The Key to Mental Health

Some days I curl up in a ball on my bedroom floor –the bed behind me and the wall in front of me, a big blanket covering me up and weighing me down. During those times I am no longer the person that can work and function and make important decisions – I can only sit there, sometimes crying, sometimes staring at nothing as the anxiety impedes my life.

Some days I can’t sleep. So I’m up all night and my mind races and I write beautiful stories and poems and jump from topic to topic. Sometimes the anger takes hold and I storm out of the house in the darkness and I walk from one end of town to the other, uphill both ways. Sometimes I feel on top of the world and I’m super sensitive to touch, and sound, and smells.

Some days I get out of bed, only to fold into the most comfortable chair in the house, wrap a blanket securely around me and sleep the day away. Those days I can barely drag myself to the washroom or make dinner for the kids – and forget leaving the house. Sometimes I can’t feel anything – my arms and legs are dead weight, my mind is shut down to only basic function, and feeling – it’s all or nothing – pain so deep that it feels as though I’m splitting in two, or nothingness; I don’t know which is worse.

Some days I wake up wrong… skewed. The world is tilted and everything is set to annoy me, the little things, the big things – everything sets me off. I’m explosive –not just angry, but filled with rage. I see things and hear things with a filter that makes everyone hate me. It hurts and I feel jaded, even though I’m the one making things worse. I’m the one losing my temper and yelling and out of control. I’m the one that is making a big deal out of a miniscule look, or word, or touch.

And some days… I’m normal, level, rational, and logical. Things make sense and although triggers and stressful events happen, I can still handle them with grace and dignity. On those days I wonder who the other people are that kidnap my body and take over. I feel humiliation over the ways that I have acted and the things that I have done. I apologise but it never feels like it’s enough. I strive to change who I am and I vow to never let anxiety, or mania, or depression, or anger take a hold of me again. I become determined to be somebody different the next time, and I work a little bit harder on the daily exercises to train my brain, the physical exercise, the healthy eating plan, and the maintenance of my routine. I take the medications I’ve been prescribed and tell myself that I am more than a disorder and that I have got this.

I continue to work, and parent, and live my life and I move on because that statement is truth… I AM more than a disorder and I AM capable of not just surviving, but of THRIVING.

Two years ago I was a different person. I accepted my disorders but didn’t know that there was so much more to it than a diagnosis. I was told they were lifelong conditions, to take my meds, and to go to therapy. At times, I’ve used the terms anxiety, depression, bipolar, and borderline as a crutch… an excuse… a reason for why I am the way that I am. But over the past year I have made a change in the way that I have used those terms and I didn’t realise just how it would begin to change my life.

By refusing to accept that I can’t be level because of my diagnosis, I have fundamentally changed how I now deal with life. I refuse to believe that I am defective, damaged, or simply unable to deal with triggers and the stress of life. I have bad days, but through hard work and training my brain, I am able to push through and remain present in my own mind. I am able to say ‘I need help’, and determine when things aren’t quite right. I am able to face my anxiety and fear and tackle things (slowly and in my own time) that had previously been off limits to me. I am able to say to myself – I know you’re tired, let’s get through this and not give in while the new meds kick in.

I no longer believe that I am broken. I no longer need to use the term ‘I can’t because I’ve got anxiety’ or ‘It’s not my fault I’m (depressed, manic, borderline)’. I no longer need to feel wrong, guilty, embarrassed, damaged because it is what it is and I am slowly getting better. I might never be cured of these lifelong conditions, but it doesn’t mean that I can’t live a good, healthy life. I might need help now and then… support from family and friends… doctor visits to maintain… or even a brief hospital stay to put me back on track, but I’m here and I am not simply a diagnosis. I am the key to my own mental health. I will keep working, and fighting, and most of all winning.

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Victory Through the Struggles

It’s not euphoria or hypersensitivity or the darkness of a deep depression. The spikes are no longer as severe as a freshly sharpened pencil, now more rounded, curved and easier to pass over. The waves have not disappeared – there is still sadness and happiness, anger and excitement. But they are easier to steer… they are no longer run-away trains, reaching the tipping point and about to spill off of the tracks.

Level. Stable. Manageable. In control. It’s almost terrifying – a great unknown and after another depressive episode, it is an entirely new world to feel this way. It hasn’t been easy to reach this place and there have been some detours along the way. But right now, in this moment – my mental disorders are not winning.

Recently, I spent a week in the hospital. I was at a low point and drove myself there; I fought through what felt like interrogations and some criticisms, and I was admitted so that I was in a safe place where I could be monitored and so that my medications could be adjusted again.

I did not want to be there.

But I was… and it was a massive victory.

Taking myself into the hospital was not easy… I felt like a failure and like a fraud. I was low but I was highly functional. I was depressed but few people knew about it. I was struggling but I felt like I should be okay. I was angry because it was such a short journey from managing my triggers and being able to work through my emotional surges, to feeling as though I had fallen down a rabbit hole and knowing the world had morphed into a much darker place.

Again, I did not want to be there. I did not want to admit my weakness. Throughout the days leading up to and during my stay, it was often a fight within myself… a heated and intense battle for control… for my life.

But it was also a testament to the changes I have made, the way I have grown within my diagnosis, and my ability to identify with and help myself. It was days of reaching out and seeking help from trusted sources. It was days of self-care while doing things that bring me joy, it was using the resources that I have collected and learned to use, almost as though they have become second nature from the practice and continuous learning that I have done. It was keeping to my routines and it was remaining functional while recognising that I was falling, and doing something that I had never done before. It was stopping when I knew that I was in danger and taking myself in before I was past the point of no return, before I was able to fall further, before I tried to end the suffering or before the police were called. It was calm and without the drama of past experiences. It was me never letting go of the reigns and steering myself to the help that I knew that I needed. It was being aware of and able to hang on to one single spark of light and let it spread as I stayed safe, quickly illuminating the darkness and letting me recover faster and easier than I ever have before.

It was a success.

I was hospitalised, but I don’t regret it. I will continue to grow. I will continue to strive to remain level. I will continue to hang on to those sparks of light when the darkness begins to close in on me. I will continue to learn and remain aware of myself, my triggers, my weaknesses, and my spikes. I will get the help I need, when I need it. I will embrace stability – even when it frightens me.

I will continue to share my story. I will continue to be open and honest, to let everyone know about the struggles and the victories. I will continue to talk and to listen. I will continue to grow stronger and I will keep going. I will continue to be a success. I will continue to change the game, and I will win.

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World Suicide Prevention Day 2016

** Trigger Warning **

She looked into the mirror - her eyes were blank... hollow, her heart was heavy, and her hope was lost. She was tired of struggling and of fighting... She was simply exhausted and had lost her ability to cling to life.

She had heard it all and she hated the words, their voices of encouragement, and their stories of recovery; it wasn't worth anything... she couldn't feel anything. Once the pull of death's comfort, peace, and ease had infiltrated her mind - there was no going back... No other way out... Nothing could change her decision.

She sat in the tub, filled to the brim with water and with a hair dryer in her hand: she crouched in the darkest corner of her room with the razor at her wrist: she sat on the patio with the pills poured out into her hand. Once death had claimed her mind, it was far too easy to know what came next, to follow through.

She didn't expect the moments of clarity that would take her breath away... It would be a few seconds at most as remnants of light blasted through the darkness - pieces of conversations surrounding recovery and hope and life, bits of memories filled with love and joy, reminders of hands reaching out - showing grace, friendship, support, and acceptance.

It was only a few moments and then the light vanished, the darkness and despair returning to cage her mind, filling the space, consuming everything except for one tiny speck... A glimmer... A sparkle.

