The Hardest Confession

By the time that I post this publicly, it will be four weeks and four days.

Like an addict trying to escape my prison, I count up the days it’s been since the thoughts took over my head… only my drug of choice isn’t chemical, herbal, or liquid. It isn’t gambling, sex, or pornography… it isn’t even really an addiction at all – or at least it’s not one that’s recognized, let alone spoken publicly about.

But like an addict, I also wait with my breath held in… watching myself, analyzing my thoughts, wondering when they will overtake me again. I’m constantly on edge, watching triggers, and making sure that I’m careful not to put myself into a situation where I’ll fall back down again.

Even though, for now, I feel strong… I’m doing my part, and putting things in order again… resetting my life one more time.

But four weeks and four days ago, I still had suicide listed as a viable option for my life… a way out of the pain and turmoil that I felt completely trapped inside of.

Four weeks and four days ago, I was not quite actively suicidal but I was close… and I thought about suicide almost daily, the thought always with me, no matter how stable I became or how wrong I knew it was. It’s been that way for at least ten years, and probably a lot longer than that… a daily battle, each and every morning waking up and feeling that presence with me – the voice that reminded me it was always an option, a way out of the chaos that has seemed to plague my life.

At least that’s how I saw it.

On my wrist sits a tattoo of a semi-colon, within a locket. For those unfamiliar with the semi-colon tattoo, the gist is this; an author uses a semi-colon within a sentence when they could have stopped but chose to continue instead. In life, we don’t have to stop the sentence… we can choose to keep going. I got this tattoo three years ago now, at a time in my life where I was still drowning daily in suicidal thoughts and intentions. At that point in time; it wasn’t a matter of if I was going to kill myself, but when.

It didn’t seem to matter how much work I did or who I spoke with, or even how ‘up’ my life appeared to be headed. I knew that suicide was wrong, and I knew it would hurt those that I loved… but the allure of an end to the pain was always glistening there in the back of my head, a way out… an escape – I was exhausted from trying to stay stable, and a part of me simply wanted to die.

A little over two years ago, I had my last admittance to the psych ward at our local hospital… a major milestone in the maintenance aspect of my mental health, and I am proud of the fact that I have for the most part managed the symptoms of my health to keep me home and able to pull myself out of any ‘dips’ that I’ve had. There were days, where a hospital stay would have most likely been the correct course of action, and which I fought… thankfully able to still level out following those backwards steps.

I’ve learned to manage those thoughts… the bursts within my head that remind me, that soothe me, and that trouble me. I’ve learned to keep them quiet or when they really get strong, transform them into a form of anger, directed at people who I love, to push them far away from me. But still, those thoughts were always there and hiding just below the surface… an end, an escape, a plan.

Four weeks and four days, seems like a short time – a blip in the continuum of my life – a period of little relevance.

Until it’s put into context – a bright yellow bar on the darkened graph of my life, where it hasn’t ever existed before.

Four weeks and four days is worth celebrating.

But it’s also worth talking about, because I know that it was talking, that helped me quench those thoughts and remind me of who and what I am. It was the people who checked in, who chatted, who failed to judge, and who saw through my anger and my frustration and my exhaustion. It was the people who cheered with me when I said, I’m okay… I’m actually okay today… and who checked in the next day anyways, open to hearing the truth – whether it was good or bad, or whether they agreed with me or not. It was the people who encouraged me to speak fully and honestly and who allowed my experience to be real and heard and valid. It was those who heard the words, made the time, and who stuck with their words to stay by my side. It was the voice I was given by friends, family, and even acquaintances.

It was the ability to confess without fear, or stigma, or shame attached.

Four weeks and four days is a lifetime… it’s a lifeline.

Talking about mental illness – especially the unspeakable thoughts of suicide, self-harm, and an inability to ever feel free from the chains of whatever disorder has been diagnosed – is hard. And as much as I talk about it… I still find myself whispering at times, wondering ‘can I tell this person?’ knowing that I might one day say too much, to the wrong people.

And so, as long as stigma exists, as long as fear of judgement exists; I know that it will continue to be hard to talk about openly – to discuss over coffee, or in public spaces, or with people who ask ‘how are you doing?’

