Monu-Mentally Shredded

I didn't realize today is Mental Health Awareness day, but I figure it is all the more fitting then that I recount my hospitalization in the psych ward last week. This may run long and require at least a Part II.

The day started at 8am with a routine blood draw. My psych put me on lithium recently, and this was a routine test prior to my follow-up appointment to check my lithium blood level. For context, I have been depressed and suicidal for much of my life, but I didn't get it addressed until the last year because I was taught that it was shameful or weak to receive any care for emotions and mental health. I always felt like something was mentally "off" about me, though, and after sitting 9 months on a waitlist, I finally got accepted as a psych patient. I was then diagnosed MDD and BPD, as well as OCD, BPII, and ADHD. My older daughter was also diagnosed ADHD and ASD1 earlier this year, but I digress.

This has been a particularly hard year amongst many hard years, and after I got fired I spiraled into a free fall. I stayed in bed and slept a lot, cut myself, binged on snacks when I finally did get out of bed some, and I was especially irritable and moody, even yelling and cursing at one of the school's teachers in the car line, with my kids in the car. I wish I could say that was out of character for me, but sadly it isn't. I did a better job in previous years holding my negative thoughts underneath the surface (not a good thing), but with going no-contact with my parents and sibling's family for a second time as well as navigating the choppy waters of my marriage, my depression, anger, and burnout became too much for me to suppress. It wasn't much of a surprise after seeing the lacerations on my arm that my psych "urged" me to go to the hospital voluntarily. I put that in quotes because he really said I can either go on my own or be committed involuntarily. So I think I made the better choice.

I had been to the ER once or twice before in life, but this was my first time in the psych triage and consequentially being admitted. The triage was locked down with several security personnel on hand. I was shown to a bed in a small area with a posted camera in the corner and a sitter to watch me, and they took my clothes, phone, keys, and wallet and had me get into a big green paper jumpsuit. While I waited to have another blood draw, EKG, and urine tox screen done, a large man with profound autism stripped naked in the hallway and pissed on the floor. Once the tests were completed, I was escorted upstairs by wheelchair to a unit that I could only describe as the holding tank.

I'm not really sure what the point of being on this unit was, so maybe someone can comment if they know better. I was brought into a room with 2 empty beds, a bathroom, and 2 TVs with 1 on and no remote. The staff had me order lunch (I was in no mood to eat), and I was able to call my wife from the phone on the wall with the extra short cord. I'm not entirely sure someone wasn't listening in on those calls because the phone made some weird clicking noises when it was connecting. I went back to the room after making my phone call and was provided an atarax to calm my nerves. It worked, and I napped until lunch arrived. I ate very little of the frozen stir fry they gave me, but I did eat the bowl of grapes. I arrived at the ER around 10am, and it wasn't until around 5pm that I was finally transported over to the unit.

Security had me go through a metal detector before being let in. They said you'd be surprised what people do to try and sneak things in. Inside, there was a front unit and back unit, and I was escorted to the back. I was then sat into a chair near the nurse's desk, which was locked inside by badge lock and behind thick - I assume bulletproof - glass. I then waited for them to take my vitals...again! I looked around. There were probably 10 patients on the unit, and they were also all dressed in the same green paper jump suit. The lighting was all fluorescent in the hallways, and there was one phone hanging on the wall for patients to use, also with a short cord. I've not been to prison, but I do imagine some similarities would be experienced. The other patients were in the dayroom area eating dinner, while I was taken into another room by a nurse and another staff member as witness to strip search me. This made it feel all the more like prison, and if this was supposed to make me feel less like killing myself, it failed miserably.

I am going to break it up here, but look out for Part II coming up real soon!

I am currently playing Shredder's Revenge, and I highly recommend the DLC if you haven't gotten it yet. The survival mode online is a lot of fun, and I feel like I get a limited social interaction out of it, even though I have no idea who is on the other side of the wifi. With that said, I have no community or irl friends, so I would love for some virtual company. I am adding my friend code below, so send me a friendvite and message me when you're available to play. I am also planning to open up rooms from time to time in games for anyone reading this blog or my socials (as I get them going) to join via code, and I will post the code up with first come first served. So be sure to follow the blog here. I hate the term "followers," so I prefer to call you my friends, if I may.

My friend code is: SW - 4419 - 5159 - 3401. I will also post this on the blog bio for reference, as well as the QR code. I want friends!!...but with boundaries, lol!

3, 16, and one of your choosing :)

Also, hope you feel better soon!

Thank you! 💕 Hopefully coming to an end with this illness soon

3 - Do you regret anything?

Hmm....I regret not being diagnosed with autism, adhd and ocd earlier because that would have saved me a lot of grief and stopped me from blaming myself for being unable to handle things it seemed everyone else could.

I regret sleeping with a few people, all of whom were men. I could go the rest of my life without sex if it was all that terrible 💀

Other than that.....I don't think I regret many major things, it would probably just be wishing I had swallowed a thought instead of saying something awkward out loud haha

16 - How exactly are you feeling at the moment?

Honestly? Not the best. I'm pretty content with life rn but PMS combined with being sick combined with the miserable bloody rain isn't really helping 😅 I'll feel much better tomorrow when the sun is out!!

I'll pick 23 since I love piercings and always want to know about everyone else's haha

I currently have 3 in each lobe and I hang heavy, captive bead rings in them, with the rings decreasing in size up my ear

I used to have a cartilage piercing and stubbornly hung on to it for years but it would never, ever properly heal. Retired it this last year

Had both my nipples pierced a good few years ago too but also had to retire them after they started rejecting. That made me super sad but honestly, if you have larger breasts the chances of the bars getting knocked around is so high it was bound to end badly for me 😭

Survey #385

“I am a human being, capable of doing terrible things”