Maybe, just maybe those moments of clarity were enough and still shaking she takes one last chance. She drives herself to the emergency room or she picks up the phone to call a trusted friend, a hotline, or emergency services.

She will be questionned - it will feel like an interrogation on why she is in crisis and she will have to repeat her story and her history to every person who walks into her room or tries to help her. She will fade to darkness and wish she hadn't made the choice to open up and let them in.

But that speck. Gradually it will grow a little bit brighter and so she doesn't fight them. She decides to stay, to muster any ounce of strength that she can find, to fight for that light one last time.

At her weakest point in life, she has become the strongest she has ever been. She faces anger, shame, guilt, and humiliation... She is stripped of her clothes, her freedom, and her choices. Still she sees that sparkle hanging there and she chases it, speaking up - revealing truth and suffering, voids and failures, grief and loss.

And as she does - that light, that bright speck, it becomes a star which gradually reveals the other stars, and suddenly the sun is shining and the world, her world, is brighter again; illuminating even the darkest places in her mind.

Once she is stable, she holds onto the light like a security blanket. It shimmers and flexes, fades and boldens as she mives forward, one small step at a time. She chooses to continue to speak about her experiences. She speaks and she listens, she accepts and she prays, and she helps and she seeks help. She becomes the glimmer in another person's darkness while she gains more sparkles to hold onto herself, in case the darkness ever threatens to return.

September 10, 2016 is World Suicide Prevention Day. Find your speck of light - it is never too late to find hope in the darkness as long as we never fall silent in our pain and our light, in our support of friends and family, and in sharing our own experiences.

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Changing the Game

It was a typical day… perfectly in routine. I was up at 7 and was drinking my morning cup of tea, waiting for my day to begin, the first day of my summer vacation. I was stable. I was level. I was tired. But I was happy. I was okay… Until I wasn’t.

It was a single moment that changed everything, that sent me on a path of watching and waiting and seeing. Like a quickly darkening sky with sudden rotation, a tornado waiting to touch down in my life and send everything – especially me – spiralling down a dark hole again. It was easy to see… I had been down this path before – several times – and it was easy to predict the path that I would take, the way that a trigger of this magnitude would rip the control I have so carefully constructed away from me again. It would be disastrous – I would fall down the rabbit hole of depression and the thoughts of darkness, and desperation, and escape would inevitably hit… I would end up in the hospital again… forced into isolation and psychiatrist evaluations. This was my life. This was what always happened.

Until it didn’t.

Just over three weeks ago I was hit with a major trigger in my life (a crisis of sorts), and just over three weeks ago I began another journey in my life with Bipolar Disorder/BPD. Just over three weeks ago, I panicked in the moments immediately following the hit of the trigger and I felt like I would crash, the feelings rushing back to the surface and my mind working in overdrive and immediately beginning to envision the worst case scenarios – suicide attempts, police cars, hospitalisation, mania, or a psychotic episode. I knew my past and while I knew the stability I had forged over the last two years of dedication and hard work, I also knew how easily it could all crumble again.

I haven’t written much over the last several months – I have been busy and life has moved forward as it often does. Since last Christmas I have experienced stress and triggers, ups and downs, as well as one hospitalisation and one day trip to the emergency room. I have worked to return to a balanced diet and better exercise regimen, to live a balanced life, and maintain the ever-important routine… and overall, I have been extremely successful, finding a new sense of peace and the ability to identify and work on some of my problems and maintain stability with my mental health.

Three weeks ago – for just a few moments – I knew it was all for nothing. For a few moments, I lost myself and returned to the fragile state that would leave me vulnerable and susceptible to another episode. And then, I remembered the months and years of work I've done.

I remembered the steps, and the pages, and the writing, and the distraction, and the help available to me. I remembered to grab my phone and reach out to let someone I trusted know what was happening. I remembered all of the success I have worked towards achieving and I began to put a plan (simple, one step at a time) into place, to maintain my own mental health in a situation that could very well have been catastrophic. I remembered over the next several days to head off a slip up by taking care of my basic needs and maintaining the routine I desperately need to function – eating properly, continuing daily chores/work/plans. I remembered to take the damn sleeping pills when I couldn’t sleep… and to have someone hold me accountable when it took nearly a week to begin sleeping properly again; and I remembered to have a plan in place to seek help if I didn’t. I remembered to take care of myself and to keep my plans, my work, and my support firmly in place - even if I didn't exactly want to.

And I didn't fall down.

And now, three weeks later, I still catch myself watching and waiting for that stumble at times… that sign that I am weak and that I am nothing but my mental illness. At times I wish it would just happen – an episode of some sort - because it is strange to react in a normal way, within an overall normal range of emotions. And at some times, I just sit down and smile, amazed at how well I am doing. I smile because every struggle, every step I have taken to get here, and every experience - both positive and negative - has been worth it to get to the place I'm in right now.

I know that my battle with mental illness isn’t over. I know that I might have episodes of mania or depression or intense emotional outbursts in the future. I know that they aren’t always caused by an obvious trigger in my life. But I also know that I have worked hard at identifying signs, maintaining my support system, knowing my own personal limits, and seeking help when needed to ensure that I stay healthy and strong.

I know that today, I am doing okay. One day at a time, one episode at a time. I am changing the game, I am challenging myself, and I am winning in my fight for stability in a Bipolar/Borderline mind.

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Looking Through Lenses

Over the last couple of years - but more so within the last several months - I've been slowly learning how to properly use my camera and I've been teaching myself the art of photography. I've come a long way from where I began and it has been an amazing 'wellness tool' for the times that I begin to slip or am not feeling my greatest; picking up the camera has become a comfort to me. When someone asked me why it is a good tool or why it brings me joy, the best explanation that I could give was that the world looks different through the lens of the camera. It's amazing how you can compose a shot to allow it to give a desired impression, the final output different than what your eyes might actually see. 

Using the photographs below it is a little bit easier to see what I mean: the first image (the original in this case) shows a closer to realistic view of some deer I captured yesterday morning. I've used photoshop to demonstrate some of the changes I can choose to make to give a desired outcome - usually done directly at the camera. 

In the second image I have straightened the photo, cropped it down slightly to zoom in on the subject matter. 

Next, I chose to brighten up the image and change the white balance and the saturation - the amount of colour used.

Finally, I adjusted a few of the other settings - highlights, shadows, etc... to make the image appear the way that I would like it to look. 

Like I said above, I generally try to adjust all of these settings directly at the camera, By straightening the camera body - setting the white balance, the shutter speed, etc, it allows me to control the output, the final image and what I see when I look back. In the same way, there are a dozen different things that the camera can't capture - the kids screaming at me in the background as they try and get ready for school, the biting cold of the wind as it whips around my hair and causes me to shiver, the sun as it peeks over the horizon, or the sound of the cars racing down my street. Instead, the final product leaves a peaceful, quiet, maybe slightly chilly impression... much like mental health.

I think this is why I like photography so much. When you have a mental health problem - the world seems different at times, like you have applied a filter to your lens and the white balance is off and the exposure is a little too dark or light, and the colours seem skewed - too brilliant or too montotone. It is impossible to see the picture the way that everyone else does because the settings in your mind, just aren't quite right. As we process - sometimes we can adjust those settings, make our output seem a little more 'normal', but the input is still off, wrong somehow.