So for now, I’ll continue to share my story. I’ll continue to let you in on the bits and pieces of me – one step at a time, one dark confession at a time. Because I know I’m not alone… and I know I’m not the only one who struggles. Because I know, I can offer that ear for someone else who is too afraid to speak out, or too unsure of how to say it. I’m hear… I’m listening.

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Borderline Truth

Your truth. My truth. THE TRUTH.

It always amazes me how people see the truth as such a subjective matter that can automatically invalidate another person's experience. Being a person who has struggled with big emotions for a long time, it hasn’t always been an easy concept for me to grasp – the difference between my truth, your truth, and the real truth.

Once my Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) was diagnosed – it became impossible for My Truth, to ever be even close to THE TRUTH again.

It’s not that it wasn’t truth… in fact, more often than not, the BPD that I have felt weighed down by, has in fact made things more clear and concise; my fear of not being heard or properly understood, ensuring that I analyse everything that I say repeatedly before I ever actually speak… with only a few selected people allowed in to see more than what I allow to pass through the filter. Unfortunately though, the truth does not always set us free… and being labelled as a ‘borderline’, has crossed my thoughts and emotions into this territory marked ‘over-emotional’.

Over the last couple of weeks specifically, this label – this assumption has plagued me with self-doubt, unease, and a familiar depression; as I was slammed emotionally into a darker place. Speaking out at first was not an option… and when I did speak out to a few friends, it was filled with self-pity, self-loathing, and full on fear – fear of not being heard, fear of abandonment, fear of them taking the ‘other side’, fear of a lack of understanding, and fear of not being articulate enough – of going too far, or exaggerating, or straight up making things worse. But my biggest fear was simply being told that my experiences weren’t the truth.

Because for the past four years, that was what I was told that borderlines did. They lied, manipulated, exaggerated, blew up, had a lack of emotional regulation, and destroyed the lives of those around them. Those in my life have said to me in the same sentence – ‘don’t blame your BPD’ and ‘that’s your BPD talking’. It’s a double edged sword, that really has no merit.

Because along with the BPD diagnosis – I did something else - well several things actually -  over the last four years. I have received counselling, I have worked through DBT (a therapy program specifically for BPD), I have built an understanding and emotionally stable support system around me, I have attended for a time a recovery step-program, and I have continued to implement and put into place those skills, the knowledge, and the analytics to know and pinpoint my behaviour better than ever. I’m not perfect, and I have moments – hell, sometimes I even have days, where I slip up and I feel defeated - like I will never gain freedom from this diagnosis… but I can honestly also say that I have never been at the place of self-awareness I’m at now. Mistakes happen. Emotions can still get the better of me at times… I have hurt people in anger or pain, and I have allowed them to hurt me, because I’m not perfect. Because I’m human.

And where I’m at now is angry.

This week I was told once again, ‘that’s YOUR truth, not THE truth’… another hint at the BPD, and a history of unstable emotions. Another sentence made in anger, so that I would doubt my experiences – not as a BPD sufferer, but as a human. Automatically, because I was hurt, because I refused to allow another human to determine my fate, and because I am in the midst of a painful experience; my thoughts, emotions, and words were automatically considered invalid because of my BPD.

I’m angry, because for a long time – I didn’t know that they were wrong. I couldn’t separate the fact that just because another person disagrees with me, that it doesn’t make the truth any less true. I have been convinced for so long, that because of the BPD, my voice did not deserve to be heard in the midst of trauma or pain. 

Psychologically, I’m facing a major trauma that I should have dealt with many years ago. When I tried to place it… to change things within my life and work through it; I was told ‘I’m sorry you feel that way, but that’s YOUR truth, not THE truth’; simply because the person involved didn’t like what I had to say. When I pointed to supporting evidence, it was ignored – as though my BPD mind, simply made it up… poof.

The past week has been brutal. The previous couple of days, darker than some of my others as I allowed someone else to convince me that I was broken – not good enough, unstable, and incapable. I allowed myself to nearly make a major decision, based on another person’s opinion of how difficult a person I can be due to my mental illness. I doubted myself, because I’ve been taught to doubt myself and question every thought, emotion and word.

