The Awkwardness of Speaking Out

“If I Fall, If I Die.” There are a few moments along my journey that make me smile… call them inside jokes, or my twisted sense of humour. Occasionally they come up and I will sometimes laugh, or try to explain the reason for my smile… but usually, it’s met with a stare, a nervous chuckle, or it’s simply ignored, obviously making the people around me uncomfortable with my casual approach to the topic.

One of the stories that I most often tell is the story of the day that my husband was faced with going into my work to talk to my manager about my absence… the reason that I would be spending the next couple of days in the psych ward. I had just attempted to jump off of Inglis Falls in a suicide attempt. Since I am an avid reader and my job just happened to be working in a book store, my husband was also trying to find books to keep me amused in the hospital. When one of the other store associates tried to help, she suggested a brand new book – the title ironically, “If I Fall, If I Die” (Michael Christie). It wasn’t until nearly two months later, when I began this blog and shared what had happened that she found out why the title was vehemently rejected by the store manager – at the time, she only knew that I was unwell and would be missing work. When she eventually told me the story, I immediately found the humour in it, laughing quite loudly at the entire scenario… of all of the books to suggest!

To this day, I find that story funny. A touch of humour to add to an otherwise horrific time in my life, a time when I had been determined to die by my own hand. But it still makes people uncomfortable… even today, more than three years after the fact.

But it isn’t just the story that makes people fidget in their seats and look away. It’s the topic in general… the disconnect that people are faced with when an otherwise ‘normal’ appearing person, opens up and reveals a story, a fact, or a joke about their struggles. It’s a topic that has yet to be normalised.

It’s a disconnect that even I, myself can feel.

When I wake up each morning I look in the mirror… I judge my appearance harshly – searching for the good girl… the normal one. I don’t see the manic or the depressive. I don’t see the girl who has tried to kill herself or that has experienced hallucinations and blackouts and a darkness that simply cannot be described.

When I meet with a friend, or share a story with an acquaintance, I can’t always associate the things that I describe and feel and do, with the person that I am.

I can talk about suicide. I can share my story and give an inside look to what I was thinking, or how it felt. But it feels worlds away… unreal. How can I share that last week I was suicidal, and today, speak with eloquence on the issue? How can I reach out for help and describe the darkness, the unusual behaviour, the depth of everything wrong… how can I be so aware, and yet so out of control? How can I flip between put together and on top of things… able to converse and join discussions and speak out for mental health, only to fall into a fog – a pit of heaviness that leaves me spinning so fast that I no longer know who I am or more importantly, how to come back?

So when I look in that mirror each day… I know. I know the awkward silence that ensues when I openly speak out about mental illness, or bipolar disorder, or borderline personality disorder, or suicide, or hallucinations, or simply confusion. I know that it is hard to see that this is not only real… but it is terrifying and it makes no sense. I know that the humour I find, it is found because I can’t associate these things myself… and I know that from an outside perspective, it’s nearly impossible to understand.

I know that attempting to normalise mental illness is a long shot, with each case so unique, and each person’s experiences so vastly different, and yet somehow eerily similar. I know that when I speak about suicide, people will shift uncomfortably, or their eyes will flit away, looking for something else to focus on.

I know that people will listen, and they will read, and they will see the experiences that I share. I know that they will at times make absolutely no sense at all, and the disconnect will feel so great to what they have experienced in their time with me… but I also know it will in some way resonate. It will spark a recognition or maybe a curiosity. It might cause doubt to flare up, and silent arguments to form… it might cause courage to speak about your own internal struggles, or it might simply be an encouragement that you’re not alone.

Whatever it sparks… engage it, learn about it, breathe it in and let it out.

Forget the awkwardness that ensues… live in the discomfort of asking questions and accepting answers. Talk, share, and listen.

Every person has a story… and even those that might seem invisible… strange… hard to understand… they are valuable.

If we want to end the stigma surrounding mental health… if we want to encourage people to get help and to speak about their struggles, we need to embrace the humour. We need to share the stories. We need to ‘like’ a post, or spread the word, or simply just be there for a friend. We need to see beyond the outer shell that they allow the world to see… we need to embrace each other as we are… silent pain, fear, and embarrassment; hurting, anger, and successes.

Let’s fight the chasm, let’s build a bridge between normal… and ill.

** If I Fall, If I Die by Michael Christie, is a fiction novel about a mother and son, and their relationship - it is NOT a novel about suicide.

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The Days After, The Day After

Lost. A raft in the sea… drifting aimlessly while ships surround me; each one busy along it’s course… trying to reach their destinations.

It’s impossible to describe what these days feel like.

Last Saturday, I experienced a severe mental health breakdown. I did not die and I did not end up in the hospital. But I did fall backwards to a point I’ve never been before, experiencing insanity to a new degree – confusion, chaos, and fear enveloping me.

Over the course of three days, I lived in a different world… I was by all accounts, a different person. By the end of the third day, I was not only afraid of both what I had done, but also of what was to come. I was unsure of who I was, where I was, or even at times when I was.

