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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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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I Don't Always Know Their Names

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Thoughts From the Psych Ward

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

Stop.

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

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

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

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

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Will They Stay or Will They Go?

Fear of abandonment and constant feelings of rejection. For me this has always been (just one of) my key identifying factors for the Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) diagnosis. It might sound silly and you might want to say ‘that’s life, get over it’, but it isn’t that simple. It is a paralysing fear, a complete lack of self-worth and self-love, and the constant feeling that at any moment those you care most about will stand up and walk away from you.

And so, to avoid the inevitable rejection that you know will come (because everyone will leave you eventually), you instead push people away. You build relationships but never really let others in. You try to be social and fit in with the rest of society, but you can’t quite feel like you are a part of the bigger picture. So you back away or hurt someone or instead smother them or you become insanely jealous of any other relationships that they may have outside of you. You know logically that you are being ridiculous but you can’t help but to constantly doubt and wonder and question every relationship in your life – the feelings, the thoughts and the people that you want to love and care about. You wear a mask and you pretend that you’re fine and that you can handle anything – you can be happy and mean and jealous and productive and competitive and shallow and friendly and angry… you can be anything as long as you are stopping yourself from the eventual rejection and hurt that always happens. You can’t believe that anyone really like you, despite the many ways they might tell or show you. And so, the pressure is on for those in your life and like anyone would, eventually they crack and you fight and they disappear – proving in the end that everything you believed was right. You don’t realise that it is often times your own doing.

And so, it’s something I’ve had to work on. I’ve had to learn to let people in… to take off my mask and build true friendships and deeper relationships. I’ve had to go back and re-build connections that I had destroyed with my distorted black and white thinking, and hot and cold personality. I’ve had to take a long and honest look at who I am and who I’ve been… the things I have said and done throughout my life that have pushed even those that truly cared, away from me. I have had to learn to fight the negative self-talk and build up my own self-worth… I’ve had to actually begin to like myself and who I am.

Most importantly I’ve had to learn one other thing… and I don’t really like it as it is leaving a sour taste in my mouth and my heart: People will leave you. People will fade away and relationships will change and shift with time and effort and schedules and life. People will also stay. Those that matter and that you love… those connections that you take the time to nurture and treat right will often (not always) stay. That is a part of what life involves, growing and changing and learning – sometimes friendships grow and change with us and sometimes it is better to let them grow their own way while you work on yourself.

The funny thing is, that recently while I have evaluated the many relationships in my life – I have most often come to the conclusion that I had done something wrong, something that caused the inevitable fissure in the relationship… and a few honest people in my life were open about the ways I had hurt them or the things I had done. But what I have found out through this year of recovery and growth is that even when I’m ‘well’, even when things are going ‘right’ and I am personally invested in building or rebuilding a relationship, people will still leave or close you out. Even those relationships that you believe are worth fighting for, that you want more than any other and are willing to sacrifice so much for, can be felt as one-sided, the other person still choosing to exit.

And that is not my fault. That is not reflective of my self-worth or who I am as a person. That is on the other person and there is nothing that you can do but let them go, continue to love them if you choose (sometimes people are still intertwined in your life, despite not wanting a close relationship) and keep on growing and becoming a better person for yourself.

Relationships will come and go in life. Fight for the ones you want to keep, learn and grow and change as needed for yourself – not for anyone else, and accept that some people will not want you in their life; some people will be unhappy despite the person you have or will become. And most of all, remember that you are loved… it might not feel like it, and you might not recognise it sitting right in front of you, but someone in your life does love you. Accept it, nurture it, and build on it. Work to fix those relationships that are worth it, and let go of the ones that aren't - it might hurt and that's okay, but don't let it paralyse you or set you back. Keep your eyes open because connections can be found in the oddest of places and most important: learn to love yourself first. 

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Journey to the Cliff

A couple of months ago I was sitting in a therapy group with a bunch of people with assorted diagnoses. It was during a break, a few minutes where we could grab water or use the facilities that somehow the casual conversation turned serious and one of the group members spoke up, ‘I don’t understand how anyone could get to the point of suicide, how they can get that low and depressed that suicide becomes their only option.’ I didn’t speak up. Nobody did. There was a room full of people who had all been hospitalised at some point for one type of mental illness or another and not one person continued the conversation, all of us letting it drop off uncomfortably, changing the topic as quickly as possible.

