I am letting my anxiety or depression speak for me. I pull him out of his shell, challenge him with new experiences, and always have a stupid pun or one-liner ready to make him smile. Although I have said the 3 most daunting words in the English language to many people, I don't think I ever truly knew what "I love you" meant until now.

Love will test your patience, challenge you, force you to face the ugliest of things within you, show you how wonderful life can be, build you up and then tear you down. The ups and downs are what make love the best therapy- by learning to love another, I have started to learn how to love myself.

"Do not bring people into your life that weigh you down. Trust your instincts. Good relationships feel good. They feel right. They don't hurt. They're not painful." Michelle Obama

Meet Minnie.

"Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. Art is knowing which ones to keep."-Scott Adams

The day before I was leaving the state for a business trip, the woman who has been my rock since I moved to South Carolina (hi Liz) came into my office with the cutest, sweetest little puppy in the entire world. As soon as I laid eyes on her, I started to cry. I knew that this little runt of a pup was going to be mine.

I immediately rushed with my friend to see the co-director of the local Humane Society that was fostering Minnie. I would have done ANYTHING to adopt Minnie, but it was as simple as filling out an application and promising to make Minnie's foster parents her permanent god-pup-parents. Imagine Kristen Bell's sloth meltdown (Google it). That was me when I got the word that Minnie was mine- ugly crying all around.

Our First Picture Together

Minnie is my first puppy. I have been a cat mom for almost 7 years now- raising a puppy would be easy, right? ABSOLUTELY FREAKING NOT. From peeing on the carpet, to biting everything in sight, to chasing the cat around, to jumping on furniture, to scratching people. EVERYTHING WAS HARD.

Days after I adopted Minnie, my (amazing, adoring, wonderful) boyfriend sat me down and told me that he thought getting Minnie was a mistake. As I sobbed hysterically and asked him if he wanted me to give her back, he calmly explained that he would never ask me to give her back and this conversation wasn't meant to make me feel bad. Instead, he was simply pointing out a lesson that he had recognized early on, but I had not yet fully grasped.

Minnie is my perfect mistake. Was I impulsive in adopting her? Yes. Did I get in WAY over my head? Absolutely. Is she one of the best things to ever happen to me? Hell yeah. Minnie has taught me selflessness and responsibility, and has inadvertently become my greatest therapy. I can't let myself stay in bed for hours. Minnie needs to go potty or needs breakfast. I can't let my anxiety take over. Minnie feeds off my anxiety which leads to a very stressed pup.

Now I am not advocating that everyone who is struggling with a mental illness go get a puppy and that everything will magically get better. See my previous blog about Addycat for reference. I was in the right time of my life with the proper financial stability, a network of people to help me, and the dedication to take care of, train, and love Minnie. Even with all of the logical factors in place, adopting Minnie has been one of the biggest challenges I have taken on thus far...

and I wouldn't change a damn thing.

Self-Fulfilling Prophecies.

Have you ever been to Charleston, South Carolina? If not, put it on your bucket list. This weekend, I spent 4 beautiful days with several coworkers turned friends turned family. Being around these brilliant, loving people in such a calming and wonderful place filled my soul and gave me the energy to keep king on this semester after weeks of trouble and stress. Realizing how fortunate I am to have this army of support around me caused me to pause and reflect upon how rare this can be for someone struggling with depression or anxiety. Often, the support is there but our brains won't allow us to accept it.

Mental illness is not rational. There are days where I catch myself stressing over whether or not I am too much of a burden on the people who love me, if I am deserving of such amazing friends, or if people just pretend to like me because they feel obligated to. I constantly fear the day that my best friend will push me away out of disgust or the day that my boyfriend will break up with me because he has realized that I (and my depression and anxiety) are truly too much to handle.

In the past, this has created many self-fulfilling prophecies. I believe that my depression and anxiety will become too much for others, thus I push them away before they have the chance to see the person behind the illness. I will ask over and over again "are you sure you still want to be with me?" My constant worrying and need for confirmation will come across as needy or insecure or just plain annoying. The relationship ends in heartbreak and again, I feel like I am not good enough or a burden or undeserving.