During the crisis I had people watching out for me. Friends reaching out to me – and to their own support system for advice on what to do. Co-workers of my husbands, passing him updates when they saw me. And my husband himself… taking necessary steps, and with encouragement and support for himself, when things got bad, calling the police to find me.

Thankfully, things turned out okay.

By Monday night I was hitching a ride with a Police Officer back to my house… back to a semi-conscious state of mind and able to think just a little bit clearer. Thankfully this Officer was amazing; and I can honestly say that without his assistance, accompanied by his respectful and empathetic approach to my tricky situation, there is an incredibly strong chance that things would have ended much differently.

On Tuesday I started to come back to reality… to see the damage and the aftermath of the storm I had caused. I spent the day picking up the pieces and trying to understand what had happened, exactly how I had fallen again.

Over the course of three days I unraveled completely.

By Thursday I was back at work… back in public. Smiling. Happy. Even a little bit more energized than before my break. I looked overall good; although perhaps a little tired. To look at me, you never would have guessed that the previous evening my mind was still foggy enough that I refused to drive my car, afraid that I wasn't able to adequately assess my surroundings.

Today. Friday. I am not good.

Today, I realised that it’s okay to not be okay still.

What I experienced during my three days of madness, was both an incredible breakdown and a massive breakthrough. It was scary and it was frustrating, and it was also traumatic.

On Saturday the puzzle I had been working to build was thrown to the ground in an earth-shattering quake… the pieces scattered, some chunks together, but all of them so far apart that nothing made sense.

By Tuesday, when my senses returned and I saw the mess that had been created, I wanted to fix it. I started to gather the puzzle pieces and quickly put them back together. Some of them were broken, bent, taped, and glued… the damage caused by my breakdown significant. In frustration I began to jam the pieces in that wouldn’t fit. I needed to put the puzzle back to exactly where it had been before this had all happened… I wanted to be able to add more unfinished pieces to the picture; to look forward and pretend that this had never happened.

After all, I was okay.

I woke up in the mornings. I looked perfectly normal. I showered, I was functional, and my autopilot functions were still intact. But despite the fact that things were ‘over’ and it was time to move on to the next leg of my journey… I began to feel worse.

Today I realized that I am not the same.

Mental health breakdowns can change you. For me, I began to understand this again, from an experienced point of view as I felt the beginnings of a panic attack rise at just the idea of going to the grocery store. I noticed the change through my general fatigue, nauseated stomach, and lack of general patience. I feel it in the fear, the haze that refuses to fully lift, and the confusion if things get too loud, too noisy, or just generally too much around me.

I admit, I don’t like this feeling. I don’t like feeling ‘sick’ after the breakdown is over; and I don’t like that I am the only one who has any idea that I am still struggling so much. In some ways, I wish I had a sign on my head announcing it… letting the world know that I’m sick… that I’m not just hiding away in my house for no reason. And in some ways, I love that it’s invisible because autopilot still works to an extent, and maybe if I just push myself a little harder... everyone will believe that I'm really just normal.

These are the days after, the day after.

Learning to heal. To re-enter the world. To know that it’s okay that I don’t look sick, but I am sick at this point. Learning to respond correctly again… to talk… to feel connected to the world, and not lost and isolated, and alone; despite the people surrounding me.

These are the days where it is important to talk. To let people know that I am unwell, not for pity or for manipulation, or to seek affection... but because it can't always be seen. These are the days to seek advice and counsel, and to answer messages from concerned friends and family. To make the effort in self-care. To not push too hard.

These are the days where I want the world to know, that I’m actually worse than when I was ‘in’ the breakdown. The days after, the weeks after… sometimes even the months that follow, when work is being done, new coping mechanisms learned, when life looks normal – but your head is still a mess.

These are the days when a simple text from a friend, or even acquaintance can change the course of the day.

This week I had a person that I would consider a friend message me after I said I had been feeling rough. I hadn’t gone into detail on Tuesday morning when we were talking… and although we are not close, and we haven’t known each other long; this friend checked in later on. A message to see how I was… to encourage me for the next day. It meant more to me than I could ever explain that she knew. That she somehow got it that the day after was just as hard… that it wasn’t simply back to normal.

I want to end this on a positive note. I want to say that I know life will get better and easier from here on out… and I know, logically that it will. But I also know it will be hard. Being in this position is not easy – for me, or for those around me.

I have work to do. But I also have rest I need to take. I need to let the dust settle. I need to find the missing puzzle pieces… the ones that might have slipped under the rug, or been swept across the room. I need to heal my mind, the same way that someone sick with a physical illness needs to heal their body.

These are the invisible days of the illness. These are the days that honesty matters.

End the stigma surrounding mental illness. Talk about it. Reach out. Don't forget friends, family, or acquaintances in the days following a breakdown.