Today I did a quick google search on BPD. Clicking through some of the links, I was amazed at some of the references to ‘surviving borderlines’ – aka, how to tolerate someone with this diagnosis. As though we are somehow less human, less than capable of loving and being loved. With a focus on the instability of our emotions, we are labelled as difficult to treat, difficult to love, and difficult to even be around.

When I scrolled through some mental health groups that I belong to, there was a stark contrast between those with the disease, and those who love someone with the disease.

I saw the patterns emerge and I was in awe that they seemed to replicate my life. BPD’s have mood swings – intense and unstable mood swings. Until we manage to figure out ways to begin to manage them – they never really disappear, but we learn coping strategies to deal with constant fluctuation. The difference is, that when something big happens (positive OR negative) our reactions can seem to the outsider, extreme. Trauma is especially bad. But the commonality in all of it, was that it continued to get worse – the stigma strongest against this specific diagnosis, as we are taught to doubt every thought and feeling before it’s allowed to be ‘truth’. And unfortunately, in my specific case,  the more work that I have done to combat the 'out of control' nature of the disorder, the more it upset the balance in life. Where once, my BPD could be used as an excuse, a distraction, or as evidence of instability... I now have changed viewpoints, perceptions, and an incredibly strong sense of self-awareness (most of the time anyways).

On the other hand, I saw loved ones talking and sharing about their friends or family who had been diagnosed. I saw an interesting trend (in my mind you, quick scroll), that seemed that at first diagnosis, the loved ones felt a sense of relief…. Finally answers. But as the diagnosis aged… every emotion, every problem, every trauma that the BPD sufferer faced was too much for the loved ones to deal with… the BPD was blamed for everything from general anxiety, to feeling hurt over betrayal, to crying over a sad movie. When the loved ones made a mistake or hurt the BPD - it seemed like the instability of the emotions was a scapegoat. Even when the BPD emotions happened as a direct result of the trauma inflicted on a person, they were blamed for having the disorder in the first place. 

It became a mindset. A case of this is what happens in BPD… I better look out for that at every turn. Nothing is real.

As I scrolled through old threads of conversation and examined my own life a little deeper, I felt the anger grow stronger. I remembered the small comments and the sideways glances. The calm and collected talks that became nightmare fights, because everything became a part of my mental illness... even on days where I was in control and doing well... I couldn't escape the weight of it. It’s the stigma  that has existed within my own home.

One of the environmental factors that is a key indicator of developing Borderline Personality Disorder, is a continued pattern of invalidation in childhood/early teenage years. And yet, as soon as someone is diagnosed with BPD, it seems to begin a new cycle of invalidation – it’s all because of the BPD.

Your feelings don’t matter.

Your instincts can’t possibly be accurate.

Those emotions? Too strong.

Your personality? Too much.

Your pain? Not real.

Your experience? Twisted and corrupted by the Borderline Mind.

And so we manage the emotion. We learn to doubt ourselves… our heads. We carefully construct our sentence, our fear of being called overly-emotional, or exaggerated, or outright liars; always keeping us on high-alert… keeping us from speaking out, from being heard.

This year, I made a promise to myself to try and live a more authentic and honest life. It has led me down some interesting paths – I have had anger and resentment cast towards me over the silliest things, and I have hurt some people with my lack of social etiquette in breaching certain topics. I have failed at times to be as real as I want to be and as real as I still aim to be. I hold secrets within my heart, and I sometimes share too much. I’m still learning how to be real and true… in a healthy way.

But this. This is a start. Because I am tired of being told that my experiences aren’t real, just because they are told from my perspective. My truth, is not any less valid than YOUR truth. And if, my truth at times does become distorted – it’s most often not from any disorder that I might struggle with… most often it’s from lies that I’ve begun to believe, because for so long I was convinced... I have BPD… I can’t trust myself.

But the truth is… I can. And I will.

I am not my diagnosis.

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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 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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All Shades of Gray

I don’t know where to begin.

I’ve been thinking about returning to writing (and specifically blogging) again for a while. But while I know my topic, and I know the words that are written in my heart; it is difficult to begin again… to write with clarity and focus, accuracy and effectiveness.

My first instinct when I think about coming back to this page and writing, is to do one of two things; either share my success – how far I’ve come and how well I am doing, or to share my woes – to rant, rave, and complain about why things are still difficult… what is up and what is down. Black and white. Good or bad. Mental health or mental illness.