At the time, the woman and her lack of understanding didn’t upset me and while I don’t know that I could have changed her outlook on it, I do regret not using it as an opportunity to educate her on what it was like for me personally to reach that low point in my life. In two weeks (and a day) it will be one year since I last tried to end my life by suicide, and it is something that has been on my mind for the last few days – particularly the idea that while I have been open, and I have spoken about it quite a bit, I’m not sure that I’ve gone into why I became suicidal or how I reached a point where I was so low that I couldn’t convince myself to live.

November 6th, 2014 I made my way to the waterfall around the corner from my house and attempted to jump to the jagged rocks below, a razor blade cutting into my wrist as I let go of the wall. Two police officers manage

d to grab me as I let go, heaving me back over the
wall and to the ground, saving my life. Deciding to jump from the cliff, to end my life and to ensure my success with a backup plan was not something that I came up with that morning – it was not something that I woke up with and simply decided, ‘hey, today’s the perfect day for a suicide attempt!’

For months leading up to my final decision the thoughts had been invading my mind – and it wasn’t the first time I had come close. I was off meds for the bipolar disorder, isolated, alone, depressed, and feeling invalidated – worthless. I was working part-time but fairly steadily and every day that I went to work I put a smile on my face and I dealt with customers and the public the same way I always had – the only difference being that I was now running on autopilot. I was robotic on the outside. I spoke to the kids if they spoke to me. My husband and I were fighting over several things at the time and if we weren’t, I continued on auto. Days where I was not working, I sat on my couch in the living room, not really doing anything but the basics, and even then I couldn’t always complete the simple things. I was severely depressed, which lead to a lack of energy, which lead to further depression, which lead to a lack of ambition, which lead to further depression, which lead to feeling of disgust, hatred and inadequacy. It was an endless cycle that with each round became darker and darker.

I remember it being early October, the leaves just beginning to change as I sat on the stairs by my front door, still in pajamas as I watched the kids leave for school; the bus pick them up at the end of the driveway and I simply sat there, unable to get up, to move to do anything. Tears sprang to my eyes and before long I was crying uncontrollably and for the first time in a long time I felt that I couldn’t go on. I couldn’t keep doing life.

I was completely crippled with anxiety – whenever I had to go anywhere or do anything, make a decision of any kind, I would have panic attacks and experienced heightened and uncontrollable fear. I couldn’t use the phone and I certainly wouldn’t go out of my way to try and build friendships or a support system within the community that I was brand new to. My thinking became distorted early on; every move that anyone made became a mode for them to control me, to isolate me further. I looked around me and saw that my family was happy – the only people who I regularly interacted with and I wondered what was wrong with me. Why couldn’t I be happy, why didn’t I have energy, why was I so worthless, why should I keep pulling them down with me? How could I go on, when every day was a struggle – when panic attacks controlled my life, when I felt that the world would go on if I could just escape it.

And so, on that day in early October I began to fantasize about dying; but I still continued to live. I still went through life robotically, working and running the kids around, and fighting with my husband. I experienced extreme anxiety that would grip me at all times of the day or night, disrupting my sleep patterns and causing a sense of paranoia to begin. The depression got deeper – everyone around me was happy, making plans for fall and then Christmas; life was happening and I was being dragged along unwillingly. And then I crashed. A fight with my husband was my snapping point. I left home. I was angry and bitter and most of all in extreme emotional pain. It hurt immensely to see everyone around me smiling and laughing and living the way that I felt I would never be able to do. The pain became physical, making me sick and weighing me down. I slept in my car in a parking lot one night, texting my husband and telling him that I was done, I couldn’t do this anymore – I meant life. 

The next morning I went home, I couldn’t do it – I was terrified not of dying, but of failing. I got changed and went to work that day. When I left work I again didn’t go home, my husband knew I wasn’t well, he and I texted – him trying to get me to go somewhere safe (home, the hospital, anywhere that I was with people and wouldn’t hurt myself). I refused. He called the police. I tried to sleep in my car that night when I finally couldn’t stay awake any longer – I was already determined that I couldn’t keep living, but again – I was terrified that I would fail and that I would be taken away, locked up in a mental institution for life. I had a razor blade in my hand and I had already taken a few pills I shouldn’t have taken when the police banged on the window. We had a short conversation and despite my worrisome text messages to my husband, they let me go as long as I went either to a woman’s shelter or a hotel. I chose the hotel, staying there all night, awake – my paranoia now out in full strength as I envisioned them circling the lot, keeping an eye on me. I believed that they were out to stop me and that my husband and others wanted to control me, keep me trapped and isolated when all I wanted to do was end the pain and the suffering I was experiencing.