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The Day After

My time over the last decade has felt like a non-stop effort to put together a giant puzzle made with millions of pieces. Some pieces seeming like they should fit where I want to put them, and yet never quite settling, the image it reveals skewed - off somehow.

Working through it I untangle the mess of pieces and try again, the puzzle finally coming together – the image beautiful and clear.

As life grows and moves around me, the ground shifts and I watch as the pieces jiggle loose. But I’m there to catch them, shifting them gently back into place before they can slide too far out of their proper place.

Suddenly an earthquake hits… an event of such a strong magnitude that I can’t even react before the table is thrown violently and the pieces are scattered around the room, chunks of a picture that I can’t even remember. Desperately I search around me, looking for fragments… but it’s confusing and the room becomes dark, ad although I know that the puzzle still exists… I can’t find it anywhere. I don’t know who or what I am. I can’t decipher the patch of puzzle that I put together two decades ago, from the one that I most recently began to work on. It’s disconnected, jumbled, and senseless.

I’m Alice, thrown into wonderland. The lights are bright, but the world is hazy. Everything is nonsense, and nothing feels ‘right’.

Slowly the lights come back on and I grab a section of the puzzle. I throw it onto the table haphazardly and cling to that tiny portion of a picture, knowing that it is right, and it is real.

One by one I gather more of the pieces, the sections still scattered, loose pieces here, there, and everywhere.

As the collection grows on the table I can now see more of the picture, but once again it is jaded, messy, and skewed.

I want to put it all together, go back to where I was… just move forward one more step and forget about what happened..

But I can’t. As I try to put two small sections together, I notice that the corner of one piece is chipped, and another is bent. In my haste to try and understand the collapse, I have trampled pieces… sometimes entire sections becoming broken.

As my awareness builds I can see the damage. Things that I have done to change the picture that cannot be undone… they might be healed, mended, glued, taped, or fixed… but they will never be the same.

That thought alone sends a wave of shock down my spine and I can feel myself shaking, the entire puzzle table threatening to spill again… the thought of repairing what was broken overwhelming.

This is the hardest part of a mental breakdown.

The day after.

It's Today.

It's like starting from scratch while the world continues as though nothing happened... because to them, it didn't. Not in the same way, or the same form. They watched the earthquake as it hit... as though from a theatre, me an actor - causing emotions to rise and swell, fear and anxiety to take hold as they watch the scene play out, not knowing what I will do, or if I will even find the light to go on. Pieces flew from the stage, hitting the audience as they landed... effecting them in a ripple effect. The brokenness extending, damaging beyond my reach. I've fallen behind... lost time... lost days, and hours (and in the past, even weeks). I feel out of place, alone, isolated... lost in a world of time and difference and choices.

I know I will rebuild... I know I will return to where I was. I know that I will have to change some habits, build new ones, re-learn myself. I will have to apologize, and I will have to accept. I will have to make choices. But for now... it's quiet. It's understanding the destruction, the triggers, the path. It's becoming myself again... simply finding the pieces and not worrying about putting them all back together today. It's nothing, and it's everything. Once again, I'm no longer the same and I will have to relearn the new path that I have to take to recover.

This is where I'm at.

This is the journey. 

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Chaos, Emotion, and A Glimpse

Emotions are a tricky thing.

A little over three years ago I felt okay. I was still struggling with a bipolar diagnosis and finding my own unique degree of “normal”… but I felt like overall, I was starting to get things together. Life was busy and I was keeping up – full time job, four busy kids, the entire family moving every direction with activities, and a marriage that needed work but that was dedicated. It wasn’t perfect, but I did feel like I was starting to get a handle on things – that if I worked a little harder, and pushed through the rough times a little stronger, than it would be okay… I would conquer the madness.

Even though I knew it was stressful and a struggle to move, I never would have imagined that just a few short months after moving I would find myself in one of the darkest places that I had ever been – in essence the start of a roller coaster of a recovery journey. The emotions that floated around my head had always been extreme, but as I began to travel a new road, research my illness’s, and take off the many masks that I had always worn; I found that I no longer knew how to handle anything – let alone the emotions that ran rampant through my brain, fluctuating with little warning, sending me down twisting paths that always felt like they were trying to trip me up.

 

Three years ago I posted on Facebook, trying to make my life seem exciting and good – showing off our new home that we were settling into and bragging about the beauty of living in the country; I was trying to make it seem like an adventure that I fully intended to not only participate in, but to enjoy. And yet just yesterday, I found myself curled up in the corner – struggling to breathe as I battled emotions so intense that I felt like I had been propelled right back to the beginning of my journey. As I fought through my emotions and worked through the steps that I have learned to bring myself back to the present I grew overwhelmed – upset, frustrated, and confused – over both how far I have come, and how far I have left to go.

Just yesterday, I found myself wondering if it was worth it… if I would ever be the vision of “normal” that I have spent years aiming to be.

And then I was okay again. My mood bounced back up. I smiled… I cuddled… I played with my kids… I felt hope and motivation. I felt good – even if it was only for a brief few minutes before the chaos resumed inside my head.