I think the reason I have taken such a long break this time is simple though. Over the last several months I have been focusing on my recovery and specifically on healing. I have been on a journey throughout most of my life, and I am finally at a place where I can finally sit back and see exactly how far I’ve come, and how far I still have to go. I can see the milestones, and the setbacks. I can see the hurt and the pain that still exists in my heart and my mind, and I can also share joy and peace, and stories of growth and commitment.

One experience, although sometimes more good than bad, or bad than good; no longer has the power to shift my thinking to recovery is going good or recovery is going bad.

During recent months I have been faced with the same decisions that I have faced over and over throughout my life. I have dealt with trauma and I have dealt with joy. I have lived with the consequences of my decisions and I have battled blame for decisions that were not mine. I have survived severe back pain, walking away from a job, financial insecurity, marital ups and downs, significant weight gain due to med changes, and general, everyday life.

This year has been one of my toughest yet… facing things that I didn’t believe would happen to me, living through mental and physical exhaustion, and revisiting my past. I have journeyed to the depths of my soul and I have sat and cried, yelled, argued, and thanked God for the trials and the blessings in my life. In marriage, I have recovered from infidelity and faced demons that have been haunting our relationship for decades. I have taken on a new, more confident role, and I have faced my own ability to make a decision that is right for myself and my children.

Each day I wake up and I find that I am learning something new… discovering a positive or a negative about myself or about others. I have learned to watch and listen more than I talk. I have learned to look around and maintain awareness of others and the world around me. I have ventured out of my comfort zone... in personal and in business fronts. I have formed new, valid, and strong opinions about life, love, politics, and the way that I want to live my life.

I still experience ups and downs. I still have days where I want to shout out how well I am doing with my mental health because I have learned one new thing, or discovered that I am now in more control than ever over specific habits. I still have days where I become quiet, desperate, and suicidal; days where I want to bury my head and pretend I don’t exist, or to stay in bed all day long, every day because the world is too much and my brain feels like it will implode if I have to talk to anyone.

As I head into a new year I both cringe and jump for joy. I’m terrified of what this year will bring… more change, more ups, more downs, and more general chaos… a world of unknowns. But I’m excited as well… because, well, my mental health is that… it’s health. It’s a feeling of normalcy despite the diagnosis and the work to maintain it. It is the conversations, the openness, and the candid life that I have learned to live. It is honesty, decision making, and continuous learning and growth. It is an opportunity to thrive in the good times and do more than survive the tough times. 

This is 2018. Mental health is with me... and while my diagnosis is still there, it no longer controls me. Life is moving forward, and this will be the year to move along with it. Big changes, little changes... it doesn't matter as long as I continue to grow, learn, and change... embracing the differences and the similarities... thinking in black and in white... and in all shades of gray. 

Happy New Year!

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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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The Invisible Prison

Locked inside.

Like a prison – without bars.

It’s almost impossible to explain.

I looked in the mirror this morning – I looked for a long time.

I couldn’t see anything.

I mean, I could see myself. I could see that I looked… well… normal. Aside from some darker circles under my eyes from not sleeping, I appeared the same way that I always do. As the day went on I listened to myself and noted that my voice was the same… still light… still happy… still social.

And it made me incredibly angry.

I was pissed off at myself for not looking the way that I feel. I was so angry that I have gotten so good at functioning on autopilot, and talking about things as though there aren’t a billion and one things flashing through my head constantly, and for just looking – and acting – like it’s another day.

I know why I do it. I’m high-functioning. Sure, every now and then I go through something and end up at the hospital to adjust some meds, or get my sleep patterns back to normal. But for the most part I am calm, rational, able to talk and think and work and relate. My kids are normal. My marriage looks normal. My house is usually clean, there are home cooked meals on the table, and I bake and take photographs, and I write. I function… and I function well. Logical me splits from emotional me and for some reason I can still live day to day life while feeling like I am going to explode on the inside.

And that’s why I’m angry. That’s why I can’t understand myself and I am often torn into two pieces as I try to understand my own confusion, and justify outbursts, emotions, or breakdowns to the outside world. For the most part, my illness is completely locked inside of me.