The next day was November 6^th and I was set on my path, completely convinced that it was the only way that things were going to get better. It wasn’t an instant decision. It was something I had thought about and envisioned for weeks and could only see the positives of, that I was convinced was the absolute and only way to end the pain I felt. When I arrived at the waterfall, I felt peace and comfort and I was resolute. I was ready.

I can’t speak for others, but I can speak for myself when I say that suicide is not a selfish decision, not something that is decided on a whim and taken lightly by the person in crisis. For me it was something that I agonised over, fighting as long as I could before giving in and letting the decision happen. It was terrifying and sad, peaceful and confusing, angry and frustrating coming to my low point. I envisioned it and chastised myself, tried to listen to logic and find reasons to live but heard only twisted truths and outright lies, my own mind working against me. It was a long and exhausting path and by the time I looked down at the water and the rocks, I simply just wanted it all to end.

Talk truth, listen openly, reach out, give hope, and find reason. It sounds easy enough, but those are the things I needed in the days, weeks and months leading to my decision, and yet I could not find them anywhere.

I don’t have a problem with people who don’t understand; but it’s just one more reason why I’ve felt the need to share my story, my feelings and my experiences. It's about stopping stigma, breeding empathy and understanding, and learning to give hope. It's about giving even one person something to grasp onto when they are in the throes of despair, sinking and about to give up. 

Life gets better... sometimes it takes time. Hold on, keep your head above water, and grasp someone's hand. You are worth it.

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Hope and Life and Thanksgiving

This weekend was Thanksgiving weekend up here in Canada; a time when most families will gather together, eat turkey and stuffing and veggies and potatoes, tell each other what they are thankful for, and simply enjoy being in the presence of friends and family. This year though, our family celebrated the holiday a little differently than we usually would. Instead of gathering all together and in one place - we were spread out. There was a high-school football game, a casual dinner, a cozy meal at a restaurant, a little bit of work, some friends over for a birthday celebration (and chili!) and an adventure with cousins and family we haven't seen in ages at a nearby resort - we even had the opportunity to go hiking and outdoor swimming! Other family was missed this year, and though we saw them a couple of weeks ago for some birthday celebrations, we won't be seeing them again for at least a few more weeks. 

And that's okay.

Because it doesn't stop my heart from being grateful, from knowing what is important to me in this life - family and friends and the people who care. 

Last year I wasn't in a place where I could be thankful. Where I could appreciate those around me, the small moments that make everyday special. I believed that I was unloved and unwanted, worthless and better off dead. I was independent and stubborn and so very much in need of help, of love, and of support. I wasn't able to see what was directly in front of me, I wasn't able to care, and I wasn't able to know that I wasn't healthy. 

Last year I was in a pretty deep depression. Family came around and we celebrated a traditional thanksgiving; with turkey and pie and people. I laughed, and smiled and pretended I was grounded; pretended I had it all together and that nothing was wrong. It wasn't a secret I was unhappy, but we didn't talk about it either. We didn't know how to get help, who to turn to, or the extent of what would happen less than a month later - the decisions I would make. 

And that is the main reason that I am thankful this year. Because my story hasn't ended - because for some reason I wasn't able to complete my mission, I wasn't able to end my life. And now I've found my voice, something that I have learned is powerful, and needed, and valuable. Because I'm not the only one who couldn't speak out, who put a smile on her face and pretended that she was fine when in reality she was sinking. I am grateful because I can encourage you right now to speak up, to give a voice to mental health, depression, anxiety, or mood disorders; I can encourage you to end the stigma. Mental illness is lonely, and although I heard the words "you aren't alone", I didn't see the others, I couldn't put a face to the illness or words to the thoughts that were constantly rumbling around in my mind, I couldn't find the support I so desperately needed. I felt invisible, confused and afraid.

This Thanksgiving I want to pass on what I'm grateful for - my voice, my family, my friends and the support system I've started to build. The police who stopped me from plunging to my death, and those at the hospital who were trained to deal with me in crisis. I'm also grateful to those I've met along the way - those of you who have shared your stories with me, let me know I truly am not alone, who let me put a face to 'not alone'. I'm grateful for small moments and learning experiences - therapy and new ways to cope with what I couldn't deal with before. Most of all, I'm thankful for hope, because it's there, in everything else I've seen and done this year, every relationship I've re-built and every challenge I've faced - I have found the hope I desperately needed. And the best part is, it's there for everyone... things can and will get better, you are not alone and you are worth it! 

Happy Thanksgiving, from Me and My Family, to You!

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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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