Who in your family has been married the longest? (and how long?) Uhhhh. I don't know. Do you take your shoes off when you come inside? Yes. What’s your favorite movie series? I think Shrek when you consider all the movies' (well, I haven't seen the last one, but...) quality. No memeage here, I just genuinely love Shrek, haha. I would say The Lion King, but miraculously when you consider the focus on meerkats, I actually don't like 1 1/2 much. What was the first color you ever dyed your hair? Hm... I think I got purple highlights? Do you want to move anytime soon? Even though we haven't even lived here a year, yes. I don't like living in an urban area, and I also reeeeaaaally don't like our family friend being our landlord. I know that sounds very weird, but she's just a very controlling person who forcefully inserts herself into my family's lives now more than ever, and I have a pretty deep fear that a potential argument finally erupting will lead to us being kicked out. I genuinely don't think Tobey would ever do that, but the fear is still there. How good/bad was the quality of education you received in high school? Average, I guess? What was the most interesting year of your life, and why? "Interesting," maybe... 2017 or 2018? I learned a lot about myself in that time range. But at the same time, my life was (and still is) VERY uneventful. Just a lot of mental stuff went on. What was the first social media site you ever used? Myspace. Do you have any exes you really regret dating? REALLY regret? No. I wish I'd never dated Tyler, but it's not a massive regret or anything. He was still a cool guy that I have a few nice memories with. Have you ever lied on a resume? Or even in a job interview? Ha, I'd definitely stretch the truth about being more of a people-person than I am. I couldn't go too far with lying, though; I'm just not comfortable doing that, 'cuz like, they're gonna find out eventually that it's not true. Of all your friends & family, who has the most nicely-decorated home? Maybe my friend Summer. Her room has always been super cool. What brought about the end of the worst relationship you’ve been in? Apparently, not talking to him every second of every day two weeks into a relationship was a no-no. Where was the last place you spent the night other than your own home? The sleep study building or whatever it's considered in the medical plaza. Do you have any step- or half-siblings? I have both. What do people always seem to think is weird about you? The fact I don't watch TV. Do you ever braid your hair? It's way too short for that. Even when it was long, I didn't do it frequently at all. Is there any certain style of architecture you really enjoy? Roman, in particular. What was the last thing you gave up on? uhhhhhhhhhhh If you watch Parks and Recreation, who is your favorite character? I don't. What’s the last DIY project you did, if any? If you can’t remember, what’s something you’d be interested in doing? I'm not really into DIY stuff, honestly. I'd rather just buy products that were made better than I could, or commission someone who can. What's a song that makes you feel happy? I dunno. It's rare a song alone makes me happy. What is your favorite clothing store? Rebel's Market. How did you meet your best friend? YouTube, back when it was a more social platform. What is something you do well? Catastrophize any situation. Assume the worst of everything. What's a good idea you've had recently? Probably to re-engage with a calorie-counting app I used to use. I'm back to trying to use it consistently. Do you like to wear high heels? Does ANY person LIKE to? How many slices of pizza do you usually eat? Two or three depending on my appetite and the size of the pizza. Do you play any instruments? Not anymore. Do you always smile for pictures? Not always. What are you most excited about right now? To see the results of my TMS therapy. What's the last song you listened to? "Ex’s and Oh’s” by Elle King. What's the last YouTube video you watched? I'm watching an Erosium livestream rn. Newest channel binge, haha. Do you know anyone who's died in childbirth? No. Would you ever consider moving to another country for your career? No. I don't want to leave my family. Do you wear foundation? No, I hate the feeling of that crap. Do you know anyone who has run for public office? No. Do you have a cartilage piercing? I used to, but the hole closed when I had to take it out for the hospital. :/ I plan on getting it repierced. Have you ever been taken to the emergency room or urgent care? If so, why? Yes; for being suicidal, a suicide attempt, and when I had a horribly infected cyst and just existing made me want to sob with pain. Have you ever had to visit anyone in the hospital? Yeah, a few times. What is the most pain (physical, mental, emotional) you've ever felt? Physical: having the aforementioned cyst drained when I was not nearly numbed enough. Mental and emotional (what's really the difference?): my breakup with my first real boyfriend. What is the longest time you've spent crying? Oh, hours on end, fluctuating with intensity. Have you ever been stolen from? Yes. Have you ever been to a ghost town? No, but I would FUCKING LOVE to. Let me bring my camera and it's a field day. Has anything in your house ever caught on fire? Not in this current house. Have you ever been inside of a vacant house? No. Have you ever been attacked by a dog? No. What is the most disgusting thing you've ever seen? The massive cyst my late dog Teddy developed on his lower belly. That fucking thing hung on by a THREAD and was absolutely nauseating to look at. How old were you when you learned how to read? I don't recall, I just know it was earlier than most children. Do you prefer cats or dogs? Cats. Which book series was the first you read? I want to say Hank the Cowdog. I was hooked on it. Would you rather write a book or direct a movie? Haha, what a question, as I've considered both of these as potential careers. I think write a book. What dream that you’ve had has stuck in your head the most? Describe: A nightmare about my dad that I'm not going into. What emotion do you find yourself trying to hide from others? I'm very uncomfortable revealing jealousy or envy. How emotional/sentimental would you say you are? Extremely. What is the most fun game to play? Shadow of the Colossus, probably. What is your sense of humor like (dry, dark, sarcastic, etc.)? I don't know, maybe dry. How many languages can you say "hello my name is…" in? Two. What language do you think sounds the nicest? I don't know, it's not like I've heard every language be spoken. What language do you want to learn more of? German. Do you have any form of OCD? I'm diagnosed with OCD. Do you make promises often? No. I take promises VERY seriously and am not about to make one unless I'm certain I can keep it. What is it that you are responsible for? My pets, keeping my room clean, stuff like that. Do you have a lot of secrets? Not "a lot," no. Are you more likely to be verbally aggressive or physically? Verbally. I'm only physically aggressive in my nightmares. What warning has someone given you that you wish you’d have listened to? Hm. What warning has someone given you you are glad you didn’t take? I also don't know. What is your favourite video of on YouTube? I can't pick just one. Name one creature that freaks you out/scares you? Maggots. Just the word makes me squirm. What was the last thing you wrote down on paper? My signature. Have you ever watched Breaking Bad? No. Are your fingernails always painted? They never are. What color is your bed frame? A rich brown. Did any of your neighbors come over to welcome you when you moved into your current house? No. What's something you didn't realize how bad it was until it happened to you? Heartbreak. Do you like Taylor Swift's singing voice? No. It's squeaky and annoying to me. Does it bother you when people get super emotional? Why the fuck would it bother me? Let people be in touch with their emotions. Have you ever worked in a restaurant? No. What was the last drive-thru you went through? Ummm I want to say Starbuck's w/ Mom after my TMS appointment. Do you know anyone who claims they can see/feel spirits or other supernatural "things?" No. Does your house have any unoccupied bedrooms? Yes. Do either of your parents have a mental illness? My mom has depression, and she personally suspects something's up with Dad, but idk. He's never seen a doctor about that kinda stuff. What fun things are there to do where you live? Ha! Do you know anyone with a really poorly-trained dog? I know many like that. When you were growing up, did your family rent or own your home? My parents owned it. Can you see the stars at night where you live? I actually haven't paid attention at this house. I'm certain it'd be harder now living in an urban area, though. What job do you know you'd be terrible at? Like, everything? I'd probably be worst at promoting stuff to people and trying to push them into buying something. No being a salesperson for me. Do you do meal-prepping? No. Do you know anyone who got preggo less than a year into their relationship? Who doesn't? And now, for the greatest question of all time! Toilet paper- should it go over or under? I literally couldn't care less about this. Fun fact though to "end" the argument, the original concept art of the idea (the word for that is evading me...) has it designed to go over. Are you afraid of mice? Not at all, they're adorable. What type of souvenir do you usually purchase when on vacation? I don't have a specific "type" of thing I get, really. It depends. Do you vacation often? Not at all. Are you comfortable wearing your pajamas in public places? It depends on the place, really. Generally, I really don't care, so long as I put a bra on. What’s your favorite candy bar? That one that's a bunch of Reese's squares composed into a rectangle. It. Is so. Fucking. Good. Do you own more than one copy or edition of a book? No. If you could see any musical on Broadway right now, what would it be? I don't like musicals. Do you own a helmet of any sorts? No. Does your family generally decorate for most holidays? Just for Christmas, really. Do you eat soup when you’re sick? I'm not a soup person. Have you ever watched Doctor Who? I saw one or two episodes with Sara. If so, what do you think is the scariest creature yet? N/A Do you read tour guide type books before you visit places? No.

I have known for years that something was going on with me besides MDD and general anxiety disorder. I was diagnosed with OCD earlier this week. I feel like I'm losing myself but also at the same time getting to know myself so much better. I've been reading through your blog and crying because it just makes sense--finally. (I MAKE SENSE) Do you have any books, videos, accounts, or forums you recommend for someone searching for more answers and community?

Hi there, angel!

I’m really glad to hear that you’ve been getting some comfort and understanding about what you’ve been going through. I know it can feel so cathartic when you finally understand why you’ve been feeling and experiencing your symptoms. It can definitely be scary, though! For a lot of people, it can feel like a label or an added weight. It’s important to remember that you are not your OCD! You experience this disorder, but it doesn’t define you, and you can live a very fulfilling and happy life with it!For some people, they can go through therapy and not really have to think much about their symptoms anymore, and for others they have to be a more aware of their symptoms (and may need to revisit therapy and meds throughout their life). Either way, you can make it through it and live anxiety free. 

I definitely have some recommendations for you! -I would definitely check out Chrissie Hodges on youtube! She has a ton of videos, and talks about a whole variety of OCD themes and symptoms that you might be experiencing. She’s very lighthearted and really normalizes some of the scarier aspects of OCD. She also recommends a variety of different books on OCD: Everyday Mindfulness for OCD by Jon Hershfield and the Mindful Workbook for OCD by Jon Hershfield.She also does peer support sessions (you can contact her at ChrissieHodges.com/contact) which can really help when you’re feeling alone with your symptoms. -I made a whole list of some of my favourite OCD accounts: I’ll link that post Here. Definitely check them out! -This is a really great website for educating a little more about OCD, its symptoms and treatment!-You can also check out the free app, NOCD. It can help you build a self exposure treatment plan, and also connect you to others who are going through the same things as you. -I’m not sure how active this group is, but Here is a link to an OCD discord server!-Making an account on tumblr is one way that can connect you to the OCD community on here. It can definitely be therapeutic to make posts memes, and share ones that others have made as well. (P.S. if you ever feel like venting or just chatting, i’m always here and happy to listen and vent and chat along with you!! Send me a message sometime!)

With all of these things, they can be really helpful, give you a lot of understanding and a sense of community. Sometimes, though, it can be easy to become consumed or feel down if you surround yourself with this stuff a lot. Be sure to take a breather and check in to make sure you’re not doing any compulsions!Again, please feel free to message me! I might be able to recommend more specific resources if you experience certain themes.(I also got another ask inquiring about an unanswered ask. If this is the one you’re referring to, I’m really sorry it took so long to reply! I hope that I recommended something that is helpful and that you can enjoy. Sorry again, lovely!)I hope you’re having a wonderful day, and I’m wishing you the best of luck with your healing journey to come, and building a community to help you get through this.I hope you know how strong you are for making it through all that you have, and all that you’ve experienced. Much love

My Mental Illness + Mental Health Awareness Post:

May is Mental Health Awareness Month. I made this post for Facebook a couple of years ago, before I had a Tumblr account. It's really almost more about medication stigma, which I believe to be a huge problem. And, of course, I used little brains as bullet points, because I love them! I have edited it slightly:

🧠I have a mood disorder. Officially, I am diagnosed with OCD and GAD (generalized anxiety disorder). Unofficially, I have a lot of stuff going on that's hard to explain. Mental illness is never really so clean-cut.

🧠Medications: Yes, I am on meds. I am on 3 medications for mood swings, intrusive thoughts, and anxiety. When I don't take them, I become anxious, paranoid, extremely irritable, wound up, and weepy. I have psychotic episodes, and physical anxiety symptoms, like nausea and tremors. I have intrusive thoughts, rage outbursts, and become suicidal. When I take my meds, I feel functional, and even do art commissions!