And often times… I’m just not okay.

If I’m going to be honest tonight… I will say that I haven’t been okay for weeks. My husband knows… a couple of people close to me have a small idea… but even when they know – it’s hard to grasp it, to see what I feel on the inside.

It is impossible to look at someone who can appear normal, and understand why she says that she is in emotional agony. It is nearly impossible to understand how a person can be at work, literally walk out the doors and disappear inside her brain – become non-functioning; become delusional; begin to hallucinate; and plan to commit suicide.

It is impossible to understand how someone who appears calm and happy – who laughs and has what appears to be an amazing night, will not be able to sleep; to understand the fear of sleep… of nightmares… of memories. It is not easy to imagine how someone can stay awake for days – and still function… at least until the inevitable crash.

It is impossible to understand the prison of the mind that won’t let you out. That splits into voices and monsters and hallucinations and paranoia. It is not something that most people have experience with, and few people will ever ask about it… their own fears overriding their concern, as stigma and ignorance rears its head.

It doesn’t make sense to anyone who has never experienced it. The isolation. The loneliness. The fear of living. The desire to die. It doesn’t make sense to see a person smiling and gripping a mug of tea with both hands, carrying on a conversation like any other day – only to find out that minutes before they were gripping a bottle of pills; ready to end it all. It doesn’t make sense to hear them talk about it. To hear them speak as though it’s another person, in another mind, in another body.

Knowledge of mental health says it is dark, and people don’t talk. It says that they spend days in bed and crying and that it is obvious if you look hard enough, to see someone struggling.

But mental health awareness doesn’t always seem to cover what happens when the illness is diagnosed – it doesn’t talk about living with the disorders once medications are ordered, therapy is started, and any potential crisis is averted for the time being. It doesn’t cover the fact that it never goes away. It doesn’t cover the day to day struggle that someone living with any number of mental health conditions lives with. It doesn’t even seem to cover the more ‘scary’ aspects of mood and or personality disorders. Depression, anxiety, even basics of bipolar seem to be covered. But mention suicidal ideation, narcissism, borderline, schizophrenia, voices of any kind, hallucinations, paranoia, hospital visits in locked wards, medications that don’t work, messy side effects, constant insomnia, rapid cycling, or simply exhaustion from dealing with it all – and people just don’t know. And I don’t blame them. Because for a lot of it – it is terrifying – for the person dealing with it, and for their loved ones. It’s also exhausting. It’s also often invisible. And the one that people don’t think of, is that it is actually humiliating and shameful.

I don’t know anyone who wants to be labelled with a serious mental health diagnosis – because as much awareness is being raised… it is still taboo. There is still the thought of drooling patients, straight-jackets, asylums, and archaic treatment methods. There is still the stigma that if you look normal on the outside, it can’t really be that bad on the inside.

But the truth is. It hurts. It is more painful than any physical ailment that I have ever dealt with. It is confusing and embarrassing and unpredictable. I am terrified most of the time – of myself, of my illness, for my kids, and for my husband. It doesn’t take a break. Even stability can’t give me reprieve.

And the truth is, that every day is a struggle to continue. Some days are far worse than others. Some days I picture myself ending it – some days I even plan it. Some days I can’t think straight, and I’m literally not the same person as 'usual'. Some days it feels like I have multiple personalities and as much as it confuses those around me, it confuses me even more. Some days are so dark, it feels like I will never see the light again. Some days I literally feel insane - I'm not present in my own head - I see the world in a skewed manor, I make irrational decisions, and I am delusional and on the verge of (or actually am) psychotic. Some days I turn on the autopilot that I hate so much because without it, I would give in and I wouldn’t be here any longer.

Some days, like today, I look in the mirror and I hate what I see. I hate the invisibility. I hate the smiles and the determination to appear normal despite the pain and the chaos. I hate that the cliche sayings are plastered everywhere - especially on social media - that tell you if you want to be happy, then you make the choice, or that you are the only one that can decide what you, or your day, or your life are going to be like. I hate that for me those things are impossible to control. I hate that there isn’t a magic fix-it tool. I hate that even those closest to me, just want to avoid what they can’t see. I hate that I push people away, as much as they avoid me. I hate that I can’t always fix it. I hate that I can’t shove it into a box, slam the lid, and make it disappear. I hate that the harder I try, it feels like the harder I fall, and the stronger the urge is to give up completely. I hate that this is - and will be - a lifelong battle. I even hate that I’m here, writing about it.

