Motivation Monday.

Know the Signs of Depression.

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

Motivation Monday.

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.

Wake-Up Wednesday.

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.

This is My Brave.

This Is My Brave, Inc., a 501(c)3 non-profit organization (http://thisismybrave.org) is the leading platform for individuals to share their stories of living successful lives despite a diagnosis of a mental health disorder through artistic expression (spoken word poetry, original music and essay readings) on stage in front of a live audience. We're opening up the conversation about mental health disorders in communities all across the country and beyond via our YouTube channel.

We're shining a light on mental illness because it has been in the dark too long. We're ending mental illness stigma, one story at a time.

"This Is My Brave - the Show" - 2016 Greenville performance

May 5, 2016 The Kroc Center, Greenville SC

Donate to This Is My Brave, Inc. to help us continue to shine a light on mental illness: http://thisismybrave.org/donate/

In the Wake of Tragedy

This week, I have taken a hiatus from social media and my blog to reflect, grieve, and seek hope. My silence is not a sign of apathy or complacency. Sometimes, in the wake of tragedy, you need time to take care of yourself before answering the call to action. Thank you Jennifer Marshall and This Is My Brave, Inc. for giving me the opportunity to share my thoughts on your blog.

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.

Grab a Shovel.

Today, I woke with a sense of urgency. The world is changing around us- will we move towards the light of progress or let the hatred, bigotry, and systematic oppression keep us in the dark? The last few months have been wrought with fear mongering, violence, and malicious actions. It is time to make a change. Recently, I have become obsessed with the Broadway show Hamilton and have memorized the ENTIRE cast recording. There is one line that has resonated with me so deeply in the last few weeks- "we in the shit now, somebody gotta shovel it!' The world has been turned upside down- Brexit, Trump's presidential candidacy, multiple mass shooting, acts of terrorism around the world. Normally, surrounded by so much negativity, I would feel a depressive episode pulling at the edges of my mind. But not now.

It is time to take the frustration, anger, depression, anxiety, and fear and change it into power, into movement. I am on fire, burning through these emotions. Grab a shovel, it is time to get to work.

*Yes, that is a picture of me waist deep in mud, questioning every life choice I had made to bring me to that moment in my life.

My Depression Diet

Have you ever felt guilty after eating something you just know you shouldn't eat? Maybe tried slipping into your favorite jeans to realize that they are just a little too snug and then regretting every donut you have ever eaten? What about looking at yourself in the mirror and seeing nothing but every flaw? Now imagine those thoughts screaming at you non-stop, getting louder until you can't hear anything else. Welcome to your body with depression.

Recently, I decided that I was going to cut all refined sugar from my diet. Why you ask? Because I had convinced myself that cutting refined sugar would bring me closer to finding a mind-body connection, something that I have been seeking to reach ever since I started therapy again almost 2 years ago. The result was far from any sort of connection- I was grouchy, miserable, and craving Diet Coke, my kryptonite. But I did gain something: control.

Reflecting back on the day that I decided to cut sugar, I was knee-deep in stress from the end of the semester, working on my biggest project of the year, and confronting a nasty problem at work. I felt like I was losing control, so I looked for the easiest thing I could have power over: what I ate. This isn't the first time I have manipulated my diet or denied myself food in order to feel like I had some tiny bit of control in my life. This has been my relationship with food for the last 10 years. This has been my depression diet.

Although I have never been diagnosed with an eating disorder nor would I consider my eating habits to be distinctly unhealthy, I do acknowledge the fact that living with depression has forced me to be hyperaware of how I am treating my body. In the pursuit of the unattainable perfection I have always sought, I have tried to push myself towards a body that is perfect. Any pants above a size zero won't do, wearing a size medium shirt crushes my self-esteem. This has sometimes led to trying "get skinny fast" tricks or working out to my body's limit. Not being able to reach my dream body type overnight then led to deeper depression and a stronger feeling of helpless, thus pushing me to seek out ways to find control. It is an unending, unpleasant, and potentially dangerous cycle.