Just like a photographer learns how to use a camera - to adjust settings as they go to get the picture right, we learn to use tools to adjust our internal settings. Therapy, medications, exercise and nutrition, relationships - they all adjust something within us, help the camera to work and to get a clearer image. Sometimes, the external settings change - triggers happen or the surroundings change - sometimes the camera body needs updating... and so we adjust. We try new tools, new medications, and new therapies to continue to adjust ourselves. Sometimes we slip. Sometimes we can't get the image in focus no matter what settings we change - there are too many factors, maybe there isn't enough light, or too many filters attached to the front of our lens. That's when we need help the most - when we need relationships and support to help us to see clearly through the fog, the layers, to take control and manually adjust the settings.

The good news is that even though things need to be adjusted from time to time - we aren't broken. It might appear at times as though there is a crack in the screen, splintering out and distorting things, but fixing it is possible as long as we (with help as needed) remove the broken filter,

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A Million Little Lists

I read a lot of posts online that go something like this:

• 5 Things to never say to someone with Bipolar Disorder
• 10 Things every Borderline person needs
• 15 Ways mental health is misunderstood
• 20 Things to do for someone in crisis
• 100 Things you need to know about _____

There are thousands of posts like that out there and many of them have been accurate for me upon reading them. But many of them haven't. The reasoning isn't complicated or difficult to understand; just like anything else in life it depends on individual circumstances, reactions, and thought processes. 

Thankfully, I'm an individual... unfortunately this also means that my behaviours have often times developed based on my history and personal life circumstances - these things combined with my genetic make-up and brain chemistry make everything that I experience, think, and react to unique to me. It is something that makes mental health different than any other kind of medicine - it makes what physically should be a simple diagnosis, complicated and unpredictable. It's something that could have any number of results, with hundreds of factors to always consider.

So I won't write you a list today - I won't tell you a million and one little things that you can do to help me when I'm in crisis or angry or manic. I won't tell you that this is what all people who are diagnosed with bipolar or borderline personality disorder want you to know, and I won't tell you what to say or not to say to your loved ones. 

What I will say is this: I am loud and vocal. I have gotten to the point where I can (usually) speak openly about my illness and what I want and/or need from friends, family, and professionals. I know my own cues and I know my own emotional states; I also know that I am my own best advocate. I want people to understand and I want the stigma surrounding mental illness to end. I can also say that there are times when I am well, times when I know that I make the most sense and can verbalise my experiences much easier than when I am sick - and I know that those times are vital to my health, because those times are times my loved ones are able to listen, are able to hear me out, are able to put together some of the pieces and know what I as an individual need (or don't need) from them. 

Lists, like anything, can be useful tools - I use them all of the time. They are especially useful when you or a loved one are suffering and it is impossible to express the things that are needed in the moment. Education - learning about an illness or a diagnosis can make the world of difference in understanding and in recovery. But as helpful as they can be, they are tools that need to be worked in, personalised and made to suit an individual. Know yourself, and get to know your loved ones... let's end the stigma - the things we put on ourselves and the things that others put on us. I am not defined by an illness that can't always be perfectly, statically, consistently, defined itself.  So I won't worry about the million little lists that I've read that tell me what I ought to know and what you ought to know and what a future being mentally ill entails. I will live with hope - I will live with a recovery centred approach - I will live with the individuality that I was born with, and I will keep talking and fighting through the struggles. I will be strong, I will stumble, I will laugh, I will cry, I will do what works for me, and I will simply be the uniquely created human that I am. 

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My Illness Made Me Do It

Depression/anxiety/mania made me do it.

I’ve always hated this expression… the thought that any state of being could make decisions on behalf of me, this excuse that I am somehow not responsible for my actions simply because I am unwell. Perhaps it’s because I feel that it opens a door – if I can blame the mental illness for my behaviours, then so can everyone else; it only feeds the stigma. Or perhaps it’s because I haven’t always been comfortable sharing about my mental health problems, or because I didn’t want to admit to myself that I had these disorders that truly did take over at times. Whatever the reasons have been in the past for disliking the phrase, I still try to avoid using it whenever possible.

The problem is that while I refuse to allow my illness to completely gain control of me again, it has in the past taken over any rational or logical thought processes. I didn’t know how to manage and cope with my unstable thoughts and emotions – I didn’t even know what was wrong with me. Being bipolar means that at times the depression or the mania becomes natural, they are ingrained in me and part of who I feel I am at the moment – sometimes it’s difficult to separate the harmful thoughts from the level ones, the logic from the negative voice. It can be impossible to equate the person I become with the person that I am – it can be similar to having a split mind, the behaviour different depending on my emotional state.

But I still hate using this excuse, this reasoning that “the disorder made me do it”. Because the truth is, I am not my disorder. Yes, I have an illness… but I am capable of managing symptoms and seeking help. I am capable of fighting through the clouds of darkness and recognising the energy and chaos of (hypo)mania. I am capable and I am strong. I am able to speak and write and identify what is wrong and use the skills and tools that I have gained to keep myself grounded and present. I can keep the rest of my health in check to make it easier – my physical well-being, my spiritual relationship, and my social and supportive surroundings. I can make choices that might not heal the illness but that can certainly put me on the right path and give me hope to cling to when I begin to fall. I can focus not on my limitations and the things that I have done and experienced in the past, but on hope and recovery.

Sometimes I might still need help. Sometimes I might still falter and make poor decisions. Sometimes I might not always feel strong. Sometimes I might feel like this cycle is never ending. Sometimes I might not feel in control and I might need guidance and support and love to get back to a healthy place.

But I will not let the illness win and I will not be a victim of my own mind… I will stand my ground – not alone but with friends and family to back me up – and I will fight to stay healthy. I will keep hoping and praying and talking and writing, because I know that I am worth more than being a pawn to the emotional kidnapper inside my head.

I can choose right now to focus on the illness. I can focus on the things I have felt and the way it takes over who I am and changes the way I think, feel, and act. Or I can focus on recovery… on learning and growing and grasping onto the beauty in every day. It’s never easy… life rarely is, but it is worth it and every day that I struggle, I see the tiny changes - the way I am propelled further forward in my journey than ever.

Recovery isn’t simple… it will be different for everyone. But for me, it’s about letting go of the idea, the stigma that tells me that I am only my illness and that I can’t ever fully control my thoughts, feelings, or actions. It is about taking back control, learning to see and preparing in advance for sudden curves in the road, and taking the past and using the experience to bridge gaps in the journey. Recovery is about taking back the wheel, loading up the backseat with tools and support, and taking life on as it comes at me. Sometimes it will be easy, but I will never give up.  

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Beauty-Hunter

"There's no point in living."

"I have no reason to keep going."

"I can't fight the darkness."

I can only imagine the confusion and fear in my husband, friends, and family's minds as they heard me speak those words - words that were far more than simple sentences, that reached deep into my aching heart and had become the core of how I felt. They were my truth and my pain, they were an overwhelming need to let go and finally be free of the depression and the anxiety that held me captive.

At the time, I couldn't think of anything else... I couldn't feel anything else. It hurt deep inside me and it was beyond exhausting to live each day, to try and force myself to take another step forward when all I wanted was for it all to go away... I wanted to disappear.

In my world, there was nothing left - the happiness, the beauty, the joy, the wonder... it wasn't just hiding, it was completely non-existent.

During my darkest periods of depression there was nothing positive within my grasp - anything that I touched seemed to wither and fade until the only thing that I could see or feel were excruciating reasons on why I needed to end it all. My brain took the things I had previously loved and convinced me that they either weren't good any longer, or they were better off without me poisoning them. My thinking was skewed and didn't make sense to those around me... I was too tired to try to fight the thoughts any longer.

Yesterday morning I woke up at my usual early hour and my husband and I went chasing the sunrise. It was an adventure to find the perfect spot to see the sun as it reached up over the horizon and began to shine down on the world around me. It was beautiful and bright and colorful. It was a new day and it reminded me of every time I've had to crawl out of the darkness, of every day I almost didn't make it through the night... only to emerge into the brilliance of life around me.

