A Different Kind of Crazy

Yesterday was April 16th and around the world, people struggling with depression and thoughts of suicide drew semi-colons on their wrists in a display of strength. We will beat this, they said. We won't let our story end. 

A semi-colon is used when an author could have ended a sentence, but didn't. Pause, it says; but keep going. 

White ink tattoo, to match my scars. #semicolonproject416

Mental illness runs in my family. I've seen how it tears at a person's emotions and leaves them feeling like they are not quite themselves. I've seen how medication helps, or doesn't. How it makes a person feel numb, empty. Or how medication lulls them into a sense of security, and then leads them to believe because they are better they no longer need it, and then they stop taking it and everything falls apart again until they start taking it again. Repeat ad nauseam. Or how, when the right person finds the right medication and the right dosage, it works exactly as intended and helps maintain balance, normalcy. 

I've never taken medication for my depression. Honestly, I'm scared to. Afraid of how it will make me feel. Afraid of getting the wrong medication, the wrong dosage and feeling (more) suicidal, maybe going through with it, or maybe just going back to self-harming like I did when I was a teenager. I've been able to suppress my depression with cognitive behavior therapy. Though I've never seen a therapist. (My mother's admonition, though I am now an adult with my own healthcare plan, runs through my head: "We can't afford that, Kate.") 

I've seen the way emotions flood through a person, and all logic and rationality leave their bodies like steam from a kettle. I know how it feels to want to control everything, everyone and the frustration of not being able to. I've felt the possessiveness, the jealousy. That was me, once upon a time. But not anymore.

"I won't ever behave like that," I tell myself. The lashing out, the paranoia, the inflated self-importance. The criticism. The angry disappointment when someone lets you down, despite the insanely high expectations you had. It's not me, I say. "Oh, you have it too. Or you will," my brother warns me with a teasing smile. And I worry I do. But I won't. "My kind of crazy is different," I tell him. 

People can't let me down, because I expect nothing of them. I will never feel the inflated self-importance because I cannot see myself as important. The paranoia will never overcome me because nothing is really about me, not really, not ever. And that's okay. I don't need it to be. Our world is but a lonely pale blue speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark, and I am exponentially smaller. The things people say or do are not reflections of me or my self-worth; they are reflections of themselves. 

I'd like to believe myself incapable of the sort of sharp criticism that cuts another person down. I know the pain words can cause. The back-handed compliments that cause a young girl to feel ashamed of her body. Intended as a statement of jealousy, envy. Me, enviable? No, they must be mistaken. They must mean there is something wrong with me because I am different. I don't want to stick out, I don't want the attention. "Blend in, blend in." But no, that's not right either because I don't want to be the same. "Be unique, be you." But who am I? I am but a reflection of my environment. I am not Me in that environment. So I run away. 

There's a picture of me from high school graduation, parents flanking me with proud smiles. They see an accomplished young lady, beautiful, with her whole life ahead of her. She is not Me. When I look at that picture, I see something entirely different. My smile is unconfident, my eyes sad. My white blouse clings to me too tightly, revealing too much cleavage and I'm underweight, unhealthy. I'd lost 25 pounds in two weeks that year because of depression -- anxiety caused my stomach to churn at every meal I sat down to, food was unappealing -- and I was struggling to fight the urge to self-harm, my coping method when I had first started high school. The future was opaque to me. Where was I going? What would I do? I had no idea. It was a challenge just to make it through the day. I saw no future for that girl in the photo.

My family shielded me from the truth of a lot of things. As if I needed protected. Am I that fragile? Is it written somewhere on my face like a parcel? Fruh-jilly, we used to say, the faux-French pronunciation. But I am not a delicate flower. I am strong. I battle my mind every day. No one would know it. People see me as a dog, the kind who gets kicked but keeps coming back, tail wagging low, scared but hopeful. But I am assertive. I stand up to that little voice in my head that tells me I'm not good enough and I tell it to shut the fuck up. 

I've said that same phrase to my husband on more than one occasion -- in a shrill voice not my own -- so maybe I'm not as immune as I think. Maybe I am not a different kind of crazy. I am capable of lashing out. But as soon as I see that happening, I run away. I've always run away. It used to be only after issuing ultimatums and threatening break-ups. Now I run before. For one, because now I can see it coming: the rage, the overreacting. For two, because my husband told me early on, "I won't chase after you. And if you threaten to leave me, you better just do it and never come back because I won't put up with those games." So when I feel that bubbling underneath, when I hear those words becoming shorter and sharper, when I start to lose rationality, I run and I hide in a closet, or I walk alone around the neighborhood, fuming until my head returns. 

My collage graduation photo is different. My parents flank me again, looking proud but there's something else in their faces too -- a sort of bewilderment. As if thinking, Who is this person? My smile is a little crooked, but wide. My pupils are dilated -- I'm a bit out of sorts, overstimulated, but it's okay. It happens sometimes when I'm in big crowds or when there's a lot of sensory input going on around me. And I know how to deal with it. I just need a little time alone; time to reflect and regroup. My parents still saw an accomplished young lady, beautiful, with her whole life ahead of her -- just as they saw that high school graduate. But this time they're not quite sure how she got here, or where she's going, what she'll do. And truth be told, I didn't know either. But that was okay. I still don't know, and it's still okay.