And throughout the day I used up my strength – my inner monologues and my conscience fighting amongst itself. I used up my patience and my own understanding – I used up my own pool of excess emotion to propel myself through dinner, through conversation, and through the evening with the family. By the time that bedtime arrived, my head hurt and my brain would not shut down. Things people said – the way that I reacted – the things that I did and felt and said and saw… it all replayed on repeat. My emotions swirled back up and as the exhaustion settled in, I wasn’t sure that I could bother to repeat the steps and the process to calm myself down and think rationally.

And the worst part is – sometimes I question it all.

Nights like tonight, where I can’t sleep and my brain works non-stop, I wonder if it’s worth it to keep moving forward on this spiralling pathway that I’ve chosen. I want healing. I want recovery. I want to be able to say that I did it… I conquered those thoughts… those ideas… those reactions. I want to be able to say that I have no more darkness in me, and that medications and therapy and a lot of work has helped to restore my brain to some semblance of “normal”. I know that tomorrow I will mask it again and I know that I will pretend that I am okay as I work through more of my “stuff”. I will smile and make nice, I will socialise, I will bring up normalcy and stigma, and I will talk about fighting and winning against mental health.

But the truth is; emotions are not easy – and fixing chemical imbalances and learned behaviours and reactions, is more difficult than anyone will ever admit to.

Because the truth is hard to admit.

It is never easy to say that you are struggling and that you feel like a failure.

It is never easy to say “I’m not okay” or “I’m suicidal today”. Stigma is everywhere – in the world, in our friends, in our homes, and in our family. Our loved ones become numb to our pain or our confusion – our constantly heightened sense of emotion and our inability to deal with life in an appropriate way. Compassion fatigue allows those who we trust with our baggage to become desensitised – to possibly say the right things but without meaning, or to simply ignore our struggles and our victories.

And so we return to the places we came from – hiding the truth and masking our journey with quotes and inspirational sayings. We pretend that although it may be tough – that we are fighters and that the worst of the journey is over, just a few small hurdles left to clear.

My emotions are not okay. My own emotions might never be fully okay or one hundred percent manageable.

After years of working on controlling them, on doing recovery work, and on researching therapies that can help me process and see things differently – I can honestly say that some days I feel worse, being aware of and in a position where I am expected to be able to redirect those emotions, and process things in a more acceptable manner.

A little less than three years ago, I tried to jump off of a waterfall and my life was saved by two police officers who pulled me to safety as I let go over the ledge. I was confused and unable to handle my emotional state – I was depressed and while it was an intentional act, I was also unaware of the depth of my own state of mind, and the way that my brain processed things differently. I wish I could say that being in that place, was the worst day that I have experienced.

But the truth is, it wasn’t.

Some days are utterly unbearable and there are many days where taking my life still seems like an appealing option… a better option than living in this constant fear, pain, and chaos.

But then I remember the good days. I remember the small victories that I am the only one who has noticed – the way that I didn’t go to bed one night feeling like there had been a massive war inside my head… or the way that I controlled myself in an overwhelming situation… or the time I set a date for myself to make a decision, and then I let it pass by. There are victories every day. There are reminders and support systems and people who might not ever “get it”, but who are there. There are the days that I force myself to talk about it – the good and the bad – the victories and the struggles, so that other people might not feel alone any more… or so that someone else might see the battle that I face. There are the days where I say I will not give up – and there are the days where I cannot do much more than sit and pretend to be okay. There are days where compassion fatigue and struggles of their own prevent my friends and family from checking in or from being able to help when I ask… and then there are the days where they are there – a touch, a hug, a tea, a friendly “hello”, and I hadn’t even thought that they noticed.

Three years ago I had no idea what I was doing. I was simply trying to survive in the best way that I knew how – with no knowledge, no true support, and no ability to identify what was really going on in my head.

Today – I still feel the same way a lot of the time. But emotions are tricky, the mind

can be a complicated maze to navigate, and recovery is never a straight pathway. So today – while I don’t understand, and while I have chosen to stop trying to navigate my head for a while, I will talk about it. I will share a bit of the chaos – I will share a bit of my life. And sometimes, sharing a small glimpse into someone else’s head, is the very best thing that you can do.

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Labels, Labels, Everywhere

Woman. Mother. Wife.

Bipolar. Borderline. Psychotic. Unstable.

Balanced. Stable. Healthy.

Unhinged. Wired. Manic. Crazy.

Happy. Sad. Up. Down. Chaotic.

Overwhelmed. Exhausted. Scarred. Incapable.

Me.  As I am.

It's amazing how many different words float around in my head on a daily basis - contradicting thoughts, emotions, and definitions. It isn't that I try to label myself. It isn't that I want to label myself. It just is what it is.

The fear wells up in my head on a daily basis - the thought that I'm sick and that I'm not complete - the idea that I'm missing an essential piece of who I am.

I want to define myself - I want to know exactly who I am.

