Silent Times When I'm "Fine"

Six months ago I experienced a major breakdown… complete with unpredictable behaviour, suicidal threats and intentions, and a brief period of psychosis. My depression had hit, my sleep cycle was erratic at best, I continued to refuse to go back on medications, and for a short time, I felt completely out of control again.

Nearly five months ago, I wrote about Suicide and the Awkwardnessof Speaking Out, where I made a stance and said that I would continue to speak out, share my story, and normalise mental health issues. I was doing better, although still recovering from the traumatic events that had triggered my breakdown and which happened during my breakdown. It was the last time I posted here publicly, allowing others to see a glimpse into my life, and share in my journey.

Four months ago, I broke my life apart… pushing people away, making poor decisions, and retreating into near silence… afraid to let anyone in… afraid to let my failures out. During this time I made conscious choices, semi-conscious mistakes, and subconscious defensive moves… sometimes travelling into the world of offense – ensuring that nobody could hurt me further, and hurting them in the process.

“Messy” doesn’t even begin to describe the world I lived in during these recent months.

And in this time… I haven’t known how to share it, or how to erase the stigma in my own head and allow myself to talk about what’s happened and how it’s changed me. Because the truth is… even now, I still can’t.

Four months later and I am still unravelling the chaos of my head. I am still sorting out the difference between reason and fault… still trying to understand the chain of events that led me to where I was, and where I now am. I am still trying to justify my roles and my actions, while accepting that in some cases I am a victim and I need to work through and understand why certain things played out the way that they did.  

For four months I’ve tried to sort out more than a decade of confusion, unhealthy beliefs, and conflicting emotions. For four months I’ve thought about suicide as an answer, an end, or a release. For four months I’ve isolated myself against close relationships, torn apart my previous knowledge of my own mental health issues, and worked through grief, trauma, and pain. For four months, I’ve isolated myself… and yet maintained my composure, my work ethic, and my outward appearance.

I’ve used the word FINE on a regular basis.

I’ve smiled, and I’ve laughed. And the entire time I’ve felt like a fraud.

Today I was thinking about suicide. Not my own, but the many cases I’ve heard or read about recently, the times I’ve listened to stories, pain, and grief surrounding the death of someone by their own hand. In the media we’ve seen stories appear – Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain the most recent celebrities to take their own lives.

I’ve read articles and comments, and I’ve talked one-on-one to others about suicide and its effects. I want to explain the other side. I want to explain what it feels like to be desperate enough to want to just end the pain.

But recently I can’t.

I can’t find the words. But I can find the feeling. I can’t describe it, but I can relate to it. I can feel it deep within my core when I hear about another person who has succumbed to the thoughts in their head… the pain… the desperation.

And I’m sad. And it hurts.

Because our stories are all so different… but that one thing that we all have in common, is that we just want it to end.

It will be four years in November since my last major suicide attempt. And right now, I feel okay… strong enough to make it through the darker days… and strong enough to reach out if I need it. But I would be lying if I told you it was easy, or that suicide didn’t still enter my mind on occasion, or that I was on a steady uphill climb.

I want to say that talking about it honestly and openly has made it easier… but it hasn’t. And I’ve hidden. I’ve been ashamed. I’ve been embarrassed. Again? Really? Shouldn’t I be over this by now? Shouldn’t I be further along in my journey? Shouldn’t I just shut up, move forward, and keep going; just like everyone else? I think these thoughts and I retreat further. I spend time online or on social media – and I read statements that further this belief.

And then I remember why I talk about it. I remember the freedom. I remember the isolation lifting. I remember the controlling hold that depression has, and the way it's grip loosens when I open up. I remember how it changes me to actually open up and speak out. It's never easy... But it's alnost always worth it. 

I want to keep talking about it. I want to reach out and let anyone else who is struggling know that I’m here, and I’m ready to talk – without judgement or shame. I want to tell those of you who don’t experience these thoughts that you can reach out too… you can ask me questions, you can ask me what it’s like, or what thoughts go through my head... you can ask me why, or why I don't think about others in this state. You can ask me about my kids or my family. You can ask me about the path that put me here, and how I found and continue to find my way out. I want to be a light, a spark, or a hope, for someone struggling and debating the answers themselves right now. I want them to know that there is more. The journey is long... but it's worth it. I want to share my own journey and the life I've been granted following the darkness. 

I want to share... and I want others to know that they can share openly with me, or with friends, or with family. 

Because I know.

I’ve been there. I’m sometimes still there.

And it’s okay. You don’t have to be fine. You don’t have to be alone.

We will get through it. 

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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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Suicide - A Part of My Vocabulary

“Borderline individuals are the psychological equivalent of third-degree-burn patients. They simply have, so to speak, no emotional skin. Even the slightest touch or movement can create intense suffering.”

--- Marsha Linehan

This is perhaps the most well-known quote about people who are diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder; and for me, the truth of it hits me like a bag of bricks every single time that I read it.

When I was first diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), I challenged it a little bit, unwilling to accept it as a diagnosis until I did all of the research surrounding this condition. What I researched scared me… but what I realised while researching scared me even more.

I do in fact have BPD. I no longer question this, and through a series of therapy groups and individual counseling, along with constant research, and monitoring of my own behaviours, I can honestly say that I am slowly starting to see a diminishment of the outward symptoms.

Unfortunately though, as a person who struggles with BPD, my brain was rewired at a young age, and as a result these intense emotions, while more easily managed for the most part, will always exist in the extreme. While I may appear to be solid and strong and confident on the outside, it could feel internally like I am being tortured; the pain excruciating and all consuming.