It's why I don't sit still as much any longer - it's why I have turned into more of an explorer, my eyes opened wider than ever as I see the beauty that exists all around me. My hobbies, my joy and my love have all returned again and i have chosen to focus much of my awareness on all of the things that I have always loved - but at times have been blinded to. I want to focus on the beautiful world around me - the small things, the positives, and the happy moments.

I know that for me it won't always be easy to see - I know the way that my mind can warp what I currently see as beautiful and twist them into muted colours and monotony, convincing me it isn't that beautiful any longer. I also know that it's all the more reason to keep on searching, to keep finding that beauty that is both within and surrounding me. It's why and how I can focus on the fight to stay healthy and well, to keep myself from sinknig back into the never-ending night... it's a reminder that tomorrow can be brighter, beautiful and joyful. It is hope.

I've lived much of my life in deep depression, a cycle that kept repeating and might try to repeat again. Beauty-hunting is just another tool to fend off the darkness for one more day, to cling to when the lights go out, and a reminder of the days to come.

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Fractured - Damaged - Broken

I always knew that I was different. As a small child I was highly emotional and as I moved into my teenage years I often spent time locked inside my head, wondering what was wrong with me to make me feel and act the way that I did. For most of my young life I looked somewhat normal from the outside - but as much as I tried to fit in and hide them, the signs were already beginning to shine through.

As I developed into a young adult - having made several poor choices already throughout my life, I began to feel more than different; I felt broken and damaged. It wasn't a simple thought that passed through my mind one day though. No, it was the way that I truly began to see myself as my poor decisions, the unstable moods, the emotional dysregulation, and the lack of control concerning my actions continued to get worse. It was a difficult and confusing place to be in - I was young and although I was quite intelligent - the thoughts in my head rarely made sense, and nothing ever seemed to click into place easily for me. For years I wrestled with the thoughts in my head and with this feeling of being fractured, a million pieces of me that never fit together the way that they should. 

By the time I was given any diagnosis at all, I was a mess. I felt completely shattered and simply wrong... I knew I would never fit in, and I didn't know how to be normal - though I tried desperately to appear like everyone else. As the second and third diagnoses came in, I finally felt that maybe something made sense in my world for a change - maybe I hadn't been broken at some point and maybe there were just a few light cracks that needed to be glued together with meds and therapy. And so I continued to struggle on... oftentimes wanting to give up altogether. And then, just as I would become as stable as I knew how to be, something would always seem to happen that would completely smash me into tiny pieces again. There were times where it was a fairly big and traumatic event - and there were times when it was something small, a tiny change that would cause my shakey foundation to collapse and I would be left in a heap of small and jagged shards... needing to be glued together yet again.

In recent years I've learned a lot about myself. I've learned that sometimes I really do feel broken - just like everyone else, and that's alright. Sometimes, it's alright to need that glue to help me stick together, whether it's medications, or therapy, or just a support system around me. I've learned that feeling broken doesn't mean I am damaged or useless or unworthy... that sometimes the most beautiful designs come from the cracks we've had to repair. I've learned that I don't have to fix it on my own - I have my family, my friends, my faith, and my support system in place - and sometimes it's okay to know that you need a stitch to hold you together for a time. I've learned that no matter how broken I have felt in the past - it is always worth fixing it, and every time I work on myself... I get a little stronger, a little more resistent to those things that used to shatter me. I've learned that despite my earlier years and the hardest days of my struggle, that I've been able to not only survive, but begin to thrive - I've been able to grow and change and live. I've learned that no matter how many pieces there once were, that I can be whole and full and complete... and that there is always hope, there's always a way to be put back together again. 

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In the Mirror

In the quiet of the morning I stare into my reflection in the mirror. Like every morning, I see a woman staring back at me – strong, confident and happy. I see the blue in her eyes and the way she smiles as she fixes her hair, chatting over her shoulder to her daughter who has come to ask for help choosing an outfit. I see the strength that she has exhibited in simply getting up and beginning a new day, in getting out of bed, and continuing with the routine and the system that she has placed around her. I see her confident as she goes to work and appointments, as she attends groups and writes in her journal. I see happiness as she greets her children and her husband, as she meets friends for coffee, and works towards her goals. I see a person. Complete. Healthy. Able.

Sometimes it surprises me. Sometimes I think that I should look in the mirror and see the opposite… see the cracked pieces that have been carefully glued together. Sometimes I think I should see her past – the times of instability, the pain, the emptiness, the highs and the lows. Sometimes I think I should see the person that she believed that she was for so long – broken, flawed. She has an illness – two of them – that should show in her features, prominent, out where the world can see them. Sometimes I think she should have labels affixed to her skin – bipolar and borderline – the words that define who she is and the struggles that she has faced. Sometimes I close my eyes and count to three.

When I open my eyes I see who I am. I see the person who is on a journey of recovery and the person I saw before the invasive thoughts began to permeate my mind. The strong, courageous, determined person that is not only surviving, but living her life. I think about one of my favourite quotes from one of my favourite books – in Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll wrote : “It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.” This is something that couldn’t be truer, I am a different person than five years ago, or one year ago or even last month – each leg of my journey has propelled me forwards in more ways than I could imagine. There have been setbacks throughout, and it has not been linear in nature – no, recovery is cyclic, a spiral of sorts that continues forwards even after a step or two in reverse.

Again I close my eyes and I remember, because I know the difference between remembering who I was and seeing the difference to who I am now, and trying to become that person who no longer exists. I now know that it does no good to label myself, and surround my image with the stigma that I used to allow to cover me. It is neither true nor useful to degrade myself and think that my scars – whether visible or not – should define me and make me less than the person I deserve to be.

The difference, the change, the life is because I am in recovery; it is because I see hope and a future and worth.

I don’t get angry with myself for thinking about the past, for remembering the decisions that I made and the paths that I took to get myself to this place. I don’t smash the mirror or storm away, I don’t chastise myself for the brief wondering and the surprise I felt at my normal appearance. No. I open my eyes and I walk away, I continue with my routine and there’s a smile on my face because I know that I am different. I am healing and I am strong, I am able to see the change and the growth and the emergence of a new person. I am healthy and I am in recovery.

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Living Beyond the Diagnosis

I am a busy mom of 4 amazing kids.

As the incessant beeping of my alarm begins at 6:00AM sharp, I roll over and slam my hand down on the clock, trying to find the off switch. I know better than to hit the snooze button. I know that if I do that I won't move from my bed until an hour or more later; I know that I have to keep with my routine. Groggily I roll out of bed and begin my day. Bathroom. Kitchen to make a cup of tea. Living room with my phone, the laptop, or a book for an hour. As 7:00AM approaches it's time to move from my spot on the couch and wake up the kids, move to the kitchen to help them with breakfast or making lunches... eat my own breakfast. As they begin to get ready for school it's time for me to shower and dress, followed by an outing of some sort (exercise on most days, occasionally groceries or a meeting or an appointment). I work part time so sometimes I go to work, sometimes I write or edit or read or bake or meal prep. The afternoon and evenings consist of more predictable routine - school bus, reading and homework for the kids, supper, evening sports and activities... baths and bedtimes and down time for the adults, followed by of course a steady bedtime for me. 

I am a dedicated wife.