But the problem with that... is that I truly don't know from moment to moment what that will look like or even why I crave it.

But I do.

Maybe it's the thought that I will always be unwell, that I will always have the threat of another breakdown looming over my head. Much like an alcoholic will always be an alcoholic - I will always have Bipolar Disorder, I will always have a history of being unstable. Medications can help to keep me level. Counselling and recovery programs can help me get to the root cause of my problems, they can help me analyse my behavior and show me what I do and why I do it. But as it gets easier to address my issues and even easier to recognize my own faults, triggers, fears, and episodes - it also makes it more constant... giving me an awareness unlike anything I have ever known before.

And I look around me and I see people - everyone with their own label that I can see them trying to overcome and I wonder if I will simply replace one label - one problem - with another.

And I see online - articles about identifying the Borderline in your life - telling spouses, family, and friends of those with the disease about the horrible things that a person with a Borderline personality will do. I see the other side of the argument... pages and articles written by those with Borderline, Bipolar, Depression, Anxiety, PTSD, OCD or any number of Disorders begging those in our lives to understand - to love us anyways... to be patient and kind and loving... we don't want to be this way.

And then I flip through more social media. And I see the meme's... the ones that say that you can change your life - you can be whoever you want to be - you are stronger than anything - only you can make yourself happy - only you can love yourself - only you can define yourself.

And that's the thing - there's truth to all of it. A little bit in each. But it isn't as simple as that either.

I give myself labels every day.... some days I feed off of a word - a diagnosis. Some days I spew that word out, that label with hatred - swearing that I am more than that. Some days I just feel resigned to it. I am this. I am that. I am good. I am bad. I am sick. I am healthy. It is my fault. It isn't my fault. Some days I just wish it was clear.... I wish that labels could be stuck to our foreheads when we wander outside - so everyone could see what we ourselves feel like - so that everyone could see that every person out there has something that they are insecure about - something that they doubt - some way that they see themselves or feel about themselves.

Some days I wish it were like that - but only with positive things.

Photographer. Friend. Child of God.

Strong. Overcomer. Courageous.

Authentic. Honest. Friend.

And I wonder - why can't it be. Why can't we wear our labels proudly? Some days we are not going to feel positive, but maybe - maybe if we remember the positives a little more often, they'll shine through a little stronger - overpower the negative a little bit more. Maybe then our beauty will be the first thing we identify by and the first thing that someone else sees.

Maybe instead of the woman who tried to kill herself and that struggles with Depression and Bipolar and Borderline Personality... I will be the woman who is kind and thoughtful and empathetic and strong and courageous.

Some days I will fail at this. Some days, my own labels will overpower everything else and creep up on me and define me. But on the days where I am able - on the days I can say with pride - "my diagnosis doesn't define me" those days I will shine. Those days I will help erase stigma. Those days I will help another find hope. Those days will strengthen me. Those days will be the ones to propel me to keep going - to continue fighting - to continue talking.

Those are the good days. Those are what I want to define me in the end.

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To Those Who Have Stuck Around

I had always been the odd one out. Periods of isolation, enthusiasm, obsession, and short-lived friendships were normal for me. I thought it was just girl-drama – that nobody was really as close as those best friends that they portray on television. I didn’t realize or understand that my clique-jumping and inability to really get close to someone (without becoming obsessive, envious, or eventually angry) was really the early stages of my Borderline Personality Disorder rearing its head. I also didn’t realize that my hobby-jumping, sports switching, club shifting – followed by periods of doing nothing – were indications of Bipolar Disorder. To me, I was normal - I didn't understand why I wasn't like everyone else.

He’s been with me for seventeen years now. We have survived through the emotional roller-coaster – the turmoil, the ups, the downs, and the chaos; and some days I truly wonder how we made it.

It’s on these days when I sit and think about it, that I don’t really understand it at all. Don’t get me wrong – I love my husband with all of my heart, but I know that I am not an easy person to live with, and some days I am definitely not an easy person to love.

You see, I didn’t just wake up one day at twenty five years old, suddenly psychotic and breaking down – sick of life and unsure, and well, mentally ill. Looking back through work that I am doing, I can see the traits as they developed through my childhood and early adolescence. I can see peaks and valleys, I can look back on the skewed thinking and my alternate view of the world around me, and now that I know better, I can honestly say that that is where it all began. As the years went by and life became busy and hectic and stressful – triggers were found out and I came up and down and to the edge of the cliff mentally, several times before it all became too much, before I was finally unable to handle it myself, and before I finally began to get help.

Sometimes I was mean and angry – I yelled and I pushed my husband (and others I love) away. I didn’t know how to process things and it was the only defense that I knew and that I trusted. Other times, I was energetic and ambitious – my dreams were infinite and I could tackle the world around me… I was obsessive and perfect, my life looked like a happily ever after to those outside our little bubble. And then, then I would fall – depression would engulf me and our happy family was miserable. I would become isolated, disinterested, hateful, and self-loathing. Everything appeared blackened and I dragged my husband and a few select people through my darkened world as I contemplated life – but more often death. As I threatened suicide, ran from my home, slept in my car, placed myself in dangerous situations, and scared the hell out of people that I desperately wished could help me, but who didn’t know what to do.

