Not so Wordless Wednesday

I’ve always been a big fan of Wordless Wednesday and couldn’t wait to participate on my own blog.

Well, I now have a blog and it’s the first Wednesday since I started. So… where’s the picture right?

I’ve decided I’m going to do something a little different instead. I’m going to offer voice to something too many of us choose to keep quiet about. And it’s about time that bullshit stops.

I want to talk about mental illness.

Mental illness is painful, dark, often misunderstood and NOT talked about enough. Because it’s Mental Illness Awareness Week in Canada and since May is Mental Health Awareness Month in the States, I want to talk instead of being wordless today.

Family, friends, friends of friends, acquaintances, colleagues, people who's blogs I read… Mental illness has or still continues to affect a few people in each of these categories of people in my life. Some directly, some by association, some briefly and some… permanently. Mental illness also affects countless other strangers I encounter during the day. For the most part I don’t know who (though there is that girl at the local coffee shop that’s an obvious cutter). After all, we’re all pretty good at wearing masks when we need to; because anyone affected by it also knows shame and misunderstanding.

- Depression

- Bi-polar disorders

- Schizophrenia

- Schizo-affective disorders

- Psychosis

- Post partum depression

- Anxiety

- OCD

- PPD

The list goes on. You yourself have likely known a few of these illnesses in your own life too.

Yet we still don’t take mental health seriously enough or offer enough compassion. Often, we suffer alone and in silence.

My brother in law killed himself in 2004 he was bi-polar, my own father’s death in 1977 is shrouded in mystery – though my mother swears it wasn’t suicide, I have seen good friends – seemingly strong people buckle and crumble under the weight of depression. Yet I am still pretty silent about the importance of understanding mental illness. Not because I don’t believe it’s serious or ‘real’ – quite the contrary…

You see, I’m fighting my own battle. One I keep telling myself I can ‘get over’. One that makes me feel less human, less worthy. And well, just… less.

For the past 13 years, I’ve been battling depression, anxiety, a panic disorder and agoraphobia.

There. I’ve said it.

Don’t get me wrong, many people in my life know about it. Those closest to me know. A select group of people know a little bit. Many though, have no clue. Anyone that finds out is normally shocked there's anything wrong with me. I put up a good front. I hide it well. It's not exactly a badge of honour. It's more of a cross to bear, an affliction not worthy of having a medical term - it's invisible, and I know some people think that if I really wanted to, I could just ignore it and it would go away. Not a day goes by that I don't wish that were the case.

For the most part, I’m a hell of a lot better than I was back in 2000/01. Those were dark, terrifying days. I could barely leave the house. The list of phobias I accumulated grew by the day. I avoided just about everything and everywhere - shopping, parties, public transit, traffic, elevators, line-ups, escalators, theatres, bridges… I was suffocated by panic attacks. Dizziness, racing heart, feelings of impending death and complete loss of control were a daily occurrence – sometimes several times a day. I thought… if I could just be somewhere safe… if I could just be where someone could ‘help’ me… if I could just get out of here…

Home was a refuge for me. It held me tight in its safe embrace and protected me from myself. My home was my salvation. It was also my prison. I suffered silently. I kept thinking I could make it all go away. It had to be all in my head.

After an intervention of sorts – from a very intuitive friend (thank you Dennette, for saving my life. Really.) I finally got help. A diagnosis. A road to recovery. I did great on medication and soon, things changed drastically for the better and I got my life back; well, mostly…

I kicked the pills in 2003. The side effects SUCKED and I didn’t want to live my life on a prescription. I did fine for a while, but I’ve had some setbacks. None strong enough to make me want to go back to medication, but setbacks are starting to drive me crazy, so who knows.

I still fight some pretty nasty demons. I don’t have panic attacks very much anymore and I’m getting better at coping with them when I do. Mostly, I still exhibit some agoraphobic behaviour. It limits my life. I still hate driving places I don’t know well and flat out WON’T if I’m on my own… and worst of all? I avoid something that would do me a world of good – exercise. I know it sounds ridiculous, but once my heart rate starts escalating, I feel I’m spiraling out of control. I gasp for air, I feel terrified again. I don’t want to feel that again, I can’t bear it.

To give you an idea of what I’m avoiding exactly, you need to remember the most terrified you’ve been in your life. Seriously, really *think* about how your body reacted. OK… now imagine having those exact feelings for a few minutes (at any given moment and without logical reason) every.god.damned.day - for y-e-a-r-s. I can’t go back there. I can’t. It will kill me.

I wish this wasn’t my reality. I don’t want to have to go through this. I also don’t want to be ashamed of it anymore. I’m tired.

My therapist says I have similar pathology to post traumatic stress disorder and obsessive compulsive disorder which is part of the reason why I appear to be stuck. I’m trying mindful meditation and that’s helping a bit. I need to keep trying, keep fighting to be free of this; it’s debilitating. I WILL win this battle. It’s a slow road, but I’m doing ok. I'm otherwise happy, have a job I love and an incredible family that makes my heart sing. I’m confident I’ll be just fine. 

As long as I have love, patience, compassion and understanding from those around me I’ll keep looking for the courage.