Deadly Stigma

Growing up I had a couple teacher brave enough to try to get me the help I needed for my obvious depression and anxiety. If I had been failing or had been disruptive in class they would have had "reason" and backing of administration but I was a "good" kid. But I was so obviously hurting that these people reached out and tried to get my resistant and often angry mother to see I needed help. All she could see was the stigma. I don't blame her. That was all most other people can see most of the time. In her own way, she was trying to protect me. It almost killed me. In the end her fear of the stigma of mental illness killed her.

The stigma of mental illness is so strong people who care about me will sometime try to separate me from it. "We all have depression sometimes" they will say. Or "Depression is different" meaning different from those other mental illnesses...those 'crazy' ones, like bipolar or schizophrenia. Let me tell you, people, it isn't different. The stigma of mental illness effects us all. The stigma that is applied to a person with schizophrenia will apply to a person with depression. It will interfere with both getting the medical help and social support they need. The stigma of mental illness and the stigma of persuing help for mental illness kills people. It destroys lives. It is the stigma that makes it okay for insurance comanies to under-insure thier mental health policies. It is the stigma that makes it okay to ignore funding for community mental health services. It is the stigma that prevents more funding going toward researching the causes and early intervention of mental illness. 

I have chronic, debilitating depression and generalized anxiety disorder. I was like this as early as I can remember. I thought about suicide and death before I hit puberty. I didn't start getting any kind of treatment until I was 19 years old and I didn't get comprehensive mental health treatment until I was 25 years old. It is a combination of loving friends, pure luck and hanging by my fingernails force of will that I survived long enough to get the help I needed. I survived and continue to survive the stigma of mental illness.

So what is my point... Stop the stigma. Stop the stigma of mental illness in conversation. Talk about mental illness without shame. Stop the stigma in your own thoughts. Think about mental illness, see it as it is, as of our greatest global health challenges. Stop the stigma because, in my opinion, it isn't the mental illness that kills us. The stigma kills. 

The beauty of misplaced devotion

This post discusses adult themes and violence. Please do not read if you feel this would be unhealthy for you.


It was meant to be horrifying. For me, it was beautiful...and tragic. Of course tragic and insane...but still.... After I looked over at Author with my heart pounding and tears trying to build in my eyes and said "Am I completely fucked up for finding that amazingly moving?"

I'm talking about a scene from the tv show "The Following". It was in the episode titled "Welcome Home". I'm not going to explain the whole show here so if you don't know about it look it up. Also, spoiler alert if you haven't watched it and want to be surprised. Though it aired months ago so I think I'm safe from spoiling most interested parties.

In this particular scene, a devotedly submissive follower of the murderous cult fails, twice, at an important mission that has been entrusted to him from the leader himself. This guy is so completely committed to this leader that the only thing he can think to offer him as penance is his own life. The scene is done beautifully. The inner circle of followers are shocked and awed by what this man is offering for his failure. He tells the leader through tears that all he wants is for his life to mean something. He is implying that giving his life, his death, to this man whom he is devoted to will give his life meaning on a scale that he never could do on his own. Also, that this will release him of the pain and shame of his failure to accomplish his master's task. The leader takes this man's life, his gift, with the same grave respect that it was given. It is close and intimate. It is powerful. I was moved. It was a level of devotion that, as the submissive in 24/7 D/s, I can respect. Maybe, in my secret corner of my heart, I wish I could attain something like that level of devotion.

I know this is fiction. I don't worry that I'm falling into a twisted, morbid kind of fantasy version of D/s. In real life, this would be a criminal tragedy. In real life, I would call the cops on any dominant who ordered murder or suicide of their submissives or on any submissive who attempted these things with or without an order. I would be horrified at the manipulation of obvious mental illness. Yeah, yeah, yeah. All that stuff that shows I'm a generally well-adjusted person with a firm grip on reality and on the concept of ethical behavior.

But the fantasy....well...that is what stories are for, right?

The bottom line

In the USA we have this belief that you can achieve anything if you try hard enough. I was raised with the belief that, if you properly applied yourself, your smarts could get you what you wanted in life. In Western medicine there is a prevailing additude that a patient should pursue every avenue, regardless of the cost. Whether that cost is in money, overall health or quality of life. 

We are, at times, a truly stupid, short-sighted culture. Sadly, more often than not.

So much of my life has been about unlearning these beliefs. It has been the hardest unlesson ever. This time it is in the subject of infertility. Monkey and I have decided not to do the last two medicated cycles. We have decided to stop trying to get pregnant. We are "giving up" our babyquest.

I tried as hard as I could for six years. I applied every ounce of my brain power to books, studies, charts, and tracking. I tried alternative medicine...just about everything I could try. I looked to Western medicine with tests, medications and a minor procedure. Monkey and I always agreed that IVF wasn't for us. We don't think there is anything wrong about it just that it wasn't what we wanted. That said, I think if we had it offered to us for free (in money anyway) the temptation might have been too much for us to pass up. However, it is not free. Not free in money, risk to my health or my continued quality of life. 

And that was the bottom line really. I have devoted six years, nearly half the time Monkey and I have been together, to attempting to grow a fetus inside me. I'm done. I want to see what else life can be for us. We knew the success rates for unexplained infertility, with perfect cycles and obvious ovulation, and with how very long we had tried. The likelihood of those last two medicated tries resulting in a pregnancy were tiny. Not worth the mental and physical strain it would put me through. The only thing with better success, and not much better at that, was IVF. So, we quit. I quit, for my health, for my quality of life, for the chance at a different life than I imagined for us. 