This past week I had a breakdown – the first serious one in quite some time. And while it was reflective of a host of issues that I struggle with, the BPD and the intensity of emotion I experienced almost hit a psychosis of sorts, with emotions so extreme that I wanted to die both during and after the breakdown. Literally.

Over the past week, I have struggled in depth with suicidal thoughts and ideation. I have made plans and I have called friends. I have texted my feelings, and I have hidden away in my bedroom. I have spoken and specifically checked in with my support team because I know that in a second of extreme pain, reason disappears and all that I have left is this need to end my life.

I wanted to share some statistics, however doing a quick search led me to too many different sets of numbers. So instead I will share what I do know from my own personal life, and conversations that I have had with friends, family, and professionals over the last several years:

-          BPD individuals are often labelled as difficult, sometimes even refused treatment due to the extremes that we experience. Early on in my diagnosis, I was turned away from the emergency room when I was having suicidal thoughts. A time when I should have been treated with compassion was turned to guilt and shame when I showed up, completely distraught and thinking that I was making a good choice. Thankfully that was the only time, and thankfully I had a family, and enough of a basic support system to carry me through, but the stigma of that visit, where I was treated poorly, has stuck with me.

-          BPD individuals have an extremely high rate of suicide attempts AND completion. This is known, and for me the suicidal ideation can click into place in a moment’s notice. It is as though life twists, changing your perception, your logic. Sound reason simply does not exist… nothing does except for ending your pain. You are not the same person that you were previously - even just five minute before the trigger hit.

-          BPD is the elephant in the medical community’s room. When I found a new family doctor, the first thing that he told me was that he knew very little about mental illness and the medications used in its treatment – specifically the treatment of BPD.

-          BPD can be treated through therapy, and while the feelings may not disappear, they can be managed.

-          BPD is terrifying for family and friends who are close to you. I have threatened suicide. I have attempted suicide. I have left the house with nowhere to go, no money in my pockets, and once in the middle of winter, with no shoes on my feet. I have experienced emotions come from out of nowhere to verbally attack friends and family, and I have terrified my kids with worry over whether or not I would be coming home. I have 'split' apart from the put together wife, mother, and individual with clear thoughts and reasonable thinking; to become a raging woman, with no sense of time, logic, or space - intent on destroying myself, and convinced beyond a doubt that it is the best decision that I could possibly make. 

For the most part – I’m pretty open about my struggles. I want to encourage anyone reading this to ask me any questions that they might have, and I will gladly answer you to the best of my ability - asking questions, talking, and being open are the only way to end the stigma attached to mental illness and specifically BPD. But I want to ask you a question as well… something that came up in a recent conversation with a friend.

     Would you get me the help I needed if I reached out to you?

     What if I didn’t reach out, but for some reason I was acting abnormally?

     What if I specifically threatened to harm myself?

     What if it was your child? Your parent? Your spouse?

     Would you even know who to call or what to do?

Many years ago, I was struggling with the thoughts of being mentally unstable. The only thing that I knew for sure was that I could handle it… I wasn’t one of those people who struggled with mental illness. Outside of my own fear and shame, my husband, friends, our Pastor… nobody knew exactly what to do when I fell down this rabbit hole. Questions floated through the air – do I call the police? Do I insist that she speaks to someone? Do I just sit and watch her self-destruct?

The one answer I can give… it is not always your responsibility to keep me safe; but I sure do appreciate it when you do.

Two years ago, I remember being incredibly angry when my counselor told my husband to call the police. I was fuming when I was first brought in to the emergency room and admitted… I wasn’t sick. I hated the hospital. I was hurting and in pain. But had I not been forcibly taken in – I would have harmed myself, possibly for the last time.

That’s how I know the answer to my own questions. That’s how I know that I will help you every single time… whether you choose to love me for it or hate me. Life. Suicide is the one mistake that cannot be undone, and I can write this today because I was stopped from killing myself. I was found following an overdose. I was grabbed and pulled back from jumping at the last second. I was dragged to the hospital on multiple occasions because I was sick… I was not thinking clearly… I was unable to make the choices to help myself, and I know that I would have made the choices that would have harmed myself.

Today I still struggle with BPD. I still struggle with severe depressive episodes as part of the bipolar disorder. Suicide is not a foreign word in my vocabulary and I want to give it to you as well.

I want to say it loud and clear. Suicide. I want to encourage you to talk about it… to face the question of what would you do if a friend presented with suicidal ideation or warning signs. What if it was you… or your spouse or your child or your parent or your friend? I want to encourage you to ask each other – ask when you’re well, and know what to look for within a friend who struggles… ask those questions now, listen to their answers – develop a plan in case you are ever presented with this serious crisis, and if needed – don’t ever be afraid to call for help. 

* I want to add on that I in no way hold anyone accountable for the choices that I make when I am in an unstable state of mind. This post's intention was merely to open up the conversation surrounding such a sensitive topic, that is often whispered about in corners, or behind closed doors. Shame and stigma will not end if we don't talk about it, and I encourage you to leave a comment, share a story, or simply speak to a friend about this important topic. 

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The Days After, The Day After

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

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

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

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

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

Thankfully, things turned out okay.

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

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

Over the course of three days I unraveled completely.

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

Today. Friday. I am not good.

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

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

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

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

After all, I was okay.

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

Today I realized that I am not the same.

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

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

These are the days after, the day after.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Day After

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is the hardest part of a mental breakdown.

The day after.

It's Today.

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

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

This is where I'm at.

This is the journey. 

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