🧠Some people think that medications make you weak, or are a cop-out. There's nothing shameful about treating your brain. I love the phrase, "If you can't make your own neurotransmitters/serotonin/etc., store bought is fine."

(I don't know the original source of this. )

🧠There is a misconception that you can just take a pill and be fine, and that isn't true for everyone. The wrong medication is just as bad, or maybe worse, than no treatment at all. (I've had a couple of bad experiences with meds, but my doctors worked with me until we found a winning combination)

🧠When I take my medication, I still experience anxiety, and I still have OCD. Its just a lot more manageable. I know that my thoughts and behaviors are sometimes irrational, and it's something I manage from day to day.

🧠I am fully capable of doing anything that anyone else can do. I have friends, hobbies, pets, etc. Mentally ill doesn't have to mean "dysfunctional". (But, I would call my childhood dysfunctional, and there's nothing shameful about going through some dark times. Sometimes a healing period is needed. For anyone, really.)

🧠We all have very different experiences with mental health, and one experience does not define another. Some people with mental illnesses have jobs, and do very well with that. Some cannot work, and they don't need judgement from others. (I do commissioned art from home, as mentioned earlier. I find many work environments very difficult to handle.)

🧠It can show up at any time in life. I started having some very serious issues in my early thirties. Before that, I functioned without medications.

🧠Loaded Word: The word "Crazy" is so controversial! Some people see it as a huge insult. Some people (like me), wish to own it, and see it as an important, and cathartic word. My advice is to just try not to be purposely mean with it, and don't police how mentally ill people use it.

🧠I think lots of people feel like I don't "seem" mentally ill. And that's why I share so much: because I am a pretty good example of someone who is mentally ill, but not dangerous or toxic, and there are plenty of us out here.

🧠 My crazy BS is my responsibility! It is not a free pass for me to be abusive to people around me.

🧠 I actually don't like to describe myself as mentally ill. It feels like a sickness, when to me, it's just part of my life. Obviously, that's my personal preference, and it's why I often use irreverent language to describe my experience. And I'm using it here, because it's technically correct.

🧠 Mentally ill is not the same as mentally challenged. While I believe mentally challenged people should have all the same opportunities as the rest of us to follow their passions and enjoy life, we don't have the same needs. And of course, anyone with any sort of difference can also have a mental illness.

🧠 I get very frustrated when I try to tell people that something affects me a certain way, because I have OCD, and they think I'm being funny. I know some jokes about OCD, and "I have OCD," isn't a very good one!

🧠 Mentally ill is not synonymous with "weird", or even "crazy". Even if I say I feel crazy sometimes, I'm not crazy all the time. But I am medicating and managing my moods all the time.

🧠 You can help mentally ill people by: Being patient and understanding, and not expecting us to just be "fixed" in a way that seems rational to you.

🧠 If you are mentally ill: It is okay to get help in the way that is best for you. That might mean therapy, holistic solutions, medications, or a combination thereof. You may spend some time in a hospital, and that is not shameful. The first step is usually to find a professional you can talk to. (I edited this to "usually" because many people don't have the means, or have been burned by professionals, and need other sources of support first.) This can be difficult, but worth it. You have the right to discuss treatments that are right for you.

End Mental Health Stigma!

I deserve to be heard. But I’m scared to be.

I thought I was getting better, but to be honest with you, I think I’m getting worse. And I hate myself for it. Why on Earth is this the one thing I’m bad at? [Getting better.]

Anonymous.

19 years old.

Diagnosed with severe obsessive compulsive disorder and anxiety.

Entry #1.

                                                My Thoughts

Something stuck out to me today. It is currently 12:26am, and I can’t get it out of my head. My sister-in-law has a blog titled “For me by me”, and I think that’s incredible. She uses writing as a creative outlet for all of her heavy thoughts and emotions, and she doesn’t do it for anyone else’s approval. She does it simply to put her thoughts into words and try to sort through her mess of a mind. I think it’s time I also try to do that.

I suffer greatly from obsessive compulsive disorder and anxiety. I know I joke about it a lot, but it’s a way for me to make it seem not so serious, when, in fact, it has been the absolute focal point of every second of every day of my life since April 2020. 

I can’t stand it. For someone who has been nearly perfect at everything they have ever done in their life this imperfection is absolutely destroying me. I hate the fact that I can’t be normal and just be with my parents or not spend an hour every week in a therapy session. I’m tired of it. And if I’m being honest, I can’t handle it.

I often have the thought “Why me?” circle through my mind. But honestly, why? What did I do to become so fucked up? Usually when I say this my therapist or mom would immediately say “You are NOT fucked up”. And I think it’s sweet of them to try and help me feel better about myself and my situation, but unfortunately, it is incredibly true.

I am waging a war with my mind every single day. I am drowning in my own thoughts, and I am a prisoner to my own mind. It’s suffocating. I hate it, and there is not a day that goes past that I don’t wish I could just change. I am so tired of being like this. Every single day is just a relentless, ruthless battle. I just don’t understand why I have to go through this.

I feel like I’m wasting my life away. Time doesn’t stop for my ocd. I am losing so much precious time with my parents. They won’t be around forever, and here I am avoiding them at all costs because in my mind, they’re “dirty”. 

I moved out at age 18. Earlier than anyone else in my family. Why? My ocd. I buy my own groceries even though my parents have offered to buy them. Why? My ocd. I only see my parents once a week at most, even though I desperately want to see them more. Why? My ocd. I hate myself entirely. Why? My ocd.

There is just something that is so infuriating about knowing that something is so irrational and inconsequential yet not being able to get over it. I KNOW it’s stupid. I KNOW it doesn’t make any sense. But I can’t shake it no matter how hard I try. 

I have tried so hard. No one knows how many nights I’ve spent sobbing over how abnormal I am. No one knows how hard I wish I didn’t have to be like this or how much I hate myself for it.

I do everything like I’m supposed to. I don’t hold back in therapy, and I take my meds every day. Why do I feel like I’m not getting any better? Now I know progress isn’t linear, but I never even feel like there is any up. I’m just constant. Always. 

I’m so disgusted with myself. When did I become like this? An absolute shell of the person I once was. Old me was incredible. She could roll with the punches, nothing ever bothered her because nothing was too big for her to conquer. Schoolwork was a breeze and I gave my all into the sports I loved. Getting up out of bed didn’t seem like such a chore, and I never spent any time in my room. I was always downstairs on the loveseat, just enjoying the company of my parents. God, I couldn’t tell you the last time I was with my parents and the thought that was at the forefront of my mind wasn’t their proximity to me.

Do you know how frustrating this is? That I want something that I have already had? I got a taste of bliss and normalcy and now it’s a discontinued recipe. I want something that I can’t have right now, but I had it, so it makes me so much more disappointed and long for it even more. It’s definitely worse when you had something, but lost it, since now you know how great life was with it. Maybe if I was born like this I wouldn’t miss it so much, since I would have never known life with it.

I never thought I was enough beforehand. But now? I don’t even feel like I’m worth it half the time. My illnesses are debilitating. They are ruthless. They are catastrophic. They are destructive. They don’t care what they’re doing to me. They just keep coming at me harder and with reckless abandon. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder simply does not care that it has single handedly ruined my life.

So what do we do from here? God, do I wish I knew. No one knows honestly. Hell, my mom’s favorite phrase is, “I’m just trying to figure you out”. Yeah, me too. I wish I could figure myself out. Because maybe then I can figure out how to beat this. Maybe I could get out of my own personal hell.

Do you think my parents resent me? How about my siblings? Did I ruin their life, too? Definitely my mom’s. I can say that with confidence. I’m sorry. I hate me, too, trust me. I’m so sorry for everything that I have done. I wish so bad I could change it.

I feel so empty. So worthless. I just wish things could go back to normal. Please just let them go back to normal.

“A Rant on Papers” - or, if I’d shown this to someone 16 years ago, maybe I’d’ve gotten ADHD treatment 16 years earlier

I’ve been transcribing my old journals (I’ve journaled with some gaps since 2005 - I’m 37 now, so since I was 21), and I found this tucked in my 2005 one. 

A journal entry says that I wrote it when I was struggling to write a paper for college in my second year, and that it helped me clear my head a bit.

I was diagnosed OCD and chronic depressive at, like. Nine. But no one ever suggested ADHD to me until *last year,* and I never stopped to take my own feelings about my limitations and what I can/can’t do seriously until this year. And this year is the first year I feel decent since I was a teenager. (Yes, even despite everything going on!)

So if you ever find yourself writing down or feeling things like this, do not hesitate. Read up on ADHD and consider getting yourself screened asap. Talk to other people with ADHD about how they cope. (I’ve found people with ASD also have a lot of overlap, and I benefit a lot from talking with my ASD friends, too.)

Take what you’re telling yourself seriously. Take your struggles and pain seriously. Everyone else *doesn’t* struggle with what you do. You’re wired differently. You’re not bad. You can’t punish yourself out of your own nervous system. But you can find other people like you. We’re all out here working on figuring out how to live in the world.