It looks like a normal schedule for a busy parent of four kids and from the outside I look like I have it all together. It looks like I'm just another mom, running around - doing errands, taking kids to activities and swimming lessons, and maintaining a typical family home. As I move through the grocery checkout I smile at the cashier and make small talk, I listen to music piped from my phone to the car stereo on my way home, sometimes singing along and belting out the words at the top of my lungs. I've maintained a house that is usually clean and well organised, I've managed to hold a job with the same company for nearly six years... moving through different positions and transitions, and I've got four amazing, well behaved kids who receive compliments on their behaviour wherever we go. 

Life for me looks good. It looks positive. It looks healthy. 

And right now, at this stage of my recovery journey, it is healthy - despite my recent hospitalisation. I'm doing (almost) everything right and I'm willing and able to participate fully in my life and my own recovery. I'm able to stick with routine and use skills when I feel myself slipping or triggered - I know who to call and what to do if those skills stop working, and I know who I am without tacking on bipolar or borderline to the end of my name. 

I am creative and I am a photographer.

And that's the tricky part. One of the biggest events for my journey was the day I sat in the doctor's office and heard the words Bipolar Disorder for the first time in reference to my moods and behaviours. Oddly enough, it didn't freak me out to be diagnosed with such a serious condition. Maybe it was the lifetime of unpredictable mood swings, the hallucinations and lack of sleep, the constant battle between fine, and beyond fine - creative and motivated and risky and energetic, and so depressed that I wanted to end my life; it made sense to me. But it also began to define me. I didn't realise at the time how much I began to cling to the description of what made me the way I was. I did research on the subject and became well aware of what I was doing and why I did it... as much information is available on bipolar disorder, I found it. And then it became me. As I met with the Psychiatrist over several appointments and he confirmed the initial diagnosis, I began to incorporate it into my perception of who I was. I began to feel restricted and defined. I began to fight with myself because as much as it was me tacking on the defninition of bipolar to who I was, I also didn't want to be categorized that way. I didn't know what direction I was headed and while I tried to gather a support system and understand my new way of life, of the medications I was taking, and the way I thought I should now be living - I became lost inside of myself and it became a constant fight to figure out who I was. 

I am fun, and kind, and enthusiastic.

It was a daily battle. A struggle to find my place as I continually researched and learned more about the disorder. It fit. Mostly. And so it became who I was;  I didn't know who I was aside from having a mood disorder. I picked up words in my vocabulary and often referred to myself (behind a mask of humour) as crazy, nuts, or psychotic. I didn't see an end to the illness, a different way of living aside from constantly trying to keep my head above water and float along... after all, it was only a matter of time before another episode would occur.

And of course, eventually it did occur... several different episodes, with several different outcomes. It wasn't until I was finally hospitalised again after attempting suicide and a second diagnosis was added (Borderline Personality Disorder) that things started to really click for me. At first it was confusing though; I knew who I was - I was the Bipolar one, not the Borderline one. I didn't agree with the doctor and it took a few days, once again researching and talking to nurses and social workers before I finally managed to say to myself - look, this diagnosis fits as well, maybe you can be both. 

So I continued to read and research and really talk to people. I learned about what the disorders each entailed and where they affected my life, where I had let them control me by defining me, and where I could take back some of my life. This was not an easy process. It wasn't simply a decision followed by an action. It has taken months and even years of learning how to cope, how to identify, and how to prevent episodes from occurring or worsening. It has taken doctors, and counselors and support. Mostly it took rediscovering who I am. Because I am not crazy, nuts, or psychotic. I am a unique individual whose brain is wired a little differently than most and needs a little extra help from time to time, to keep it on track and moving forward in my daily life. While I do have a mental illness, it is not who or what I am. I am so much more than Bipolar or Borderline. What I am is overall satisfied - despite occasional setbacks. I am an individual that is creative, healthy, kind, a good mother, an organised housewife, a writer, a photographer, an enthusiast for life and for a future, and most of all I'm simply me; I'm changing and growing every single day. 

I have hope. I'm worth it. 

I also have hope. I've seen the progress and the changes that can be made. I've lived a journey through recovery that has taken me on adventures regularly, but that I will not let destroy my hope again. That's why my daily routine is in place, that's why I look normal on the outside, my daily life reflective of the life I want and will continue to lead. It isn't always easy - some days it has felt impossible - like trudging through waist deep mud, but it is definitely worth it. Hope for tomorrow, for stability, for a lifetime that I can live fully and enjoy despite the self-checks and the meds and the therapy is worth it. Learing, growing and being who I know I am inside is worth it. 

I am going to keep talking about my journey and my mental health, keep fighting to end the stigma that we place on ourselves and others. I am worth it.

If you're struggling right now, don't give up. There is hope beyond the diagnosis. There is life, and laughter and love. There is a person waiting to be discovered. You're worth it too.

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I Don't Always Know Their Names

Driving around, talking and taking photographs - that's one way that a friend of mine and I connect... a way that she has supported me throughout the last year or so. Another friend walked with me around our local hockey arena for exercise and routine while another friend became a gym buddy. My cousin is available almost any time to chat and we have spent a lot of time building up our friendship again over the last couple of years. My husband and my children are of course crucial in my support network, and I have slowly developed a web of people in my life that I can count on when things aren't going so well, that are there through both good times and bad.

But throughout my life, I've come to recognise that support goes far beyond friends and family - to people you might see everyday and people you might meet once and never speak to again. It comes in many different ways - a friend, an ear, a straight-talker, a bill-payer, a grocery-doer, a babysitter, a supportive employer, or a shoulder to cry on. There are so many ways that I have been helped throughout the years, despite sometimes not wanting to accept that help in the moment.

But what about the others? The ones that I don't know... the ones whose names I have never spoken, and the people who have put their lives on the line to help me? It goes beyond a job or a call of duty, it is a compassion that is rare, and I have been so lucky to be on the receiving end during some of the most difficult times of my life.

Police officers. It's too common to see the news on television or throughout social media - calling out police brutally and corruption run rampant. My personal experience though is what I hope and believe to be the norm. The way that I have been spoken to with respect and courtesy (during several occasions linked to mental health crisis' for which I am not proud of), including the day my life was pulled off the edge of a cliff a year and a half ago, my body thrown to the ground in a rush of adrenaline from all around. It was hard, my shoulder ached. But it was not broken, I was not treated with disrespect and my life was saved. The officer who pulled me to safety was doing her job... but as we rode by ambulance to the hospital and she asked me questions, there was no judgement from her. On another occasion I remember riding to the hospital in a police cruiser, the officer asking me questions, conversing as if I was a normal human being. Not a criminal, not a crazy person... just normal, just a person having a rough time and needing a hand to get to the help she needed. During yet a different occurrence I had over-dosed on sleeping pills and while I don't remember all of the details I will always remember the officer who pulled over to help me, his patience unending as he got me help and tried to figure out what had happened to me, despite my inability to answer his questions or form a coherent sentence.

Thankfully it hasn't only been police officers who have treated me with this respect... this courtesy... this showing of support, and knowledge and understanding of the mental health world. The paramedics, the crisis teams at the hospital, peer support workers, social workers, pastors from church, and counsellors I have dealt with have almost entirely been supportive. They assess the situation with open minds and no bias, determining the proper course of action for me to take without judgement, without criticising the decisions that might have put me in their office seeking help in the first place. These are the front line workers and they have been vital to my recovery and treatment. There are few people who you can speak with who know and can understand the walk of life you are experiencing and the influx of emotions - the pain and anger and sadness and mania, and who can talk you level again, offer more suggestions that you simply can not see on your own.

Thankfully the treatment plans become much more clear once you gain a diagnosis - doctors do their jobs; they medicate you and get you stable... they put plans in place for your recovery to move forward. Unfortunately for me, this has often occurred in a hospital setting, and while I can honestly say that some doctors are simply more supportive than others, they are there for a reason. They are there to get you home again. And while you wait, while you level out in a safe place there is one more group of vital support people.