And yet, they still loved me. They showed me kindness, forgiveness, patience, and overall love. Even on the days where I believed I couldn’t be loved, and that I didn’t deserve any of it – they stayed. They put up boundaries for their own safety. They stayed awake and stopped me from leaving the house. They called the police. They let me sleep on their couch. They talked to me. They didn’t doubt my heightened feelings. They tried everything that they could, and they kept me safe.

I know that some days were harder than others. I know that at times I drove my husband to the brink with worry for me. I know that some days, he (and others) had no idea what to do. I know that on days where I would disappear and they worried for my safety, they did what they had to – they continued on. They cared for the kids. They cared for my husband. They prayed for me. They confronted me. They took my anger and they made decisions in my best interest, sometimes against my own judgement.

I wish I could say that now that I am stable and on the right track, that things were easier. But that would be a lie. Because when the disease is in your head, in the way you think, react, and control situations, you can’t just turn it off. The work that I am doing helps. It has made a dramatic change in me and I can honestly say that I can handle more of my triggers, better than I ever have before.  But there are still days and moments when I know that I am difficult to say the least. I know that there are days when my husband wishes that I were ‘better’, and that I could just ‘stop’, the way that my brain works. I know that there are times when I do or say or fight for something and he wants to blame my mental health, because sometimes that is easier. I know that there are some days when he wishes there was no mental illness to blame. In other relationships, I know that others do not understand and I know that I still hurt others when I isolate myself or react badly to a trigger or situation.

Trust me. I know.

And I’m grateful. I am so very grateful that they try. I am grateful that they don’t give up, and that I don’t scare them away. I am grateful that they worry and that they check in on me. I am grateful that I am even a thought in their day.

And I am grateful to my husband. It isn’t easy to be married to someone with a mental illness, and we have definitely gone through some very rough times in our marriage, but we’re together… we’re struggling through the murky days and coming out to brighter ones… more often, longer lasting, and more vivid than we’ve ever known.

So on those days that you wonder if what you’re doing helps or if it's worth it, remember - we see it, we feel it… we just can’t always say thank you in the moment.

Keep reaching out to those you love. Keep the conversation going – when your loved one is doing well, ask how you can help when they’re not. Take time to make sure you are grounded, but know that your presence in their life is invaluable when they are struggling. They know it. They’re grateful.

I’m grateful.

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Precision of Language

Precision of Language.

I was watching the movie “The Giver” this morning and this phrase that is repeated throughout the movie started to click with me. I have never believed that my vocabulary was inadequate, knowing that I can read, write, describe, and discuss things with clarity and precision. But as the film, which is (very loosely) based on the book “The Giver” by Lois Lowry, continued on, I began to understand that I do not in fact, always have the correct words to describe my mental health.

It’s an interesting realization, and also a very good explanation as to why I tend to pull back into myself when I really begin to struggle. There is a quote from the original book that stands out to me as  I think through my own life and my own ups and downs, the periods of indescribable pain and mania: “Even trained for years as they all had been in precision of language, which words could you use which would give another the experience of sunshine?” (p.90).

The quote above is a truth that strikes me deep within. It is a quote that speaks to me on many levels and with many different reminders. In the negative, it reminds me that at times, I am alone in my true feelings. It explains how during periods of depression, anxiety, and even mania and psychosis, that nobody else will ever truly know the feelings that I experience; that my words will never be able to give that feeling to another person so that they can help more, understand better, or simply feel as I do. It is a truth that many people that I have interacted with have shared with me – the loneliness of their lives and their world, which is often coloured differently and skewed from what is considered to be ‘normal’ perception.  I have experienced this myself – it isn’t necessarily a bad thing and the quote can also be used as a reminder to me that no, unless they have experienced the exact fluctuations in mood that I have, they will not be able to understand completely. But that is also the key. When I remember this, it is much easier for me to share my experiences, with lower expectations.

I fully admit to times where my expectations have exceeded what can realistically be accomplished. In my relationships there have been (and sometimes still are) many times when I have wished that those closest to me could jump inside my head and just ‘get it’; that they could see, and feel, and experience those things that I do. Remembering that no, they can’t do that is a good way to open myself up to accepting the help that is available and the relationships that can be built. If I can lower those expectations, then I can fully embrace their friendship, knowing also that they accept me as I am, without needing to experience my pain themselves. It is a very powerful revelation.

In the same way, this reminder also applies in the reverse. It allows me to accept others and their experiences as valid, and as deep and as complicated as my own. As much as I want to believe at times in a ‘normal’ range of emotion and feeling – it will still always be an individual concept. Accepting that, I can accept another person’s experience and readily admit that although I do not always understand them, I can support them, love them, and be there for them in their times of struggle. It is a very grounding concept that although words exist in abundance, there is not always a “precision of language” that can describe such a personal experience, which will truly allow another person to experience the exact same thing.