[CW for the following: Suicidal ideation, self-harm descriptions, intense frustration and self-hate. Also a brief mention of child abuse - which I haven’t experienced, but I mention someone else experiencing it. 

Also, seriously, I’m right in the last few paragraphs. Do *not* read Night, Mother when you’re depressed. Or, hey, don’t read Night, Mother period. It’s an awful play to read/see if you’re disabled in any way.]

I am sitting in the chair on my porch – I never sit on the chair on my porch. Just like I never sit in the bathtub in the bathroom with the door closed. Or on the guest bed downstairs. Or on the small square of carpet outside of the basement bathroom, surrounded by Joss' [one of our cats at the time] butt drags and the smell of cat litter.

I only sit in these places when I'm hoping something will change – some switch in scenery or some isolation from the good parts of my life – my things, my books and computer and family – will make things different.

But it doesn't. It never makes things different. I just sit alone and hurt and ache and feel stupid because of it.

Papers make me want to just stop. They don't make me want to kill myself. They do make me want – or at least, visualize – hurting myself. A lot of images of spikes in the back, small knives, bloody slits running across palms, broken bones, pain – as though it would clear my head or punish me or prove that I am capable of something – some action. I stand in front of mirrors and imagine all the blood draining slowly out of my body. I stand near banisters and wonder what it would be like to jump over them and die at the bottom. I think about just dying – someone else doing it for me – a thug, a punk = just me, a body in a ditch – sad and alone and completely, purely, blissfully oblivious. Nothing left – all the benefits of suicide, none of the guilt. A tagline that ran through my head today.

The thing is, I don't really want to die. And I hate these days when it's all I seem to be able to think about, when I want it, when I can't do the simple, practical things and get stuck being morbid and depressed instead. I feel so alone on these days – and I know that's ridiculous, too. Everyone has papers – my parents had papers, my dad still has papers, all of the students I know and like who are seniors have had papers for years. And hell if they liked them – they stayed up late, they pushed themselves, they slacked and procrastinated, or they got little tiny orderly calendars and managed their time well (the ones with the tiny calendars always make me feel ashamed). They got things done. I know they did. I know I should.

But I don't want to. I want all of the cake, none of the cooking. I'm tired, and I want to be; I'm lonely, and the work...it's just there. It sits there and stares at me and it makes me want to weep and run and hide from it. It makes me want to crawl under some safe table in the back of my mind, some comfortable place full of cats and stuffed animals and old things, and just sit there and cry and pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist.

I'm broken. I have so much inside of me – or I think I do or I wish to. I want to share. I want to explode all over people. I want little bits of my mind to go ricocheting out of my head like confetti and land all over others, and I want them to look at them and laugh or cry or understand, and then I want them to look at me and see me and want to share back. I want them to take me and hold me and tell me it'll all be okay, that I'm alright, that I'm not going to die, that they all feel like that – or at least some of them do – and they've wondered why nobody's mentioned it before – or at least nobody's ever done anything about it. And I'll look at them, and we'll both be crying and we'll both be alone and it'll hurt more than sixteen kinds of hell but at least there'll be some kind of connection between us. And maybe then if we die we'll die together, at least. Or maybe we can try to change things. Though everyone says that's futile.

And they're right, I think. Because what needs to change isn't the outside world – it's me. All those people I mentioned earlier – they're dealing with the same outside world, and they're handling it just fine. Or in some way that resembles fine long enough for them to get a college degree. I handle things by moping and hating myself. I hate every piece of my body, every fraction of my soul at these times. I wish I would burn. I wish I was in some Constantine version of hell where emo, self-absorbed assholes like me end up.

All of this suggests that it's me that's wrong, not it. It ain't down with the man, burn the establishment – it's burn me. It's if I was in the wild and this was evolution, I would not be passing on my genes. I would be a dead end. A garbage in, garbage out. A great big what the fuck was the world thinking mistake.

Which is what it all comes back to – I'm faced with a paper, and I suddenly hate myself and see failure and want to die. Which is not a reasonable response now, is it? The other thing I want is for the world to suddenly tell me it's okay to fail. Because, damn it, I just don't want to do these damn things – I don't like what they are, I don't like what they do to me (even though I know it's really me doing it to me, not the papers – the papers really don't have a damn thing to do about it). I want them to stop. I want me to stop. All these nice people keep helping me and I love them for it and they mean so much to me – but... I don't know what they want. People say do something, anything's better than an F. But is it? I mean, yes, it probably is – I know it is – nobody cares how well or not well I got the college degree, as long as I get it. But I just lock up. Some part of me wants to see that big, fat “F,” see the people coming after me with pitchforks. I'm a fake and a fraud, a bright, intelligent mind who doesn't want to do all the work all the other bright, intelligent minds have had to do. I want the easy way out. I'm not strong.

I always think my life's been so weird – crazy for a year at 10, back surgery, OCD, depression, leaving high school early, all that grief in high school in particular. But other people have the same things – like [Elise] at school. I talked to her some one day, and she told me she'd been abused when she was little. And that she went through a period of cutting herself. And then I feel bad about feeling bad about my problems – because, hell, they're nothing compared to some other people's problems. Maybe we shouldn't really keep these problems secret – maybe sometimes if we all shared the things that really hurt us we wouldn't feel so alone. All of us are so surface. Everything important lives inside our heads. How was my professor's day? I don't know. Does she/he have kids? Does he/she hate their job and wish they were doing something else? Are we all caught going forward pretending it's okay? Is that what it's all about, really? Pretending it's all alright, that we're fine, that we don't need to break or shatter or hurt, until we wind down and die?

Good God, this isn't really working, is it? I'm just being emo. Or, hell, maybe we should all be emo occasionally – maybe it'd be good for us. Really, hell if I know. I should, of course, be writing my paper. Write the paper, problem solved, point moot. Except my papers and I always end up in the same mutual hate/guilt/anger/despair crappiness. Which is just damned ridiculousness. Right now, I hate me; and I shouldn't. I should just write the damned paper. Damn, damn, damn.

- some random thoughts:

1) I should probably not read Night, Mother when I feel like this. Or maybe I should – it might make me feel better. Who knows? I would like to read it one of these days.

2) The recurring image that always comes back to me when I feel like this is of the cocooned people in the Alien films, rasping “kill me.” I think that about sums up the low points pretty well.

3) I always feel like I'm doing something worthwhile when I putz like this, even though it takes time away from what I should actually be doing. This, of course, raises the question – what should I actually be doing? This, because it provides immediate results and/or pleasure, or the other, because it's good for me and will have long-term benefits? Am I exploring options or wasting time? I think I'm wasting time and being a rat emo bastard – son of a bitch, aren't I?

Book Review: Under Rose-Tainted Skies by Louise Gornall

Favourite Quotes:

“See, anxiety doesn’t just stop. You can have nice moments, minutes where it shrinks, but it doesn’t leave. It lurks in the background like a shadow, like that important assignment you have to do but keep putting off or the dull ache that follows a three-day migraine. The best you can hope for is to contain it, make it as small as possible so it stops being intrusive. Am I coping? Yes, but it’s taking a monumental amount of effort to keep the dynamite inside my stomach from exploding”.

“Beauty comes from how you treat people and how you behave. But if a little lipstick make you smile, then you should wear it and forget what anyone else thinks”.

“Social Convention dictates that I must deny being pretty, but I am… pretty. It’s one of the only things I have that makes me feel normal. Of course, I pervert that normality by embracing my looks. <..> This is mine, one of the only things about me that I actually like. I own it. And Social Convention will have to pry it from my cold, dead hands before I ever give it up”.

Norah Dean lives with agoraphobia and obsessive compulsive disorder. She is homeschooled and spends most of her time at home with her loving mother. For her, even a walk to the car can cause a panic attack. Her illness might not be visible, and the media might make people believe that she doesn’t look “mentally ill”, but Norah is sick. And a new boy-next-door isn’t a cure.

But Norah’s chance encounter with the new neighbour is not something she can ignore. Luke is a sweet kid with an air of mystery around him and he seems to be interested in Norah. She is keen, too. And if she were a “normal” kid…

I’m sorry. I seem to be unable to write a decent summary for “Under Rose-Tainted Skies”. And I’m not too fond of the Goodreads summary either. It’s making it seem as though romance is the solution to mental health issues. It is NOT. And the book makes it abundantly clear. In fact, I see the Goodreads summary as a disservice to this amazing novel – it is not a “romantic” story. It’s more of a character study that features some romance.

And I can’t emphasise enough how important this book is. How it can help young people understand mental health and its impact on one’s everyday life. “Under Rose-Tainted Skies” is brutally honest, doesn’t beat around the bush or shy away from heavy topics (TW: self-harm). Norah’s daily struggles felt incredibly real – not least because the book is told from her point of view and a lot of it is her thought process. These kinds of introspective books are what the world needs in order to smash stereotypes about mental illnesses. Norah makes a reference at some point to one such stereotype – “People always seem to be expecting wide eyes and a kitchen knife dripping with blood”. Thing is, most people who suffer from mental health issues are not like that. Norah isn’t like that – she is a conventionally pretty girl who is an overachiever. However, the fact that her OCD and agoraphobia can��t be seen with a naked eye – just because she doesn’t “look mentally ill”, doesn’t mean that she isn’t struggling with them on a daily basis.