Right now, even while I type.

I’m locked inside of my head.

I’m trying to let myself out… but it really is like a prison.

I know I’m not well. I also know what to do. And at the same time – I don’t.

So... I'll see you tomorrow. I'll be smiling and talkative, I'll be at work, and I'll look just like I do, every other day.

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Amid the Quiet and the Darkness

I should be asleep right now. Eyes closed, mouth open, snoring softly and dreaming deeply. I should wake up in the morning rested and energized, ready to face another day, fight another battle, and smile another smile. I should be able to close my eyes without my mind racing a million miles a minute – ideas and sparks of restless energy plaguing me as a tiredness sweeps into my brain, just out of my grasp.

As is typical, I laid down to rest tonight – electronics shut off, calming thoughts, quiet, and darkness surrounding me. But I did not fall asleep… could not fall asleep. My mind has been going non-stop for several days now, my heart racing constantly, my brain flipping around like a fish out of water. I’m exhausted but I’m wide awake.

It’s one symptom of bi-polar disorder and for me it is one of the earliest warning signs of a massive shift in mood occurring. It started with a mild depression and some anxiety following Christmas – my sleep becoming disturbed and then I began the upswing. I noticed it one night suddenly… the way that my brain changed complete direction. I couldn’t stop talking – I couldn’t stop thinking – and I felt good – really good. I suddenly felt like showing off – spending a little extra effort on my appearance, working a little harder, taking on a little more. I dove into some work on mental health – on my history, on recovery, on management and skills. I tackled each thing I did with a newfound energy and a vengeance. Most of all, I completely stopped sleeping at night – struggling to get an hour here and an hour there.

A couple of days passed. I saw my family physician who prescribed me something to help me to relax – something that had absolutely no effect on me whatsoever. Finally, I became agitated, the lack of sleep getting to me even though I had all of this energy and I knew it was time. If I didn’t get it managed quickly, it would blossom out of control... it was better to catch it early so that it didn't get too far out of my hands.

Taking a risk and facing a nervous anxiety I took myself to the emergency room – not an easy task when you are frustrated and tired, and you have an irrational fear of (being kept in) the hospital. Thankfully it was a good visit – speaking to the crisis worker and the ER doctor on call I was given a prescription for something to help me sleep – something I had been on in the past and that had usually worked well. Going home with a scheduled appointment with the psychiatrist I was almost excited to get to sleep and get back into a ‘normal’ routine. I should have known better.

That first night, I did sleep. It was broken and I awoke several times, but it was something more than I had experienced in several days. The next night I wasn’t so lucky.

It’s a tricky thing – a mood disorder. You want to live simply – take your meds and get better. You don’t want to have to think about whether you are too close to depression or too close to mania all of the time – but you do. You want to be able to fall asleep like everyone else… but you also have your best thoughts and ideas amid the quiet and the darkness – when the rest of the world is asleep.

I’m thankful for the doctors and nurses, the psychiatrists and the counselors, the crisis teams and all of those people who advocate for better mental health care and knowledge. I am thankful that they take me seriously now when I say I need to level out – when I can recognize the symptoms before they get too severe, and I am thankful that the good ones will work with you for a treatment plan that works for you.

Tonight I’m still struggling with Insomnia and I still worry about entering a full blown manic phase. I’ve seen the psychiatrist and we are upping a medication to hopefully get me to sleep before the insanity begins to set in. I wish I didn’t need meds for that – I wish I could sleep – I wish that sleep wasn’t a requirement so that I could act on all of my great ideas – I wish that my mind wasn’t built this way. But wishes aren’t reality.

And the reality is that sometimes life just sits you down on an out of control roller-coaster and you learn how to hang on tightly at all of the important hills and valleys – knowing that eventually it will slow down and you’ll be able to take control back again.

Until then – I’ll control what I can, pray for what is out of my hands, help end the stigma by talking about it, and rely on the support from friends, family, and professionals to help me get back on track.

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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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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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