I believe that there is a way out. Learning to respect your body is one of the hardest things to accomplish when trying to overcome a mental illness. I have been angry at my body for cursing me with this illness, for not living up to my outrageous demands for perfection, for betraying me with its weakness. I have starved it, punished it, and disrespected it. But this body- stricken with depression and anxiety- is strong, resilient, and beautiful. It deserves to be loved as such.

I am still learning to love the body that I have lived with for 25 years. I am starting to give my body the respect it demands. Simply being aware of my eating habits and not letting myself get wrapped up in the numbers on the scale or how my jeans are fitting is the first, tiny step. Forgiving my body for its faults and pushing it towards new challenges is the next. Eventually, I hope love will come.

In the meantime, I am never, EVER giving up Diet Coke again.

Words for the Soul.

Hopeless Grieving.

Tragedy affects each of us differently; grief comes in many forms. If there is one thing that this week has taught me, it is that the idyllic hope that I have clung to for so long is a foolish, naive notion. One that is rooted in a fear of despair. The horrific loss of life that occurred in Orlando during the early hours of June 12th has haunted me non-stop over the last 3 days. The shooting in Orlando isn't about me- it is about the victims, their families, their friends, their loved ones. It is about the LGBT+ community, of which I am not apart of and thus do not understand the fear and prejudice its members face. It is about people of color who live lives that I will never be able to fully grasp as my own privilege as a white woman has led me to experience the world differently.

It is not about me. Yet, I still grieve. Why is this relevant? Because I have felt that my grief is a taboo, an unjustifiable feeling that I should not be allowed to feel. My sadness is not good enough. This tragedy has become so politicized and polarized that it has torn the collective "us" apart and many individuals down. In a time of heartbreak and despair, hope is overshadowed by hatred, judgement, and anger.

Central Florida has always been my home- I was born and raised just a short distance south of Orlando. I feel like my home has been tainted by the hatred of another. I am so homesick- I want to go be with my friends and my family who have been directly impacted by this senseless tragedy, but I can't. Sunday, I sat out in the sun to help me feel closer to home (as the sun always reminds me of Florida) only to end up feeling empty and useless like a naive child seeking home in the imaginary.

I have cried over and over and over again as I have seen the faces of the victims- real people with amazing stories that were cut far too short. The pain and suffering of their families and friends has pierced through my soul. I prayed that I wouldn't see the picture of a friend flash before me on CNN, only to have my prayers answered with the guilty reminder that this was my own selfish desire to disconnect from this horrific ordeal. I want to do something, anything to help, but I can't. I cannot donate blood, I have no money to give. I feel useless.

The only thing I have to give is support. I am not a perfect ally- no one will ever be- but I will try my damnedest. I will continue to fight for equality, for love without fear. I will do whatever I can to try and make this world safer, better. Over the last few days, I have watched (in horror) as people have broken down others, claiming that they are not doing enough or that their grief is unfounded, a disgrace, misplaced, or misaligned. I have been appalled at the hate that we have let brew in the face of disaster.

There is already too much hate, judgement, hopelessness, sadness, and fear in this world. In the aftermath of this tragedy, we should acknowledge that we are all imperfect, grieve together, and seek out what is still good in this world. My idyllic hope may be naive and stupid, but it is the only thing that will stand strong in the face of so much pain. Hope is the only thing some of us have left.

Stop hate. Hope.

3-Fold Truths.

Sometimes a routine eye doctors appointment can lead to the worst of anxiety- this is my story about how a quest for new glasses turned into a fear of blindness. Thank you for any good vibes you can send.

PS- Sorry about the rude puppy and growling in the background. Minnie sometimes feeds off my anxiety and can get a little rowdy... but that is for another post.

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.

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.

Fear No Evil.