I cannot speak for people who suffer from OCD or agoraphobia. But I have been treated for depression and Generalised Anxiety Disorder in the past, and to this day I struggle with anxiety. Fortunately, I have more Good Days than Bad Days now, but, as Norah said, “anxiety doesn’t just stop. It lurks in the background like a shadow <…>, and the best you can hope for is to contain it, make it as small as possible so it stops being intrusive”. I was first diagnosed during my second year of University which is when I was first prescribed medication and CBT. They did help me get through exams, and little by little, I learned to somewhat cope with my anxiety. It has reared its ugly head again when I was in law school – a very stressful time for me, for many reasons. I did seek help again, but I wish I had done so months earlier. Years earlier, even.

Why didn’t I? Well, like many other millennials, I had fed into the narrative offered by the media that stigmatised mentally ill people as “weak”. Plus, I was an only child and was brought up to believe that you only do enough if you get the best grade, or get promoted. A lot of my anxiety struggles did have to do with my envrionment and background, and not to mention the lack of a support system. I was living 2,000 miles away from my family, my low moods and anxiety made me pull away from friends, and while I was in a relationship, it wasn’t the best one. Besides, relationships aren’t a cure to mental illness, as I’ve already pointed out. Unfortunately, the society where I currently am doesn’t buy that and most people believe that getting married and starting a family is all a woman can ever need. Not a helpful narrative, AT ALL.

So I do wish, as I’ve said, that I’ve gotten the help I needed earlier. The UK university that I was at had an excellent mental health center, and the counsellor had a daughter studying to be a lawyer, so she understood and was able to help. I believe that, if “Under Rose-Tainted Skies” had been released in 2009, I would’ve asked for help much earlier. And I genuinely believe that others like me would also have done so.

Everyone experiences mental illnesses differently. Perhaps you can relate to Norah’s experience, or maybe yours are vastly different. Whatever the case might be, DON’T SUFFER IN SILENCE. ASK FOR HELP. IT’S OK TO DO SO. Books like “Under Rose-Tainted Skies”, “Cracked Up to Be”, “Speak” – hell, even the classic “The Bell Jar” – aren’t just useful – they’re mandatory for everyone who wants to learn more about mental health, people’s experiences with it, or just needs someone to relate to. And if we get more books like that, I believe we can, slowly but surely, smash the stereotypes about mental health altogether and help more people get the help they need.

Well, this review has turned into a personal essay, hasn’t it? I’ll finish with this – buy/borrow “Under Rose-Tainted Skies” and educate yourself. You won’t regret it.

Recommendations:

You might like “Under Rose-Tainted Skies” if you liked:

“Cracked Up To Be” by Courtney Summers;

“The Bell Jar” by Sylvia Plath;

“Paper Butterflies” by Lisa Heathfield

My Story

It's been months, and I've been looking for the right words to express myself. To express what I've been through since I've become a mother. It's proving to be nearly impossible to put it on paper. It isn't a story that needs to be told, but it's a story I want to tell. 

If you're a close family member, or friend you may already know that I have struggled with anxiety and depression for many years. On and off I have been depressed since the age of thirteen. At the age of fifteen I was diagnosed with General Anxiety Disorder. As I encountered more events throughout my life I developed Severe Anxiety Disorder, OCD, and was told that I am what they call a Catastrophic thinker {Someone who always assumes the worst}. I feared most every day activities. I feared people, social encounters, large crowds, school, making friends, picking out the proper outfit, driving, pumping gas, and a variety of other things that many people just do naturally. 

It took a lot of time for me to let people in. Luckily for my significant other he came into my life early in the game before I experienced many of these emotions. We had been friends prior to my diagnoses. Later in time we became a couple. I was still very anxious about our relationship, and what would make me the "perfect girlfriend". I always wanted to be the best I could be for the people around me. Especially him. The first year flew, and before we knew it we were engaged and expecting a baby. 

Once we were expecting a baby I changed, immediately. I hadn't realized it then, but looking back I know now how quickly that responsibility changed me. My anxiety was at its all time high. My pregnancy was a breeze physically, but really took my emotions to another level. I worried about the baby's growth, I worried about my growth, I worried about our health, I worried about the child's future, If I could afford the needs, the wants. I worried about school, college, jobs. Not for me, but for the baby. I jumped so far ahead I didn't know what I had myself into. Everything turned into an anxiety. My pregnancy itself was a trigger. No one really knew this, because no one ever asked about me. They asked about the baby.

So many people told me not to wish my time away. To enjoy my pregnancy, to embrace it. I don't think they realized that pregnancy just isn't for everyone. It wasn't for me. Those nine months, although stressful and exhausting - they flew! The time, it went by so quickly.

After fourteen hours of labor, ten minutes of pushing and a hell of a lot of pain medication I had one sweet eight pound, eight ounce baby laying on my chest. It didn't feel real. It was a complete blur, and honestly it still is. I remember she wasn't crying, I remember my immediate panic because the moment she entered the world she didn't make a peep. She was silent, and I was scared. Although reassured that she was fine I still felt anxious. In the moment I should've been feeling joy, and affection I was anxious. Maybe then I should've known I was slowly encountering the world of Postpartum Depression, but I didn't. I didn't know, and that's the hardest part.

She was beautiful. I'm not being bias, she was completely stunning. Her complexion was so clear, and her hair was so dark, and so thick, and such bright eyes. The visitors came, and I was still so out of it I don't really remember. It didn't really hit me until the next morning that I wasn't a daughter, a sister and a friend anymore.. I was a mother now. There I was, twenty one years old and holding my daughter. It came pretty natural for the most part. She was pleasant, she nursed OK, and she was gaining weight. Everything passed in the hospital and we got to go home right on time. I may have seemed happy at the time, but I was so fearful. I had to leave the hospital and be a mom all by myself. No over night stays with nurses, and doctors. No meals delivered on time. No maid to clean up behind me, and no one to watch the baby at night if I just needed that extra ten minutes of sleep. In that moment, I got to bring my family home.. but I didn't see it that way. I felt like I was sent off on my own. "Here's your baby. You're on your own now." Thats all I could think. It's on you. Any faults, and failures, its on you now.

We arrived home and things ran pretty smoothly. Living with my significant others parents was a great help for a first time mom. I was appreciative of the help they offered, but felt constant guilt for accepting it. In those three months we lived with family I was in fear that the extra help I was getting made me a bad mom. If you're a mom you know what I'm talking about when I say "mom guilt." I questioned if I should accept the help, if I should spend more time with my daughter, if I was doing the right thing. I was constantly questioning myself. The first day it really hit me that I wasn't just feeling the baby blues my little one was a little over three weeks old. She was waking for a feeding. I was nursing at the time, but I dreaded every moment. At the end of every feeding I would count those three hours down like it was the last ones I had left of the day. I dreaded putting her to the breast, especially considering it didn't come easy to myself & my baby - We did need a little help, and we did struggle with nursing. Knowing I didn't want to feed my child I felt concerned. I called my public health nurse and had explained to her what I was feeling, and that I had been a little more sad than usual. She advised me to see my family Doctor. 

My daughter was a little over a month old by the time I had gotten to see the doctor. I repeated to him what I had said to the public health nurse and he was sure to diagnose me with PPD -{Postpartum Depression} It didn't seem like such a big deal at the time. "Oh well, I'm sadder than I should be." However, It was so much more than just sadness.

I continued to nurse my daughter for about a week after finding out I had PPD. I was so down about nursing her, and I just couldn't find it in me to keep it up. Some might say I took the easy way out by choosing formula. Believe me. It wasn't the easy way out. It took me about a half hour pondering in Shoppers Drug Mart what formula I should buy. My significant other threw out some suggestions, but I shot those down because I wanted to make that decision. I don't feel differently towards a mother regarding the way she chooses to feed her child but in that moment I was beating myself up. Am I a good mom? Did I do the right thing? Will she still be healthy? Will people think I'm lazy? Will people think I'm a bad mom? I'm a bad mom. I did the wrong thing. I can't make the right choices. Those are some of the things that crossed my mind on the regular. I didn't feel comfortable, or happy enough to nurse but I didn't feel like a good mom by choosing formula either. Some of those emotions are some of that mom guilt I mentioned earlier, but for me it had a lot to do with PPD. {Side note ~ however you have chosen, or choose to feed your child whether it be breast milk, pumping, or formula know that you are making the right choice and you are a good mom.}

That was just the beginning. When my little one was about three months old we moved into our own house. I was a stay at home mom, which may be a dream for some women but not for me. I missed working. I missed it so much. I'll skip over that, and all the lame details about me personally.. 