Precision of language. The more that we share, the closer we will get to fully understanding each other. The more that we accept that no matter how precisely we describe something, it is still impossible to duplicate within another person exactly, the more that we will end stigma associated with periods of mental illness, struggle, and outside thinking. The more that we accept that it is a personal and individual concept, the more open we can be to those around us struggling. The more that we accept an individual and their pain, struggle, internal battles and victories; the more that we can normalise people, mental health conditions, treatment options, and a diagnosis that no matter how precise the words, can never fully explain the condition.

So let’s keep talking. Let’s lower the expectations. Let’s describe as fully as we can the experience, and let’s listen to support and raise our understanding, accepting that we may never fully ‘get it’, but loving the person anyways.

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Let's Keep Talking

January 25^th, 2017 was the annual Bell Let’s Talk day sponsored by Bell Canada to promote mental health awareness and raise money for mental health initiatives across Canada. It is a great cause and an easy way to spread the word and share stories about mental health, different statistics, and social issues relating to the world of mental illness. The only problem was that after a bombardment of posts and messages and snippets across various sources of social media – today my feed was  almost silent. No more stories being told. No more statistics or awareness being spread.

But I still want to talk about it.

I don’t care about the hashtags or the re-tweets or the acknowledgement. I don’t care about the branding behind the initiative.

I care about sharing stories – telling mine and hearing others. I care about opening up communications within my social circles and beyond so that those currently suffering in silence, know that they aren’t alone.

I want to talk because today I am suffering.

I want to talk because today I was shrouded in a big black rain cloud – covered in depression, anxiety and panic attacks – and yet I forced the mask into place and I forced myself to carry on.

I want to talk because I know the feelings of loneliness and despair. I know the isolation and the twisted thinking that comes with it. I know the push and the pull – to both try to find help and yet shove anyone away who tries to help.

I know the anguished cries, the curled up ball on the bed, the prayers that feel unanswered. I know because today that was me.

I know the guilt over taking time for self-care and trying to do what you need to feel better. The tiredness of trying to keep up with everyone around you, feeling like a snail in a cheetah race. I know the looks you get when you say you had a nap - again. 

I know the confusion. I know the chaos. I know how it feels to be spinning in every direction while the world around you appears to walk in straight lines.

I know the anger and the sadness and the betrayal that work their way into your heart, that taint the way that you see your friends, your families, and your loved ones.

I know the insanity. The way that nothing makes sense, but it all makes sense. The way that you try to explain it and it sounds like gibberish – like back and forth, and up and down, and drama and despair and nonsensical nothingness.

I know the efforts to help – the hurt in their eyes as they wonder why. Why you feel this way when things are so good. Why you can’t figure things out. Why the usual coping strategies suddenly stop working. Why you are hurting again. Why nothing they can do can help you.

I know.

I want to talk about it because I know I’m not alone. I want to talk about it because I have a voice – because I know what it is like to feel the stigma and the self-condemnation due to a chemical imbalance. I know that it is important.

I want to talk about it... and I want to listen. I want you to know that you are not alone and you don't need to suffer in silence.

Today was a bad day.

I’m not afraid to talk about it. 

Because a bad day can look like any one of these: 

 

So Let's Keep Talking. 

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Hiding in Silence

Isolation. It’s what I do best when I’m struggling… I push people away when I need them the most. When I’m struggling to maintain a level mood or when I’m sliding a little further up or a little further down. Sometimes it’s a good thing… sometimes it is because I need to focus, to realign myself to ensure that I can get back on track and that I haven’t fallen too far off the path. Sometimes though it’s

embarrassment, frustration, and sheer exhaustion that cause me to isolate.

I’ve been on this journey for what feels like a very long time. For the most part I’m open about it. I enjoy talking about mental health in general, as well as the specific challenges and successes that I have personally faced.

But occasionally a period of silence hits me. I don’t want to talk for any one in a million reasons. Sometimes I am learning something new about myself and want to make sure that I understand it fully before I decide to share it. Sometimes I’ve been triggered, or fallen a little further than I wanted and I’m embarrassed – I feel like a fraud or a failure or that I’m simply unreliable because of the way my mindset and my moods shift. And sometimes I’m just plain tired. Those times I just want to be normal. I don’t want to have to think about every action that I take and every word that I speak. Sometimes I want to be able to make a decision and be confident that it is logic and reason – and not one of my many moods that have dictated what I am doing.

Sometimes it is everything all at once that hits me.