Being plague by these feelings of doubt and fear is far worse than any rejection I have ever experienced. The day that I realized that I could be loved and, better yet, deserved to be loved was the most liberating day of my life. Depression and anxiety is a part of me and therefore, often becomes a part of my relationships. However, it does not have to define them. Yes, I still ask my boyfriend if he is absolutely positive that he still wants to be with me on a weekly basis. Yes, the thoughts of self-doubt still pop up every time someone is short with me during a conversation. Yet instead of letting myself fall into the cycle of cataclysmic thinking, I pause and ask myself where these feelings are coming from. I remind myself that I am loved because I deserve love.

Love is the Achilles' heel of depression and anxiety.

Regret.

Today, I am full of regret. It feels hypocritical because nearly every day I ask my students or my friends "what would you do without expectations, boundaries, or fear of failure?" By living this motto, you should never have regrets. Yet here I am. On January 8th, this world lost a truly amazing human being after a year long battle with cancer. Larry was my cousin- albeit if you looked at our family tree you wouldn't be able to easily figure out where he fit. He was married to an amazing woman that I grew up calling my cousin, even though we have no blood relation. She is the unofficial adoptive daughter of my mother's sister- yet you would never know that we weren't all blood related, as my aunt has more love than what could possibly all fit inside her tiny body. She has treated all of us- daughters, nieces, nephews, boyfriends, friends- as her own children. Larry was her son- no question about it.

The last time I saw Larry was 2 years ago at my grandfather's funeral. The last time I saw his youngest son, Mason- my second cousin or nephew as I call him- was when he was still in diapers, a baby just barely a year old. Mason and I nearly share a birthday. He turns 4 years old in August. Between moving away from home for graduate school and then getting a job out of state, it has been easy for me to make excuses not to come home- to alienate the people who have always been family. I have been scared that maybe I have changed too much, that they won't understand me or like me anymore, that I won't fit in. I have had family members turn their backs on me before and I think, in my mind, it would be easier to run away from them than to let them leave me. My own fear has cost me the chance to learn from one of the courageous men on this earth.

Larry was the type of person that rarely spoke, but when he did, you knew you were going to laugh. He was kind, goofy, caring, and witty. At our last Christmas together, I remember him cracking a joke about how incredibly weird the sisters (my mother and her 3 sisters) are. What he, nor anyone else at that gathering knew, was that I was teetering on the brink of a panic attack that night- I hate crowds and dislike Christmas because I feel so much pressure to make everyone else feel happy. I have to hide my anxiety. His jokes helped keep me calm. He helped save me from embarrassment.

When I found out that Larry had cancer, it was easy for me to pretend that it wasn't happening. He was in Florida, while I was in South Carolina. I would get updates via text or Facebook. It was like reading about someone else- not him. That made it easier to lessen the pain. It wasn't fair that something like this could happen to someone like him. Larry was a warrior, a fighter. He was a father of 5, an adoring husband, a hard-worker, even when his body was turning against him. Throughout the whole ordeal, he never lost his faith in God- a battle that I gave up on a long, long time ago. He had courage in the face of tremendous adversity. He was a hero.

I regret not taking the time to learn more from Larry. I regret letting my own fear of rejection keep me from the very family that has always been there for me. I regret not taking the time to simply reach out and ask what I could do to make things easier. I regret not coming home to see him one last time.

Regret doesn't really do much, other than make you feel lousy. But I think that lessons can be learned from regret. Don't wait to reach out to those that you love. Don't let your own selfish fear stand between you and the people who can change your life. Be courageous.

For you, Larry. I love you, I miss you, and I am so sorry I wasn't there.

LARRY ROBERTS, 39

Larry Roberts, 39 of Lakeland, FL, died peacefully at home Friday January 8th, 2016, surrounded by his family and friends. Larry was a warrior and fought a year long battle with cancer.

Larry was an employee for G&G Electric Company in Lakeland and they became his second family. He was a friend to many and was always willing to do whatever he could for whoever he met. The world was a better place with him in it. He was a member of Oasis Community Church.

Larry is survived by his wife of 12 years, Tamara Roberts and their 5 children: Cooper (8), Mason (3), Alexis (17), Mitchell (15) and Tristan (13) and many other family and friends. The family will receive guests from 3 to 5 p.m. January 24th with a service at 5 p.m. at Oasis Community Church. In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to the C-5 Youth ministries at Oasis Community Church.

A good name is better than fine perfume, and the day of death better than the day of birth. Ecclesiastes 7:1