The nurses in the psych ward are invaluable in my opinion... especially when you are in lock-down, relying on them for everything that you do, every part of your recovery documented and assessed - twenty four hours a day. During my stays in the hospital, both in the lock-down units and the open wards, I have had some amazing nurses. Considering that they deal with people from all walks of life, experiencing any type of crisis imaginable, they have been truly supportive and definitely under-appreciated. I have had nurses sit and talk with me on my bed, genuine concern about this or that in my recovery, reminding me of things I want to speak with the doctor about. I have seen nurses running to a code white to come back and have patience with us as we ask to charge an electronic device, or to get a glass of water. I have seen trays of food (or other things) thrown at them, only for them to have further patience as they calm a patient down, while keeping an eye on the rest of their case load, and monitoring the person weeping in their room and answering to a doctor's question on another patient down the hall.

I'm thankful that I have experienced such great support (a few blips, but mostly positive) during my recovery journey. I know that sometimes it isn't always the case but I hope that it is becoming more and more normal as stigma is erased and the old style of thinking about mental illness vanishes as modern diagnoses and treatments become more mainstream. But for now, to all those who have supported me in many different way and who still continue to do so, thank you. You are vital and important and appreciated, even if I can't say it at the time. Thanks for ending the stigma, for treating me (us) with respect and courtesy and empathy. And most of all, thanks for doing what you do. There is hope, especially with such amazing people supporting me, both professionally and personally.

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Trigger at the Falls

Sauble Falls

Yesterday I went out to take some pictures before the weather got too nasty out. They were calling for a big snow-storm and as part of my routine I'm trying to get outdoors and exercise daily whenever possible. I had a particular spot in mind when I left the house in the morning - I wanted to snap some pics of a waterfall with my camera and walk along the frozen beach. Well I got to the waterfall and to begin with I realised that my tripod was broken and I couldn't use it for what I had intended. (I didn't even have duck tape on me to do a quick fix and make it useable!) Then, when I got to the edge of the water I was surprised at how fast it was flowing - I shouldn't have been. I'm familiar with this particular river and know that it gets quite fast in the winter and spring. Sitting in the cold I managed to snap just a couple pictures before I realised exactly how tense I was... my back hurt, I was being uber-paranoid about the possibility of falling in, my breathing quickened, and my brain was starting to go a bazillion miles a minute. It hit me then. I was feeling triggered by the waterfall and the stress of broken equipment and lack of sleep the night before.

Now, being triggered is nothing new for me. Unfortunately the healthiest of people get triggered from time to time - add in mental illness and it's a common occurrance. The part that bothered me though was how surprised I was by it. I shouldn't have been. Over the last two weeks I have visited exactly six different waterfalls with only one other triggering thought occurring. During that one other thought I managed to keep my head straight and recognise it right away. I used skills that I always have at the ready and managed it until I felt okay... heading home and talking (and even joking!) about it with my husband. So to be so triggered yesterday, and to take so long to recognise it actually bothered me for quite some time. I shouldn't have been surprised by the trigger... but I was.

Ice Formation at Sauble Falls

I've talked about triggers before. But I feel strongly that I need to keep talking about them... because here's the thing: they can hit at any time and affect you in any number of ways. When I was triggered last week at a waterfall I felt myself get tense and I had one, very brief flashback to a different waterfall experience and almost instantly my brain started to fire, trying to bring in guilt and self-hatred. I halted it. I experienced it. I let myself know that I was a different person now and that I am in a very different position. I pulled my camera out and photographed not just the water, but the beauty that was all around me. This week I was triggered by a waterfall and while my body reacted similarily, I also got extremely agitated and angry. I felt the self hatred explode - especially when it took so long to recognise how bothered I was by being in a place I wanted to be. It took me until I was halfway home to realise where I was in my mind, how I was feeling and just why I felt that way.

Thankfully I have enough tools to work with now that I have figured out how to cope with triggers - even when I'm more affected than normal. But it has been a long journey to figure out those things that work to bring me back, that can remind me of who I am and how far I've come. It has taken practice using those skills in the small moments and day to day things that has allowed me to be able to function when the middle sized or big events happen and take me by surprise.

Weaver's Creek Falls

I'm not perfect. Days like today still happen... I'm still taken by surprise, I still have to pull out my journal and add in things that help, things that harm and things that I might try in the future. But I'm facing it. I'm growing from it. Every day is a learning experience and I need those triggers in my life to make sure that I can handle it when things break down. There is hope... one day I will be able to handle so many triggers, that they will no longer be triggering. There will be new ones that will pop up but the big ones won't seem so big anymore... the tools will become a part of me, a part of the way that I will react, that I will deal with things. I'm on my way, each trigger is just another pit-stop on my journey.

** While I was definitely triggered at the waterfall I did not and would not put myself in a position where I would be unsafe. While facing my triggers I gage previous reactions and my current state of mind to decide whether or not it will be safe for me to enter any situation.

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It's Worth Sharing

A year ago today I posted a note on facebook sharing the link to this blog and letting the world see inside my head for the first time ever. It wasn't my first time writing - it was just my first time sharing that writing. I began a journey that terrified me, with no intention of keeping it up, no expectations of where it would go, just strongly feeling that I needed to share where I was at and some of the experiences I've had - starting with my attempted suicide in November 2014.

It has been an amazing journey that has been a far more powerful experience than I ever thought it could be.

February 2016

Though I haven't posted on a schedule and I haven't kept track or even known a lot of the time if anyone (or who they are) is reading it, I know that my words have made a difference. In my own life, I feel free. I have put aside so many of my own fears and insecurities to open myself up like this - to share the darkest and scariest parts of my mind with anyone who is interested. I have used it as a tool, a coping strategy when I'm not doing well, and a place where I can share my accomplishments when I do succeed in mastering a strategy or simply getting through a difficult emotion. I also know I'm making a difference somewhere else. I'm being vocal and I'm speaking up. I'm not letting the stigma that is still so attached to mental health shut me down. I am saying that I have a mental illness and that is okay... I'm different, unique, and wired a little funky but that's alright because, well, who isn't?

So on this, my First Anniversary of Sharing, I would like to post a little update. Because this year has been tough; it has gone up, and down with stretches of level in between. I have had joy and laughter and excitement, and I have also experienced pain and panic and fear and sadness and desperation and loss of hope.

I have survived panic attacks, hypo-manic, and depressive episodes, and I let myself get help. I have adjusted medications and attended multiple types of counselling and therapy groups. I ha
ve spoken to doctors and pychiatrists, crisis workers and nurses, and friends and family. I have developed a tool box and I use it regularly - incorporating new skills almost every day. I have continued on and accepted this journey that I've been given, sometimes with determination and hope, and sometimes with a great deal of struggling and self pity. I have not just survived... I have lived while in recovery.

Today, right now, I am alive and well. I'm still struggling with sleeping regularly and getting the meds just right... but I've got hope and love and support. I'm developing a new routine and eating healthy to get me back to a level place and I work hard daily to stay grounded. I'm different than I was a year ago, two years ago, or more.

This is where I'm at right now. So on my First Anniversary of Sharing I want to encourage anyone else who struggles with Mental Health. You are not alone. It isn't always easy, but it is worth it. I have learned and grown so much within the last year and I know I will only continue to do so. Reach out. Find support. Love yourself no matter where you are at, and give your recovery journey a chance. It is worth it. Your life is worth it.