My daughter was a quiet, content, sweet little girl. She slept OK, and when she woke she didn't cry.. but one day, she did. She cried. It was so unusual for me to hear her cry, and it really bothered me. Instantly I was overwhelmed, and frustrated. I wanted the crying to stop immediately. I brushed it off. Nothing serious, just something new I wasn't common with. Then she started teething, but she was a good baby. She still slept, she just chewed on everything.. but she was sooky. Every tooth meant she wanted me, more and more. I hated it. I hated being wanted. If she wanted my attention she learned that whining was the quickest way to get it. The minute she whined, I did.. I picked her up because I didn't want to hear it. As the days went by, she became a little more needy, and I started worrying I'd neglect her. I didn't really care if she was around or not. If someone offered to take her, even just for an hour I was all for it. The less I had to parent, the better I felt. {Pathetic right?}

One night, unsure of her age, or the date but I sat down thinking to myself.. just wondering if maybe she was better off without me. I spent countless hours wondering that. Those were the first thoughts that really, truly scared me. I didn't tell anyone, and I still haven't told anyone that. {Aside from my professional help} I went on about my days as normal, and I cared for my daughter alone during the day and with my partner at night, and on the weekends.

~ Things are about to get a lot more serious. If you find yourself becoming uncomfortable...stop reading ~ What scared me the most was one day I was putting her down for a nap and she just wouldn't settle. I was so frustrated the thought of hurting her crossed my mind. I used to think about hurting her often. Smothering her to be specific. If she wouldn't settle for a nap, if she cried in public, if she made a fit in the car, I wanted to smother her. First I figured all moms probably think "If you don't shut up I'm gonna kill you." You know..like some awful figure of speech. Then those thoughts were frequent, they only came when I was alone with the baby.. but I was alone with her a lot. As a month passed by I noticed that not only did I feel this way when I was alone, but when I was with others. Others who were helping. Even if she wasn't settling for someone else.. I wanted her to just shut up. The PPD trumped my regular depression, and it went right pass my anxiety. I never felt bad about wanting to hurt her, I never felt any sort of guilt..I just felt frustrated all the time. I started raising my voice at her. I raised my voice at this child, who didn't know anything about the world. My daughter. I yelled at her to be quiet, to stop it, to shut up, and I'll admit I swore at her. Some days I thought maybe the neighbors will hear me and someone will just come take her so I can calm down. I wasn't worried that they would hear me. I wanted them to hear me. I think the yelling was some kind of cry for help because I was so ashamed of who I had become as a mother I didn't want to admit I was failing... or what I thought was failure.

During this period of time I was surprised by my second pregnancy. Very surprised. Going through these emotions with my first was unbarelable, I questioned whether or not I could do it. Being a mother of two? Impossible. I feared every day that I would experience these triggers again. I worried the same things with my second pregnancy as I did with my first. I didn't get to enjoy that my body was giving me the gift of a child. My mind was constantly racing and it occurred to me that I really wasn't ok anymore. I finally told my significant other the extent of my depression. He thought I should mention it to my OBGYN as I was seeing them regularly with my second pregnancy. In my next appointment which was about a week later I repeated my feelings. He wasn't discouraging, rude, or hurtful. He was kind, and caring. He took a step back and he explained that this is common in many mothers but the likely hood that people come forward is usually rare. He told me it's something we would keep an eye on, better to be safe than sorry. He was right, and I felt a bit of a weight lifted.

Shortly after this I received a letter in the mail with an appointment for myself, and my family to see the pediatrician. What I thought was some sort of family check up turned into being the most intense moment of my life. The pediatrician talked with me about my emotions and my thoughts, she talked with my significant other about his opinions on the situation. It seemed like she was concerned, and she had right to be. At first it was just an appointment, a check up, but in such a quick second it turned into so much more. The PED had to take a look at my daughter, a full on body check basically. After looking her up and down and checking all things possible she looked at me and said "She is perfect. There is nothing you have done to affect her." As if I didn't already know that. Somehow when she said that it hurt. I felt so disappointed that she was looking at my child for a sign that I had physically abused her somehow. It just hurt so much that I came forward, I opened up, and I was honest about what I had been going through and that's how they approached it. 

The PED spoke with myself alone, my SO alone, and then with us together. When she spoke with me she asked me many many questions that I don't want to talk about. However, in our conversation she asked me If I felt I needed help. I told her I would be open to that option, if it's something I needed to do. She told me she felt with the extent of me feelings that maybe I should spend some time in the hospital to talk with the Doctors and go from there. I was more than willing to get help. If it would benefit myself, my family, and mostly the relationship I had with my daughter than I would do it. When the PED spoke with myself and my SO she started by telling us that I should spend some time in the hospital. Then she looked at my SO and said something I'll never forget, because it broke my heart. She looked at him and she said " We think Kendra should be admitted to the hospital, we're afraid that your daughter may end up dead." I broke down, I just couldn't comprehend what she had said. When we were alone she didn't say anything about that, she didn't specify. She didn't use the word dead. My SO wouldn't even look at me. I knew he was hurt, and afraid. It just broke me. 

My mind and my heart raced, although I had agreed to the admission in the hospital I was so fearful. I cried the entire ambulance ride, I cried myself to sleep that first night. I just couldn't stop crying. Is my SO going to leave? Is he going to run away with my child? Am I ever getting out of here? Will I get to see my daughter again? Is this going to help? What if it doesn't help? Am I crazy? These are just few of the things I kept asking myself over and over again. The first day I didn't leave my room. I just sat there in silence. I stared at a blank wall wondering how could keeping me from my daughter, isolating me in a room, a place with people I didn't know.. How could this help me? It took me hours to fall asleep that night. I was aloud to call, but I didn't have a calling card. Every time the phone rang I just hoped it was someone wanting to talk to me. To take my mind off the idea that I had been trapped in the psychiatric ward. 

By the second day I realized if I didn't get out of my bed I wasn't going to get over anything. I wasn't going to get better, and I'd probably be stuck in there forever. I finally left my room and spent some time in the activity room. I met many people. I heard many story's, but no one was going through what I was. That didn't matter though, because for the first time in a long time I felt no judgement. I felt like I could open up, tell my story and everyone was just there to listen. Believe it or not I made friends. I learnt a lot about people and even more about myself. I was rested, I was energized, I wasn't brain washed by social media, or the idea that I had to please anyone. I was feeling better. It was interesting. A week in a small space with new people, doctors and nurses, with silence and routine brought me back to my old self. My better self. Maybe even a new me. Someone I was proud of again. 

I spent a week in the psychiatric ward and the doctor let me have a weekend pass to see how I would do around my daughter under super vision. After a week of not seeing her beautiful face, I missed her so much. I didn't think I would with the emotions I had been feeling prior too. I was afraid she had forgotten me. She was nearly 8 months old, so a week is a big deal. When I seen her I cried of course, I held her and I cried. She hugged me, and kissed me.. she just kept kissing me. I heard her say "mom" for the first time and that moment was all I needed. That moment reminded me what life was all about. Being a family.

After the weekend I returned to the hospital to some great news. I was discharged. I was aloud to go home to my family under some conditions. I was medicated, so I had to make sure I took my pills regularly. {I am still on the same medication, though the prescription is a higher dose} I was referred to a therapist, a psychiatrist, and I had to be involved with Child Services. Those were very intimidating conditions but they were required. I had to sign many papers that gave permission for all these doctors and professionals to exchange information about their time with me. I feared child services the most. What were there intentions? Were they going to take my daughter from me? Were they going to watch me? Was I being babysat? But none of that was a worry after I returned from the hospital.

First returning home I wasn't aloud to have my daughter all the time. I wasn't even aloud to be alone with her. My time with her was supervised by my SO, or a family member. That was tough. I didn't really feel comfortable, but I understood. Over time I got to spend afternoons alone with her, and sometimes the entire day. As time went on I got to spend more time with her. Eventually we were back into our normal routine. I was alone with her more times than not, but this time it was different. I was happier, and I didn't have bad thoughts. Don't get me wrong, I still had bad days but that was OK. I was so content with my life, and I couldn't have been in a better place.

I couldn't have gotten through this hard time without my SO, his family, {his mother specifically}, my family, {my mother specifically}, my friends, and the professionals. To this date I still meet with a therapist, psychiatrist, and a social worker but we are a happy healthy family and both my children are in perfect condition.

I am very open about what I've been through, as I know PPD can be an extremely threatening illness to go through. I am telling my story mainly for myself, to open up, and get it all off my chest one last time. I am telling my story so others can understand the extent of PPD, to be more patient with frustrated mothers, to stop the judgement, and for other parents, mothers especially to feel comfortable to come forward if you are going through this or something similar. I am a survivor, and you can be too. It is and illness, but you can beat it. 

If you've read my story & you need someone I am here. Whether were friends, family, or even strangers I am all ears. I know what it feels like to need someone, but you're fearing what they might think. There is no judgement from me, only concern and support.

Can I Blame My Mental Illness For My Lousy Behavior?

Content Notice: eating disorder

Seven-and-a-half years ago, on the night of my 35th birthday, I told my husband that I wanted a divorce.