I haven’t been overly vocal lately. I’ve been struggling off and on – and I have learned over the years that I am not good at dealing with difficult things in life. I’m working on it, but it often takes all of my energy and leaves me completely drained with no room for extras. It is something that over time is requiring me to fundamentally change who I am and how I process life events – untwisting my thinking and calming my instincts – my immediate reactions. It is taking what I know and what I feel and learning to balance myself in a way that requires constant self-control and checking in. It is remaining level when my brain tries to spin me around, or send me falling into darkness.  It is looking at myself openly and honestly and realising that sometimes I don’t see clearly – that sometimes I need to pull myself back and examine my words or actions even closer to see what others around me see that I can’t.

The medications that I take help. Routine helps. Exercise and diet help. Self care helps. Reading and learning about mental health helps. Speaking and listening helps. Prayer helps.

But the truth is that I have Bipolar Disorder and I have Borderline Personality Disorder and life happens and sometimes I still have (and likely always will have) difficulty dealing with things like an average person.

Sometimes I am ashamed by the way that I react. Sometimes I am angry and indignant and I believe that I am right – even when I am wrong. Sometimes I want to curl up in a ball and hide away from the rest of the world because I don’t know how to keep functioning in the way that the world expects me to. Sometimes all I can do is work on auto-pilot until the storm around and inside me dies down and I can process things again. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t me.

And then… then I pull back. Then I make it through the tough times – better, stronger, and easier than the last time. Then I look back and see the progress and the changes that I have already made and how far I have already come. Then I look around me and I see that I haven’t only survived the earth shattering around me – but I stopped it. By knowing, and learning and growing and changing – I made history in my life. I passed a crucial landmark and I know that from this point forward that no matter what happens – I will never return to the way that I once was. It’s impossible, because I have seen too much, I have learned too many new things, and I have become a completely different person.

I will still struggle.

I will still fight.

I will still isolate.

But I will come out of it stronger. I will come out of it alive. I will feel sunshine and happiness, relief, and love, and joy again.

And then I will share it.

I will talk about it.

I will not hide the way that I struggle… my fears… my insecurities… the choices that I have made.

Because I do have Bipolar Disorder. And I do have Borderline Personality Disorder. And I am more than my illnesses.

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If You're Happy And You Know It... You Could Be Manic

Me: Talking about the great day I had.

Other Person: "Are you all right?"

Me: Yeah, why?

Other Person: "Nothing... you just seem a little... happy..."

I had a good day. In fact I had a good weekend, a good week, and overall a good month. Things are good, and I'm stable and I'm happy. I have made significant changes in my life with nutrition and exercise, and I have been following through with counselling and care and working towards a better mental well-being.

Over all, I'm different.

I'm not necessarily all better, or fully recovered. But I can't help but notice the difference in myself. I have energy and am happy, easy going and slower to anger. I am willingly participating in things that we are doing as a family that last year at this time seemed to be more of a chore for me. In general I'm quite open about my mental health and the problems I have faced. I understand and admit that I have two diagnosis' that can be quite scary and that can easily sneak back up into my life. But I also can't let that control me; and I'm allowed to be okay.

I also understand that if I seem happy you might automatically think I'm (hypo) manic, or if I get a little down and slightly sad you may worry I'm in the early stages of depression. If I get angry or upset over something, your immediate reaction might be to attribute it to my borderline personality disorder and not a legitimate reason. I get it. I really do. For most of my life, the reasoning behind those assumptions was sound. I often was manic, or depressed or completely out of control emotionally. 

But also understand that I'm learning. It's a whole new world to me now that I better understand my brain and my emotions. If you are concerned about me, please, do talk to me, ask me if I'm alright. But also trust that I am probably working extremely hard and monitoring myself closer than you ever could. I'm willing to talk about it, and I'm willing to listen. You might see some things, some signal in my behaviour that I will miss and I am open to you telling me about what you are seeing. Chance are though, that I can already tell you why I'm not manic... that I'm sleeping well and am able to focus. I can tell you that I'm not angry and frustrated and full of a nervous energy, nor am I paranoid, delusional or disassociating. All of the mentioned are key signs that something (aka me) is up.

Thank you for caring. I appreciate your concern, I really do. It is amazing that so many people are recognising mental health of those around them and are open to speaking up about it. Keep doing it. Don't shut down the conversation, don't stop asking questions and being concerned for those that you know are suffering or are in recovery. When your loved ones are stable and in a good place, sit down with them and have a real discussion on what their key signs and triggers are, what early warning signs to look out for. If you are concerned and they are open to conversation, let them know. Do it lovingly, do it honestly, and let them know you care, you want to be there and you want to help them. It will mean more to them than you will ever know, that they will feel loved and cared for - even when they resist it.

During the above conversation, I could have been manic. I could have flown into a rage and not been able to even focus on what they were saying. I could have been left alone with no one to point out how happy I am, and how different it is for me. I could have been manic. I could have been in the early stages of a long battle of ups and downs which could have thrown my world upside down. If that was the case, a simple conversation could have had me see that I was going too far up and needed to see the doctor, adjust a med, or get extra counselling. A simple conversation could have saved time, hassle, and possibly even my life. I wasn't manic, but the next time someone sees something that I don't, I could be.

Keep the conversation going. 

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