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?

The house guest

I could see it coming. I've gotten very good at spotting it lurking around the edges of my brain. Oozing into the folds of thought. Depression has claimed me once again. The "house guest", as my household calls it, has moved back in. 

I white-knuckled my rational brain through Monkey's surgery knowing that he needed me to be present and able. Thankfully, his recovery has been so uneventful and rapid that I wasn't needed for very long. As soon as he didn't need me I crumbled. Monkey and Author could see it coming too so they were ready for it, though hoping for the best. 

I used to be almost paralyzed with fear when I saw the darkness coming to swallow me. Now I feel like a person preparing for a bad weather. Put up the storm windows and check the flashlights. I can't stop it once it has begun to build but at least now I'm able to lessen the impact while I weather the storm. 

I've started on yet another new medication. Will this one help? More importantly, will it keep working for more than a year or so? There is no way to know. Psychiatry is full of very educated guesses. No one knows exactly how or why these medications work or don't work for some people. It is like juggling when some balls are invisible and you don't know how many there are. But I have try because the other option is to live in this darkness and I just can't accept that. 

One pill forward, two pills back

I have been trying to manage my chronic pain in ways that don't leave me zonked out 24/7. I've tried a specific old-school antidepressant that helps pain sometimes. I'm already on a couple other meds to manage my mental health so it had to be a balanced add-on since it could go toxic on me. As we increased the dose some of my nerve pain did go away. Great, right? Everything comes with a price. The last increase has made 3 hour afternoon naps a regular thing (along with a full night sleep) and it has become very obvious that it has increased my appetite, making my binge eating disorder more difficult to control. Fab. Just as I was thinking this med wasn't quite balancing out on the pro/con sheet I got a mildly frantic message from my doctor's office. Getting a mildly frantic message from your doctor's office...ON YOUR BIRTHDAY...is no way to round out the day. After a little phone tag I was told that my levels were too high on my last blood test and that the med could be moving into toxic levels. I needed to decrease today. Great. The thing about antidepressants is you can't just stop taking them. You need to slowly decrease. So I'm slowly stepping down off this med and my nerve pain is showing up again. To be extra whiny about this I will say that with the returning nerve pain I also still have the negative side effects of taking the med.

I hurt, I am sleepy all afternoon, I can't seem to CBT* my way out of the Halloween candy, and I have no idea if my blood levels are still high enough to be toxic. Fan-fucking-tastic.

All whining aside, I know that I have plenty of other good options to try. I have great support from my household and have learned how to deal with my pain in other ways. I see my doctor this week and we will discuss what else is available to me. I actually feel positive about trying something new. But you got to get the whining out somewhere and the interwebs are a vast space in which to dump all that whine!

*CBT: Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. A type of behavior modification that has proven effective in dealing with any unwanted behavior...like emotional eating.

Remembering Mom

Six years ago today my mother committed suicide. She felt trapped, hopeless and completely helpless to change her situation. My mom was in so much pain, physical and psychological, that death seemed the only option.

I'm not going to pretend my mom was all wonderful. She had her faults. We didn't get along and she sure as hell fucked me up in some ways. I still have some pretty strange body image issues and "work through the pain" ideas that are completely hers. However, she also taught me to be independent and strong. She accepted and loved me when I came out as queer, supported my polyamorous relationships and could care less if I made a lot of money as long as I was happy. All things considered, she wasn't horrible, just a flawed human being like the rest of us.

She thought that her death wouldn't matter. She thought I wouldn't care if she killed herself. She thought that my brother and I would be better off without her. I think a lot of people who attempt/commit suicide think that. It is NEVER true. Her suicide is a horrible legacy that she has left my brother and I. It will always be a part of us now. Not just her death but the fact that she took her own life, choosing to leave T and I behind to deal with the confusion, guilt, feelings of betrayal and anger that is part of every suicide survivor's inheritance.

As some one who has suffered with clinical depression all my life I know how tempting the though of suicide can be. What always stopped me was the thought of how it would effect the people who I left behind. I couldn't do that to my mom, my brother, my friends and lovers. Now that I know first hand what if feels like to be the one left behind I wish I could prevent it from happening to anyone ever again.

So this is in the memory of my mom, Colleen, and in honor of all of us that were left to pick up the pieces after a loved one commits suicide.

If you are considering suicide please hear me when I say that it isn't your only option. Somethings can be fixed, somethings can heal. You can and will feel better than this someday. Some one cares about you even if you don't realize it. Reach out and get help. Please try.

GET HELP!
Global: International Association for Suicide Prevention has information for crisis centers all over the world.

In the US: National Suicide Prevention Lifetime or Call 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

In Canada: Centre for Suicide Prevention

Leaves fall and I fall with them

I have major depressive disorder. When you look at my family history it is pretty easy to assume that a good chunk of this disorder is a result of a bad roll of the genetic dice. I don't process serotonin and dopamine in ways that keep my mood generally stable.

Depression is cyclical with me. Late fall and winter are the hardest times. This was made even worse with the anniversary of my mom's suicide landing on December 1st. I was hoping with the amazing success of my latest drug therapy and the changes in my life that I would escape my usual Fall/Winter depressive episode. No such luck. Of course, some of this is situational. The issues with infertility and the impending unsatisfied ending of my ttc journey is a huge stressor that isn't making the season any easier. We are also trying to clean up our finances and that isn't any fun no matter what the season. In general though, my life is very good. "The house guest", as Monkey and Author call my depression, doesn't seem to care that things are generally good. My mind is a funny ol' place right now. And though it is not nearly as bad as it was this time last year, I'm still struggling.