Monkey thinks about private adoption. I am not thinking about anything. Adoption can be just as stressful and heart-wrenching as infertility, especially for alternative families like ours. I'm not ready to think clearly about diving into that. Right now we are rethinking possibilities for our life. We are...satisfied with our decision. Not happy about it but at peace with it, I think. Some days it still hits me like a knife in the heart. Some days I feel so light to be free from a horrible burden of constantly trying. It may always be that way. I'm okay with that.

Mental Illness is no party

On Saturday we had a party for Monkey's birthday. As an extrovert, this was as big a deal for him as the PS3 we got him. There was food, friends and games. 

I sat upstairs listening to the party. I cooked a ton of food and a special cake for the gathering, helped set up the house for guests and then ran upstairs before the first person arrived. I listened to the laughter and talking. Heard people praise my food and enjoy each other's company. I had zero interest in going down to join them. Actually, it was more like negative interest. I felt guilty for this. This is "anti-social" of me. This is "rude" and "inappropriate". That is what society and my upbringing tells me. What my brain tells me is "danger danger danger danger". This goes way beyond being an introvert. Thanks to Social Anxiety Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder and the up/down of my Clinical Depression I spent my spouse's birthday party ease-dropping, feeling guilty and anxious. Fan-fucking-tastic. 

The truth is it isn't my fault. The truth is that I was giving Monkey a great gift by taking care of myself so he could enjoy his party without worrying about me. The truth is there is nothing to feel guilty or ashamed of. I'm trying to remember that. I'm trying to learn that. I have an illness. The meds aren't working all that great so self-care is my only resource. 

I'm trying to accept that I have disabilities, that these aren't weaknesses or faults in character. I just wish I could have been there with Monkey. 

Isis' countdown

My oldest cat, Isis, is nearly 14 years old. I've been with her longer than I've been with Monkey. Last May we had a benign lump on her forehead removed. Last month we found another lump under her left shoulder and had it checked. I really didn't think anything of it. I thought it would be like the one on her forehead. It was bigger and growing faster but she isn't bothered by it at all. Well, it turns out to be a kind of connective tissue tumor that grows fast, sends out tendrils and difficult/impossible to get it all out. To take it out would mean cutting and digging out a large amount tissue from a relatively slender, small cat.  To top it off she has developed a quiet heart murmur that, in cats, is associated with heart disease. I had to make a decision. Do I put my elderly cat, who likely only has a year or so left on average, through an invasive surgery to remove a tumor that likely will return in about six months? Yeah, that is pretty much a no-brainer if you focus on quality of life rather than length. She will not be getting another surgery. The tumor will grow. Eventually it will make her shoulder uncomfortable. When she starts showing signs of pain or extreme discomfort I'll talk to the vet about ending her life.

I knew that she was nearing the end of her life. Indoor, well-cared for cats average 12-15 years. I've heard of much older cats but those aren't the average and I'm realistic about these things. But knowing now that I will likely have to euthanize her in the next six months to a year makes it a bit more on my mind.

Isis isn't our only geriatric pet, just the oldest. I know this is just the beginning of the next few years of our pet population decreasing in the house. I'm very much a realist when it comes to life and death of pets but I'm still feeling a little sad.

Under the blanket

I'm deep in my depression while I wait for my new meds to prove effective...or not. I'm spending good portions of my day under a fluffy red blanket on my couch. I'm doing my best. I am surviving.

Rather than blather on in a less than entertaining way about my pointless sadness I shall direct you to one of the best, yet entertaining, blog posts on depression I have ever seen. Enjoy.

Hyperbole and a Half : Adventures in Depression

After that I suggest you wander around her backlog of posts. They are hilarious and wonderful.

It is illogical.

I am a very logical person. I like to think things through. I like steps, processes and formulas. I often write notes and to-do lists in outline format. (I don't speak in a logical way but that is a whole other story.) Even my creative endeavors, baking and knitting, are ones that follow logical steps along with a bit of instinctive direction. I am very proud and very attached to my ability to logically think things through.

I think it is because of this trait that I suffer more than necessary with my mental illnesses. There is nothing logical about what is happening in my mind. I'm sure that deep in the biochemical level there is a logically explainable dysfunction that will someday be discovered but that is my "brain" not my "mind". I have two minds, almost like two identities, during a depressive and/or anxious episode. One is the logical and reasonable mind that sees all the illogical feelings and reactions. It says "I am depressed and crying yet my life is very good. I have loving partners, good health care, all my basic needs are met, and I have a wonderful amount of extra comforts. This makes no sense whatsoever." My logical mind, however, is locked in a glass box by the raving emotional nut ball that is my depressive mind. I'm not even going to try to articulate what that part of my mind sounds like. My logical mind sees all the crazy spilling out but can do nothing to stop it. The medications, when they work, help quiet the crazy part of my mind and let my logical side take most of the control.

Right now, while I change and adjust my new medications, the crazy mind is more often in control. With therapy and a lot of self-care, I can get the logical mind in control for small parts of the day. I can be functional but only in short bursts and at great cost. The rest of the time crazy-mind is running the show. I'm trying to accept that. If I manage to accept that, during those times, logic will not be likely perhaps I would suffer less?