It was 2 AM. Maybe we’d been arguing, I can’t remember. I can’t remember a lot from that period, except the embarrassment. I remember the embarrassment with incredible accuracy.

Earlier that evening, we’d gone to dinner with my grandparents to a local Italian place. I can’t remember the name of the place; it’s not there anymore. It was replaced first by a Japanese place that served sushi that was only barely decent. Then by a Chinese place. Then a place that served Pho. Now I think it’s a Mexican food place.

I had Carbonara, which I also remember. It was surprisingly good for a place that would be out of business in 6 months. We had a bottle of red wine, probably Cabernet. I didn’t love wine yet, but I drank it because it seemed like the grown-up adult thing to do when you’re 35.

We went home and put the kids to bed; they were 14, 11 and nine then.

And at 2 AM, when he asked what was wrong with me, I told him I wanted a divorce.

He asked me to reconsider, pleaded the way only someone who has known you 20 years, who has seen you through every awful thing that has happened to you since you were 14, can.

I didn’t reconsider.

I feel the deepest level of shame, shame to my very core, that I walked away from my children. That 2 AM seemed like a good time to leave my kids and the only family they’d even known, to create a new family that they never asked for. I have bipolar disorder. And this is what unmedicated mental illness looks like for me.

The next day, we sent the kids to school and decided how to tell them. Maybe it was me who thought it would be a good idea to take them to pizza after telling them their lives were about to be ripped apart. Another poor choice in a long list of poor choices.

He told me if I wanted to split up our family, I’d have to leave. So I left.

I left my children there, the people I made in my body. The people who meant more to me than anything, I left at home.

Before I left, my 14-year-old gave me something she’d made with Perler beads, a little boy playing soccer. I kept him in the bag I took when I left, right up until last week.

When I took the figure out of the overnight bag, the black one with cherries on it, that I still use and still hate, I broke his foot off, and I cried. The foot can probably be ironed back on, but that’s not the point.

The point is, I broke him, and them.   

In the year before I left my family, I left myself.

My body wasted, worn down and broken from an eating disorder I denied. I stocked and stashed laxatives around the house. I ran until I fractured my leg and then ran on it still, even though it was excruciating until I broke it all the way.

And even then, I went to the gym and spent an hour a day on the elliptical on the broken leg. The elliptical is a low impact machine, or that’s what I told myself. In my broken brain, it seemed like a perfectly reasonable alternative to running on the road.

I lost ⅔ of my body weight in six months.

I bought handbags costly enough to feed a small nation, a drawer full of yoga pants from Lululemon, running shorts, dozens of new bras, thousands of dollars of new clothes. Every pound I lost deserved a reward, and I gave them to myself.

Despite barely hanging on to our ballooned mortgage, I shopped. At J. Crew, Gap, Macy’s. Nowhere too expensive. I must have figured no one would notice. Until the debt piled up and refused to be hidden.

The day after I told my husband I wanted a divorce, I packed my bag with my Perler-bead boy, two pairs of overpriced Lulu shorts, two sports bras, underwear, two sundresses, two bras with matching panties that I’d bought the week before, and my toothbrush. I went to my grandparent’s house.

I went there — I guess because it was the closest place, three blocks from my house, in a tiny town where everyone lives no more than a few miles away from each other. My grandmother gave me a room with a giant bed covered in an equally giant comforter which was in turn covered with roses. That night I drove around, with regret, but also a bizarre mix of conviction and pride, sure I’d made the right choice.

One day after that, I left my grandparents’ house to visit my sister three hours away. Fourteen years younger than me, she was in college at the time, pursuing the degree I never got, but she was away for the weekend. Instead of waiting for her, I bypassed the campus and drove to the Bay Area where I met my (now) husband.

We spent two nights and days together.

I’ve never written this. I’ve scarcely repeated this story to anyone outside a very tight-knit circle.

I am ashamed.

I’m not ashamed about the love I feel for my husband and the two babies we went on to make. I’m not embarrassed by the strength and struggle of what most would call a rebound marriage and the blended family, both beautiful and disastrous, that goes with it.

I feel the deepest level of shame, shame to my very core, that I walked away from my children. That 2 AM seemed like a good time to leave my kids and the only family they’d even known, to create a new family that they never asked for.

I have bipolar disorder. And this is what unmedicated mental illness looks like for me.

When the fog of a long season of depression lifts, and the manic energy arrives, bringing with it a bunch of irrational decisions, it’s easy to flush your meds — which is exactly what I did — right down the 50-year-old pink toilet, in the first house I ever owned.

I quite literally flushed all my meds because exercise and diet had restored my sanity. Or at least fooled me into thinking my sanity had been restored.

And with that “cure” came insurmountable debt, an eating disorder that leached the calcium from my bones, a delinquent mortgage, and a black overnight bag with cherries on it, filled with two days of clothes, a toothbrush, and a tiny beaded figure that my 14-year-old thought would give me comfort while I was gone.

My grandmother came into the spare bathroom situated across from the spare bedroom I was sleeping, but not really ever sleeping in, without knocking. The sight of my wasted body, the protruding collar bones, the sagging skin, must have alarmed her.

I was too busy thinking about the 10 more pounds I needed to lose to notice or acknowledge her reaction or when she said she was going to the kitchen to make me the mashed potatoes and gravy I’d take two bites of and then rinse into the sink.

When I came back from the Bay Area and the two days that I had sought to make me forget the mess I had left, I borrowed $1,200 from my grandparents and rented a tiny two-bedroom apartment.

In that apartment, I’d make spaghetti for my kids, and we’d eat it off of a wicker patio table that had, the week before, been next to my grandmother’s pool. They would go to sleep on small twin-size air mattresses I bought at Target. I would lay awake on the queen size version. Because I wasn’t sure what I was doing, and also because mania robs you of sleep, making you believe two hours is sufficient.

I had only a few things my ex let me have, a few things that I had charged on a credit card that wasn’t entirely maxed out, a fluffy floral sofa and a patio table that my grandmother gave me. And my mania and my shame.

I listened to the song “Lucky” on repeat, singing along, crying and learning the chords so I could play it on the acoustic guitar my dad had given me on the birthday I celebrated before I left everything behind for a new life.

I was so lucky to have a new life and a new person to love, who loved me.

And I was on a manic cloud that made it all seem so perfectly idyllic.

That’s what mania did to me.

But I can’t blame it. Not because it wasn’t there, but because that’s a bullshit excuse. I wish I could say that every mistake I’ve made, every lousy decision, is all a manifestation of my faulty brain chemistry.

But the truth is, even if it was the mania, I still have to sleep with the image of my kids crying over pizza the night I told them that I’d never share that house, the first one we’d bought, scrimped and saved for, again.

Four years after the wicker patio table and that hideous sofa, I saw the psychiatrist who would finally officially diagnose me over a bag of Sunchips and a Starbucks latte. The man that would medicate me, adjusting formulations over and over, until a year after that, I was at last, after 20 years, stable.

I haven’t had a single suicidal thought in nine months. I haven’t had a manic episode in much longer than that. I can’t remember a lot of words or phone numbers and addresses I had memorized for 20 years — because that’s what Lamictal does while it keeps me from buying useless shit instead of paying my mortgage.

My mouth is dry, and I gained 15 pounds — because that’s what Zoloft does while it keeps my OCD and eating disorder at an arm’s distance and my depression suffocated.

For a while, I was on one medication that made me fall asleep sitting up. I can’t remember what it’s called because I was asleep, and also because of Lamictal stealing my words.

But I take them every day, eight of them, along with a colorful handful of supplemental horse pills that I hope do something to counteract what the pharmaceuticals are doing to my liver. Every morning with breakfast, over coffee with the man I adore. Every night at the bathroom sink, right before I shea butter my hands and spoon to sleep with that same guy.

And I sleep. Mostly restful. At least five hours usually, always striving for seven. Our two littles sneak into our king-size bed and kick me in the face. Sometimes I end up on the bottom 5 percent of that giant mattress. And it makes me angry because no one likes to get kicked in the face by a six-year-old, but then I wake up, and I love them even more than the day before.

I am still ashamed. But despite that, or in spite of that, my life is beautiful.

I have all I need and most of what I want. When I can’t sleep, I can write at 1 AM, and in the morning I will have coffee that is made just how I like it, by a man who is my match, paired with my pharmacy of meds, and probably two fried eggs that we collected from our backyard hens the day before.

My big kids, two of whom are adults now, are fantastic. The two kids Matt and I made, that united our family around a common love, are people I can’t imagine living without. My life is as perfect as I could ever ask for or deserve.

And the Perler bead soccer guy is on my dresser. A reminder of why I swallow a dozen pills every day.

This article first appeared on ravishly.com. Read more from Joni here.

Also at ravishly:

Why Do You Hate Your Body?

13 Things My 4-Year-Old Needs To Discuss at 4 A.M.

Follow Joni on instagram and Facebook.

-- This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.

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Can I Blame My Mental Illness For My Lousy Behavior?

Content Notice: eating disorder

Seven-and-a-half years ago, on the night of my 35th birthday, I told my husband that I wanted a divorce.