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The Guilty Battle

Niagara Falls, Ontario - there are indoor water-parks, wax museums, gift shops, the waterfalls and tons of other tourist-y things to do with the family. It's kid friendly and I know from past visits that my husband and children would have enjoyed the weekend that I just spent there... alone, with my cousin; and yet, I didn't take them with me.

It wasn't that I couldn't... but then again... it was. You see, the trip itself was a joint idea between my cousin and myself. I contacted her last week about getting down to see her for a few days because I needed some recovery time. She suggested we do Niagara Falls for a night away and I readily agreed because I needed to get out of town for a couple of days alone. 

Alone. With my thoughts. With a friend. With time to let myself get to a better place. It was exactly what I needed; it's just that my dear old friend guilt also wanted to tag along. 

Guilt. It's a natural part of life and with all of the other emotions that I deal with, I find it can often times sneak right in undetected until it rears its ugly head, letting you know that yes, you should feel bad about abandoning your children and husband for an alone/girls weekend, after only just coming out of the hospital. It is the force behind the thoughts that say that what you are doing isn't enough, your efforts to put yourself in a good place are taking up too much of your time and energy, that says you should just be better by now. It's the voice that tells you to suck it up because there are millions of people in the world who have things worse than you. It's the whisper that speaks and says that if you were a true Christian, you would never feel alone, and you would beat this mental illness once and for all.

Guilt. It's an incredibly strong and loud voice that can take hold of your emotions and send them spinning again without warning, refusing to listen to the logic that you know is buried inside your mind.

I'm refusing to let guilt in though... I won't let it win. 

I went away this past weekend and I enjoyed myself. I talked and listened, I laughed and walked, I thought and I prayed, I slept and I swam.... and every time guilt reared it's ugly head I told it to take a hike because I was doing exactly what I needed to do at the moment. I refused to let guilt in and make itself comfortable. I refused to play it's game and allow it to entertain my mind with all of the shoulds and coulds and maybes that it likes to throw around and taunt me with, that tell me that I could be better than what I am.

And now, now I'm at home. I'm exactly where I am in my recovery journey and I don't feel guilty about taking time to myself. I'm refreshed and recharged and ready for the next battle, the next steps that I am going to take, and the next things I'm going to learn. I'm ready to fight again, to show guilt and anger and depression and mania who I am inside... I'm ready to show them hope, and love, and steadiness, and perseverance because I refused to let guilt in; because I took care of myself. It wasn't easy, but the battle was won this time - one day at a time. 

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Different, Isolated, Unique

Glancing around the room I felt a little lost. My house hasn’t changed – my things are all pretty much where I’ve left them, but it feels different. I feel different.

I was in the hospital for a week this time. Unfortunately as much as I tried to avoid it, and as much as I used every method and every skill I knew to keep myself level, depression still managed to sneak in. I wasn’t in a good place and while I didn’t want to go (and even fought it); in the end I forced myself to give in and let myself be taken in as I began to reach the crisis point.

Coloring I Did While in the Psych Ward

Two days in lockdown (Psychiatric Intensive Care Unit) for assessment and then 5 days in the open unit for medication adjustment, sleep patterns, and re-stabilising. It wasn’t the longest stay I’ve ever had. There was nothing spectacular about my stay. I’ve come out and while I’m still not to one-hundred percent, I’m still much better than I was when I went in. However it doesn’t mean that things feel the same as they did before. I feel different and isolated. It’s a kind of feeling I can’t explain very well to someone who hasn’t been there and experienced it.  It’s the feeling of going from the isolation of a psychiatric unit to regaining your freedom and independence.  It’s the feeling that for you, while you were recovering from an invisible but terrifying illness, the world stopped – and yet it didn’t. It’s the feeling that you are different from the rest of the world, that you can understand once again what makes you act oddly… sometimes not making sense to yourself. It’s knowing that you have this thing, this unseen illness that you will always carry with you, that people may know about but assume is better simply because now you’re out of that uncomfortable unit in the hospital. It’s feeling like you aren’t a part of the same world as everyone else because you feel, react to, and experience life uniquely.

The thing about all of that above though, is that it isn’t necessary. I don’t have to feel that way. I am unique… but so are you. Everyone has a story and just because mine involves the way that my brain works, it doesn’t make me abnormal. It doesn’t make me any less important or worthy or strong than anyone else. I can let it feel different. I can choose to isolate myself because of what I go through on a daily basis, the exhaustion that it causes to deal with my illness at times, and the fact that the stigma surrounding it all is still so huge; or I can be brave. I can embrace my differences and while I am learning to deal with it and recover, I can talk about it. I can write about it and stop hiding it. I can live without shame, or guilt, or embarrassment and I can be who I am without feeling the need to be accepted.

So right now I’m home. But last week I wasn’t. I was in the hospital. And this week, I’m taking care of myself – I’m still adjusting to the change in medications and I’m getting my routine back in check, making sure that I maintain my diet and exercise patterns and overall just take care of myself. I will not be ashamed and I will not hide what has happened or the fact that I sometimes need a little help. I will help end the stigma against mental illness. I will maintain my hope, I will be honest – with my supporters and with myself, and I will continue my recovery journey with the support and encouragement of my friends and my family. I will maintain my hope.

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Thoughts From the Psych Ward

Humiliation. Shame. Failure. Fear. Anger. Self-loathing...

Stop.

I know how I want to feel right now... I know how I think I should feel. My mind says I'm a fraud and that I have taken 10 steps backwards after only a single shaky step forward.

How else do you explain the backslide into depression, the disturbed sleep cycles and routine turned to chaos, and the suicidal threats that landed me back in the Psych ward 3 days ago? It's the  same thoughts and the same stigma that tell me I'm a loser, I'll never  be normal, and I'm nobody... Just simply mentally ill.

But those thoughts only see what they want to see. They don't take into account the fact that I'm here because being here and alive is better than risking my safety and my heartbeat doing something stupid. It doesn't take into account the co-operation and the will to re-stabilise that I have had to find. It doesn't take into account the sheer exhaustion and the simple need to rest (with a little help to make it happen). It doesn't take into account the lifelong battle I've been involved in and the fact that even though I wanted to quit... I haven't. Part of me wanted to die... But I let help get to me, fighting an inner war the entire time.

So even though I'm currently sitting in a hospital room, waiting on doctors and sleep and new meds to level me out; I will not feel ashamed or embarrassed or unworthy. I will feel strength from those who love me, determination to win this battle, and hope for a better tomorrow... One day - one moment - at a time.

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Recovery Journey? What Does That Look Like?

My recovery journey.

I’ve talked a lot about my journey through recovering from Mental Illness, my growth and change as I have learned how to accept and live with the duel diagnosis (Bipolar Disorder (BD) and Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD)), as well as living emotionally sensitive and suffering bouts of severe anxiety. It's something that I think about and mention regularly and that I have seen dozens of meme's floating around and talking about as well. But what does it mean to recover from mental illness? Does it mean that I will eventually live medication free, without the worry of setbacks and failure, with a normal range emotions that never go too haywire and the ability to handle anything that life throws at me gracefully and with an abundance of peace, joy and patience?

No. Definitely not. I mean, I guess it could happen... but I can't afford to look at it that way, to place all of my expectations on one immoveable goal. 

You see, when I started this journey, I really didn’t know what I was after myself… I didn’t know what it would mean or if recovery was even truly possible – the doctors that I spoke to sure didn’t believe it was a realistic goal.

However, the doctors and the other counselors and peers that I spoke to didn’t look at it in the same way that I do, they didn’t always see the same things that I did.

Because the way I see it, recovery isn’t always a cure, a fix or an immediate resolution.

