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. 

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. 

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?