I recorded this video a couple of weeks ago, but wasn't sure if the message was one that truly needed to be heard. I am going on a little hiatus for a little while as I travel to Indy to facilitate a retreat for the next week. As I have been preparing for the retreat, I have gotten increasingly more nervous- what if the participants don't like me? What if I screw this up? Fear is the only thing standing in the way of happiness, health, life, etc. Non timebo mala. You may need to turn up the volume a little on this one- sleeplessness leads to mumbly videos.

PS- Shout out to Becky Provost from Arty Party Augusta for my amazing henna tattoo and the brilliant Heather Low for my beautiful "Non Timebo Mala" artwork <3

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.

Beyond Brave.

It has been a little over a week since I told the story of my first suicide attempt at the Greenville show of 'This Is My Brave'. It has taken me all this time to figure out how to put my thoughts into words-the fear of backlash that had me holding my breath for days, the numerous stories shared with me as a result of the show, and the overwhelming support and love I have since received. In the audience at the show were several of my most favorite human beings- my mother, my father, my boyfriend, my boss's boss, and 2 of the amazing faculty I work with. While we rehearsed earlier in the day, I couldn't stop shaking and was so anxious that I actually thought about bolting from the room. I couldn't stop thinking about how risky this was- what if my story changes the way that people think about me? What if my parents are angry at me? What if my coworkers see me as incompetent? What if, like so many times before, the audience sees my story as a ploy for attention?

As the time to take the stage drew closer, I sat in the lobby of the venue, practicing my breathing exercises and repeating the silly manta I use to calm myself- you are the sun, you are the moon, you are the stars. I was surrounded by an odd medley of people- a Jewish rabbi with bipolar disorder, a 17 year old beauty battling anorexia, an anxious mother of 2 in whom I saw my future self. As we stood to go to the stage together, an overwhelming sense of calm came over me- I was ready to share my story and I was going to do it with the support of these amazing individuals around me.

Doing 'This Is My Brave' was one of the most daunting things I had ever done. Yet, from that experience, I feel that I have developed a deeper sense of understanding of my own disorder- it isn't something to be afraid or ashamed of. Instead, it is something to share with others, to use to help people suffering through the same diagnosis. There is so much power and strength in being able to talk about what haunts us- we are all battling demons... why not help each other overcome them?

Your story will save lives.

Since the show, I have been blown away by how many people have reached out to me to share their stories about their struggles with mental illness. 'This Is My Brave' opened the door for others to find their courage, to know that they are not alone, and to reach out for help through friendship. I have been touched by the love and support I have received. Individuals that I barely know all the way to friends that have been with me most my life have reached out to express how proud they are and want to know how they can help. My biggest fear going into the show was that my father would be upset by my story- a story that I kept hidden from him for nearly 7 years. Instead, 'This Is My Brave' allowed us to have our first direct conversation about my disorder, address some previous miscommunications, and grow closer as a family.

Finding the words to describe my experience has been challenging, but I think I may have it: 'This Is My Brave' isn't about finding bravery. Each and every performer on that stage found their bravery the moment they decided to get better, in whatever form that may be for them. 'This Is My Brave' isn't about sharing what makes us brave. For many of us, the stories we told are just a snapshot of what we are dealing with. Our battles will never end, yet we have the courage to continue to face them. 'This Is My Brave' is about challenging normalcy and helping others tackle whatever they may be going through by letting them know they are not alone.

Be brave. Always be brave.

Letting It Win.

I am not ashamed of my depression. I am, however, ashamed of what it stops me from doing at times. Today, I should be at work but I know that my day would be better spent resting, recharging, and centering myself. There is always a twinge of embarrassment when I text my supervisor and let him know that, once again, I need some sick time. Many of my friends have an insane number of sick days stored up- I fear the day when I run out of hours because of the doctors appointments or days like today when I can't get out of bed. I am terrified that people think I am lazy or incompetent- a bad employee. This is what depression does to you- it stops you from doing what you love and then piles on the guilt, embarrassment, and shame.

Some days depression is going to win, but that is okay. Sometimes losing a battle brings you one step closer to winning the war.