Recovery for me has been about redefining who I always thought I was and who I really am. It’s about taking a hard look at myself and figuring out what parts of my life have been ruled by my illness, what parts were lousy situations, and what parts were truly just me. It was about seeing the parts of me that I didn’t want to see… seeing them and accepting them – the things I have done or said or believed in the past – and realising that I was at times, a mess… an oftentimes out-of-control crazy whirlwind of ups, downs and absolute chaos. It was a series of bitter pills that I had to swallow to realise that I had not always been the nicest person, the most level thinker, and sometimes just nasty. I destroyed friendships and family bonds. I was unpredictable and unable to find control. I was quite simply a storm that could hit at any time and move in any direction.

But the good news is; once I realised all of the horrible stuff about myself and accepted that I had made mistakes and that I had an illness that did control a lot of areas of my life for many years – I was also able to move forward. I was able to make the first positive decisions of my life, move myself in the direction that I wanted to head and embrace the rest of who I was. Because you see… all that bad stuff, it wasn’t the whole of me. There was so much good that always seemed hidden because of the unpredictability. I began to make lists in my journal when I found something positive about myself – I realised that I’m passionate… about life, about relationships and about hobbies. I give myself fully to any project I’m involved in and know that I will go above and beyond to do my very best. I love with all of my heart; my family, my friends… even those I have alienated in the past with my behavior, and some of those relationships have even been repairable even though I thought I had destroyed them. I’m creative. The times I am most at peace are when I’m crafting something or taking photographs, baking in the kitchen or writing a book. Most of all I realised (and eventually came to accept) that I am a good person. It was something that I believed for the longest time that wasn’t true… I thought I was a horrible person, flawed at the deepest level and unable to fit in and function normally within society. But as I peeled back the layers I realised that there is good in me, it just sometimes gets mixed up in the chaos that used to surround me.

Of course there are so many aspects to my recovery journey – self-discovery is the biggest aspect, but for me another huge aspect was learning to live a healthier life in general. I’ve read and researched and googled all different “health tips” and spoken to friends and family who have tried this or tried that to live healthier in one way or another. I’m still discovering my ideal healthy lifestyle, but I do know that the drastic changes I have been able to make (eating, exercising, routine (sleep), meditation, medication and therapy, and personal environmental awareness) have been amazing factors that have helped me both feel and look better, physically and mentally.

But again, as I said in my last post – while I am much better than a year ago, I know I will still struggle for some time. And that’s okay too. Right now I’m going through a particularly challenging time. There have been setbacks and I have spent time crying and experiencing a wide range of emotions, trying to assess myself to make sure that I’m still in a good place, making sure I can hold it all together. But while I know it’s a struggle and I know that there might be even tougher times in the near future… I also know that because of my journey and the things I have learned and changed within myself, I can handle it. Whether it’s through picking up extra counselling sessions or adding in another group, changing or adding new medications; whether it’s a few extra coffee dates with friends, taking a weekend away or simply spending time revisiting my old “cheat notes” every once in a while, I know that I am in a much better place to handle anything that might come my way. And really, that’s what recovery is to me. Being able to handle whatever comes up next (whether it’s alone, or with support) in a healthier way, and being able to understand and recognise what is happening and why.

This hasn't always been the easiest thing to recover from... and I haven't done it alone - sometimes it was too much for me to handle and I needed encouragement from all around, people to help me sort out the different areas of my life - to dig through and pull out the good, the bad, and the weird. I needed to talk things through and learn to be open and honest. I needed to learn entirely new ways to experience the emotions that I felt, and how to properly act (or stop myself from acting!) on them. I had to relearn self-control and self-soothing like a small child, and I often felt like everyone was trying to change the core of who I was. But it wasn't the core of me that I needed to change... I just needed a way to accept and process who I was, to figure out what my brain was acting on and trying to say when it was going haywire. It was therapy and guidance, communication and support, trial and error, journalling and writing, facing stigma and fighting with doctors, it has been love and experience that has helped me get to this place in my journey. 

It isn’t an easy process. It isn’t a cure. But it is one step towards my goal, one day at a time, one trigger or incident at a time. It is hopeful. That is what my journey is... finding my future, finding out what I need to become the best me possible and learning how to achieve that with the way that my brain and emotions function. Find out what your journey involves and take the first step. Reach out and ask for help. It is worth it!

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Doing Well - Living Life with Mental Health

Recently I’ve been left with a lot of time on my hands to question things - to do some reflection and determine where I’ve come from and where I’m heading. It’s something that I’ve done more often in the previous several months and for me, it’s a good thing. I need that. I need those reminders of where I’ve been – how bad it has been at times and how good the possibilities actually are.

A reminder from hospital, made during therapy.

Some days I also feel like a fraud. I’m here writing (and talking in real life) about how well I’m doing, how under control my moods are – how level I’ve been – and how well I’m managing the Borderline Personality Disorder symptoms… and really, I’m speaking and writing the truth. I am doing well. But it isn’t without struggle – something that I’m not always able to properly articulate in my blog posts because the fighting and the worry and the constant watching is all under the surface. It’s in the reminders that I have around the house, the conversations with myself debating whether or not I have a legitimate reason to be upset or happy or energetic. It’s in the everyday fight to maintain the good things that I took time and effort to set up – everything from routine to what/how/when I eat. It’s in the battle of my mind that still wants to creep up from time to time and tell me that I’m worthless, that wants to stop me from reaching out when I need support, and that worries endlessly that I will slip up – that I’m not doing enough, that it will never be enough to stay healthy and on track.

The beginning. I needed reminders to get out of bed.

At times it can be utterly and completely exhausting to keep up with myself, to stop and slow down racing thoughts and to force myself to remain in constant sleep patterns when I feel my mood start to go up. It’s more than a little tiring to force myself to get up in the mornings and get dressed when I feel like a cloud of depression is pushing me down, and some days it feels impossible to keep moving forward when all I want to do is lay down and sleep. And then when my energy is already depleted, to have to force myself to be open, to want to build relationships and stop pushing people away; to bite my tongue and not react viciously when the anger begins to build can almost be too much. And occasionally I slip. I fail. I’m not perfect and I don’t expect I will ever be.

But I can learn to cope, to take those moments of trial and use them to find things that work, to practice on building the skills I have learned and to be authentic with the people in my life.

A reminder of my last stay in the hospital, a painting I did in therapy.

I’m not a fraud. I am doing well. It has taken me many years of half-effort and lack of understanding to get me here. It has taken suicide attempts and hospital stays, psychiatrist appointments and support groups to help me understand. Mental illness is not something you can deal with alone and although it took a lot of ‘wrongs’ to get me to where I am, I’m glad I’m finally here, in the place that I can acknowledge it all.

Mental illness doesn’t have to be my weakness. It is one of the many things in my life that has made me stronger and more resilient. I have become more determined to change my life and I am willing to do whatever it takes to make that happen – doctors, medications, support groups, supportive family/friends, research, talking, writing, self-discovery and self-care. My journey isn’t pretty. It isn’t filled with a doctor that took the time to counsel all of the reasons why I am this way, a single medication that has fixed my life and made everything look like roses. It has been filled with tears and fights and denial and ugly truths and hard lessons. It has been filled with days when I wasn’t sure I could go on, when recovery and happiness seemed completely impossible but I pushed ahead anyways. It didn’t always seem like it, but I know that it has been worth it. It sometimes seems so dark that you know that you will never escape, but I promise there is hope. If you are struggling, find help – reach out, call a friend or a hotline, dig your heels in and try just a little harder and you will find the light. It is there, just around the corner. Life is always worth it, even when you can’t see your happy ending. 

One of my reminders, (semi-colon tattoo) because my story isn't over yet. 

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