It was 2 AM. Maybe we’d been arguing, I can’t remember. I can’t remember a lot from that period, except the embarrassment. I remember the embarrassment with incredible accuracy.

Earlier that evening, we’d gone to dinner with my grandparents to a local Italian place. I can’t remember the name of the place; it’s not there anymore. It was replaced first by a Japanese place that served sushi that was only barely decent. Then by a Chinese place. Then a place that served Pho. Now I think it’s a Mexican food place.

I had Carbonara, which I also remember. It was surprisingly good for a place that would be out of business in 6 months. We had a bottle of red wine, probably Cabernet. I didn’t love wine yet, but I drank it because it seemed like the grown-up adult thing to do when you’re 35.

We went home and put the kids to bed; they were 14, 11 and nine then.

And at 2 AM, when he asked what was wrong with me, I told him I wanted a divorce.

He asked me to reconsider, pleaded the way only someone who has known you 20 years, who has seen you through every awful thing that has happened to you since you were 14, can.

I didn’t reconsider.

I feel the deepest level of shame, shame to my very core, that I walked away from my children. That 2 AM seemed like a good time to leave my kids and the only family they’d even known, to create a new family that they never asked for. I have bipolar disorder. And this is what unmedicated mental illness looks like for me.

The next day, we sent the kids to school and decided how to tell them. Maybe it was me who thought it would be a good idea to take them to pizza after telling them their lives were about to be ripped apart. Another poor choice in a long list of poor choices.

He told me if I wanted to split up our family, I’d have to leave. So I left.

I left my children there, the people I made in my body. The people who meant more to me than anything, I left at home.

Before I left, my 14-year-old gave me something she’d made with Perler beads, a little boy playing soccer. I kept him in the bag I took when I left, right up until last week.

When I took the figure out of the overnight bag, the black one with cherries on it, that I still use and still hate, I broke his foot off, and I cried. The foot can probably be ironed back on, but that’s not the point.

The point is, I broke him, and them.   

In the year before I left my family, I left myself.

My body wasted, worn down and broken from an eating disorder I denied. I stocked and stashed laxatives around the house. I ran until I fractured my leg and then ran on it still, even though it was excruciating until I broke it all the way.

And even then, I went to the gym and spent an hour a day on the elliptical on the broken leg. The elliptical is a low impact machine, or that’s what I told myself. In my broken brain, it seemed like a perfectly reasonable alternative to running on the road.

I lost ⅔ of my body weight in six months.

I bought handbags costly enough to feed a small nation, a drawer full of yoga pants from Lululemon, running shorts, dozens of new bras, thousands of dollars of new clothes. Every pound I lost deserved a reward, and I gave them to myself.

Despite barely hanging on to our ballooned mortgage, I shopped. At J. Crew, Gap, Macy’s. Nowhere too expensive. I must have figured no one would notice. Until the debt piled up and refused to be hidden.

The day after I told my husband I wanted a divorce, I packed my bag with my Perler-bead boy, two pairs of overpriced Lulu shorts, two sports bras, underwear, two sundresses, two bras with matching panties that I’d bought the week before, and my toothbrush. I went to my grandparent’s house.

I went there — I guess because it was the closest place, three blocks from my house, in a tiny town where everyone lives no more than a few miles away from each other. My grandmother gave me a room with a giant bed covered in an equally giant comforter which was in turn covered with roses. That night I drove around, with regret, but also a bizarre mix of conviction and pride, sure I’d made the right choice.

One day after that, I left my grandparents’ house to visit my sister three hours away. Fourteen years younger than me, she was in college at the time, pursuing the degree I never got, but she was away for the weekend. Instead of waiting for her, I bypassed the campus and drove to the Bay Area where I met my (now) husband.

We spent two nights and days together.

I’ve never written this. I’ve scarcely repeated this story to anyone outside a very tight-knit circle.

I am ashamed.

I’m not ashamed about the love I feel for my husband and the two babies we went on to make. I’m not embarrassed by the strength and struggle of what most would call a rebound marriage and the blended family, both beautiful and disastrous, that goes with it.

I feel the deepest level of shame, shame to my very core, that I walked away from my children. That 2 AM seemed like a good time to leave my kids and the only family they’d even known, to create a new family that they never asked for.

I have bipolar disorder. And this is what unmedicated mental illness looks like for me.

When the fog of a long season of depression lifts, and the manic energy arrives, bringing with it a bunch of irrational decisions, it’s easy to flush your meds — which is exactly what I did — right down the 50-year-old pink toilet, in the first house I ever owned.

I quite literally flushed all my meds because exercise and diet had restored my sanity. Or at least fooled me into thinking my sanity had been restored.

And with that “cure” came insurmountable debt, an eating disorder that leached the calcium from my bones, a delinquent mortgage, and a black overnight bag with cherries on it, filled with two days of clothes, a toothbrush, and a tiny beaded figure that my 14-year-old thought would give me comfort while I was gone.

My grandmother came into the spare bathroom situated across from the spare bedroom I was sleeping, but not really ever sleeping in, without knocking. The sight of my wasted body, the protruding collar bones, the sagging skin, must have alarmed her.

I was too busy thinking about the 10 more pounds I needed to lose to notice or acknowledge her reaction or when she said she was going to the kitchen to make me the mashed potatoes and gravy I’d take two bites of and then rinse into the sink.

When I came back from the Bay Area and the two days that I had sought to make me forget the mess I had left, I borrowed $1,200 from my grandparents and rented a tiny two-bedroom apartment.

In that apartment, I’d make spaghetti for my kids, and we’d eat it off of a wicker patio table that had, the week before, been next to my grandmother’s pool. They would go to sleep on small twin-size air mattresses I bought at Target. I would lay awake on the queen size version. Because I wasn’t sure what I was doing, and also because mania robs you of sleep, making you believe two hours is sufficient.

I had only a few things my ex let me have, a few things that I had charged on a credit card that wasn’t entirely maxed out, a fluffy floral sofa and a patio table that my grandmother gave me. And my mania and my shame.

I listened to the song “Lucky” on repeat, singing along, crying and learning the chords so I could play it on the acoustic guitar my dad had given me on the birthday I celebrated before I left everything behind for a new life.

I was so lucky to have a new life and a new person to love, who loved me.

And I was on a manic cloud that made it all seem so perfectly idyllic.

That’s what mania did to me.

But I can’t blame it. Not because it wasn’t there, but because that’s a bullshit excuse. I wish I could say that every mistake I’ve made, every lousy decision, is all a manifestation of my faulty brain chemistry.

But the truth is, even if it was the mania, I still have to sleep with the image of my kids crying over pizza the night I told them that I’d never share that house, the first one we’d bought, scrimped and saved for, again.

Four years after the wicker patio table and that hideous sofa, I saw the psychiatrist who would finally officially diagnose me over a bag of Sunchips and a Starbucks latte. The man that would medicate me, adjusting formulations over and over, until a year after that, I was at last, after 20 years, stable.

I haven’t had a single suicidal thought in nine months. I haven’t had a manic episode in much longer than that. I can’t remember a lot of words or phone numbers and addresses I had memorized for 20 years — because that’s what Lamictal does while it keeps me from buying useless shit instead of paying my mortgage.

My mouth is dry, and I gained 15 pounds — because that’s what Zoloft does while it keeps my OCD and eating disorder at an arm’s distance and my depression suffocated.

For a while, I was on one medication that made me fall asleep sitting up. I can’t remember what it’s called because I was asleep, and also because of Lamictal stealing my words.

But I take them every day, eight of them, along with a colorful handful of supplemental horse pills that I hope do something to counteract what the pharmaceuticals are doing to my liver. Every morning with breakfast, over coffee with the man I adore. Every night at the bathroom sink, right before I shea butter my hands and spoon to sleep with that same guy.

And I sleep. Mostly restful. At least five hours usually, always striving for seven. Our two littles sneak into our king-size bed and kick me in the face. Sometimes I end up on the bottom 5 percent of that giant mattress. And it makes me angry because no one likes to get kicked in the face by a six-year-old, but then I wake up, and I love them even more than the day before.

I am still ashamed. But despite that, or in spite of that, my life is beautiful.

I have all I need and most of what I want. When I can’t sleep, I can write at 1 AM, and in the morning I will have coffee that is made just how I like it, by a man who is my match, paired with my pharmacy of meds, and probably two fried eggs that we collected from our backyard hens the day before.

My big kids, two of whom are adults now, are fantastic. The two kids Matt and I made, that united our family around a common love, are people I can’t imagine living without. My life is as perfect as I could ever ask for or deserve.

And the Perler bead soccer guy is on my dresser. A reminder of why I swallow a dozen pills every day.

This article first appeared on ravishly.com. Read more from Joni here.

Also at ravishly:

Why Do You Hate Your Body?

13 Things My 4-Year-Old Needs To Discuss at 4 A.M.

Follow Joni on instagram and Facebook.

-- This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.

from Healthy Living - The Huffington Post http://huff.to/2kjQuqb