Who are you?

There is a common argument against psychiatric medication that we are using them to change people's personality. I hear it over and over again "I don't want to pop a pill to change who I am." (In fact, I heard almost exactly that on the latest episode of Glee.) My partner, a Psych Nurse Practitioner, hears this from his patients constantly. I never really understood this argument because I never experienced a huge change in behavior from taking psych meds....until now.

I've always identified more with the dark places. I've always been pessimistic. My music and art of choices tended to be more about the emotional agony that life sometime contains. I've even, without really admitting it, leaned toward the stereotypical dark-colored clothing. I never celebrated these aspects of myself. I knew that a huge part of my affinity to this kind of stuff was my faulty biochemistry. I did accept it though, assuming that nothing could ever change it.

It seems I was wrong. My latest psych drug therapy, along with a good dose of cognitive behavioral therapy, has started to show signs of changing my taste in some things. I've started buying and wearing bright colors. I own a teal hoodie now and a growing collection of bright spring-colored t-shirts. I've also found my usual goth/industrial/angry punk music to be getting less rotation. Instead, I've created a Daft Punk station on my online radio that plays a constant mix of electronic dance music. (My fave has been Daft Punk's Tron Legacy soundtrack.) I enjoy doing yard work. I look forward to sunny days. I smile more. I'm more likely to think things will work out rather than believing every situation will crash and burn. (The one great exception is ttc/infertility. No amount of pills or therapy can lessen the pain of 4 1/2 years of trying to get pregnant and continuing to fail.)

So am I going to be one of those people who say that the pills changed who I am? HELL NO! I've got a bold line between my disease and my identity. I still wear my black t-shirts, choose skull patterns in decor, enjoy a good rain storm and Nine Inch Nails will never leave my iPod, ever. There is room for change and growth in my interests. That room wouldn't exist without the meds and the therapy. My teal hoodie is a trophy of successfully managing my illness. My veggie patch in the yard will be my own kind of victory garden.

This is who I am. This is who I was meant to be if my brain biochemistry hadn't gone haywire. I'm a skull button on a teal hoodie. I'm blue-haired, freckled, kinky, hippie, freak armed with knitting needles and a belief that I can change the world for the better just by being healthy.

(Glee fan side note: I was rather impressed that Glee went on to draw the same line I do between identity and illness. Yay for talking about and properly addressing mental illness without shame.)

Those left behind.

When you lose some one to suicide the news of another suicide, if you know the person or not, brings up the emotions of the original loss. (Background: My mom committed suicide in December 2005.)

Sadly, it has happened twice since she died. The first time was a year after her death. We were regulars at a family owned and run coffeehouse in our neighborhood. They shut down for a week and we found out then that one of their adult sons had committed suicide. I had never met this man but it doesn't matter. Suicide is always a tragedy, whether you know the person or not. A couple weeks later I overheard another son, who worked regularly at the coffeehouse, telling the story of his brother's death to a friend of the family while sitting in the cafe. I started to cry thinking of the pain my brother and I went through with our mom's death and knowing that this family was going through the same thing.

It has happened again and I am feeling the same heartache. This time the person is on the other side of the world. I never met him or even ever replied to anything he said on social media but I followed one of his twitter accounts because he was funny, snarky and a part of the Nine Inch Nails fan community. He attempted suicide a couple months back and tweeted his goodbyes before doing it. It triggered a world-wide response from his NIN fan friends, some of whom knew local family that could act. He was found and saved. He seemed to be getting better. The word has gone out in the community that he succeeded in killing himself two days ago. Watching the community respond with confusion, sadness and anger is like watching my thoughts from my mom's death scroll by on Twitter.

You never really heal from a friend or a family member committing suicide. It is always a part of you. My heart aches for this man's children, his family, his friends and the whole close-knit NIN community. We are all scarred when some one commits suicide.

If you have stumbled on this post and are in a dark place please get help. Go here: www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org or call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255). It is free and always available. If not for yourself then for the people who love you and, trust me, some one loves you. There is hope on the other side of depression. I've been there, I got help, I found a way out of the darkness. You can too.

If you lost some one to suicide and want to talk to people who understand I suggest here: www.afsp.org. It continues to help me deal with the issues that come up about my mother's suicide. You never really get over it but you can learn to make peace with being one of those left behind in the aftermath of suicide.

Hey? Where'd you go?

Okay, so a small plea made me stick around the dreaded LJ for the rest of 2010. What can I say, I'm a sucker for a plea from a pregnant boy who was only going to post about his baby's birth locked to friends on LJ. I had to follow up with that. But now the dear boy's little one is passed the squishy 4th trimester part, where they look a little like bubble gum and act a bit like luggage that can eat, poop and cry. That is where I step off. So I'm back to the blog I intended to start so long (okay only about 8 months) ago.

Getting up to speed:

1)Donor boy proves too busy and non-communicative to accommodate a four day fertile window. Last cycle was last straw.

2)Taking a break from current donor boy to look for new sperm guy.

3)Started dealing seriously with food issues. Doing Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) for disordered eating and joined WW to deal with weight. (Lost 20lb so far.)

4)My depression is finally well-controlled, revealing a problematic anxiety disorder. I'm like a mental illness parfait! Dealing with that now...slowly.

Still not pregnant. Still angry about that. Still fat but getting less so. Still a housequeer and boy wonder for my household. Still here.