The future is wide open. Every day is full of choices, decisions to be made. Each one of those decisions as a collective make up your life. When I was younger, each day was a challenge to get through. But I made decisions that got me through, one way or another. Then I began making decisions that made getting through it a little better -- saying kind words to myself, connecting with people who understood me, cutting out negativity. Each decision is a choice, and I chose life. 

Whatever you need to do to stay strong, make that decision. Pause; but keep going.

Everyone's Battle Is Different

I am a successful, contributing member of society, approaching thirty years of age. But there was actually a time in my life when I couldn't see myself living past 20. I remember remarking to myself on my 21st birthday that I'd made it farther than I ever thought and wondering how much longer I could go on. By then, a lot in my life had changed for the better. Things were good and I still had these terrible thoughts in my head. Since then, I finished college. I studied writing, an outlet for my passion and creativity, as well as a source of therapy. Since then, I found a loving, supportive man who loves me not despite all the darkness inside of me but because of it — and then I proposed to him and we got married. Since then, I've moved out of that house that reminded me of such a bad time in my life, and out of that town that held so many memories of people I'd rather forget, where everywhere I turned was a ghost of my past. I made a career with the same company I joined when I was 16 years old, moving my way up the corporate restaurant ladder. Oh, and I still occasionally do that thing I got my degree in.

How did I get here? as the Talking Heads would ask.

A friend told me today, "I'm proud of you for overcoming everything you've gone through in your life." I love her and I am truly fortunate to have people like her in my life who know what depression can do to people and who understand that everyone has a struggle. But I don't feel strong or brave. I look at people who overcome cancer and I think they are strong. I look at people who overcome sexual assault and I think they are strong. I look at soldiers to live with PTSD and I think they are strong. Those people have overcome. Those people have gone through worlds more that I have. For me to sit here and talk about my depression as if I've been through something traumatic is just pathetic. It's whiny bullshit, isn't it?

There's always a bigger fish. There will always be people with bigger problems, more righteous anger, or more serious issues. I can't cry because that shows weakness. If I talk about my problems, I'm asking for pity. If someone notices my scars, I cut myself for attention. I don't want any of these things. I would rather slink into a dark corner and die alone. How do I dare talk about my problems when so many people are going through or have overcome so much more than I have? 

That's the problem with the mental health stigma: that feeling of guilt and shame that accompanies any conversation regarding ones own problems. But everyone's battle is different. Someone out there is going through the same things I did. The struggle of the middle-class white kid stuck in a small town with demons in her head telling her she'll never be good enough, but knowing that it could be a hell of a lot worse, and knowing that doesn't make her feel a damn bit better. I have to keep reminding myself that this is why I am writing this: for her.

I'm still trying to figure out how exactly I made it this far. Identifying the tipping point isn't easy. I didn't just wake up one day and regain control of my life. There were baby steps that I took to get there. Positive affirmation was the biggest factor. But it was a journey worth writing about, so I will gather my thoughts on it and compose something at a later date. 

For now, I'll leave you with a final thought. It's National Suicide Prevention Week. There are people out there in the world who see suicide at such a foreign idea. They wonder how anyone could ever think that it is a reasonable solution to their problems. (It's not.) I hope those people recognize how fortunate they are and attempt to reserve their judgments. I have a wonderful life and I know that people would never guess it, but there are still days that I wish I wasn't alive. And considering the astounding 350 million people around the globe that have depression, if you aren't one of them, I guarantee there are friends and family of yours who have the same dark thoughts come creeping into their minds. So what can you do to help? Show them you care. Listen when they talk. Call them up or send a message. Ask what's wrong when they seem upset. Give them time to answer and don't be surprised if they have trouble articulating it. Don't pretend to know how they feel and don't make it about you. Just be there. And let them know how important they are to you. 

And if you are one of those 350 million? Talk about it! The only way we can help each other understand how common mental health issues are is to start talking about our own battles. Tell people what it's like to live an hour in your head. Speak out (with compassion) when you hear someone saying they don't get it and help them understand. And catch yourself when you start to judge someone you deem "crazier" than you. 

Finally, I know calling hotlines is weird and scary, but seriously, if you are at the end of your rope, if your situation has become so desperate that suicide is your last resort, I'm begging you to please at least call these folks first: National Suicide Prevention Lifeline — 1-800-273-8255.

I have scars, but I. Am. Alive.

I first cut myself when I was 15 years old. I remember the day very well because it was Valentine's Day and I was sitting on a stranger's house in a trailer park while my Loser Boyfriend got stoned. The room was filled with smoke and their eyes were so chinked that no one noticed when I found some random person's pocketknife and dragged it across my wrist. I could think of a thousand more romantic ways to spend such a holiday with the boy to whom I'd given my virginity just a month prior. Depressing, yes. But symptomatic?

Though that was the first time I had cut myself, it certainly wasn't the first time I'd felt so empty inside. I lived in a small ranch-style house with a big backyard for the first 5 years of my life. I have very few memories of that house, but one that stands out is this: I'm sitting on the edge of the patio watching as my brother plays with a couple other boys, our neighbors. I don't mind being alone, I actually prefer it. But I just wish I didn't feel so lonely.

There is a voice inside my head and it is my enemy. It tells me that I'm not good enough. I'm not smart enough. I'm not pretty enough. And more than anything, I am alone. It's a dirty fucking liar. That voice has been my constant companion for as long as I can remember.

Sitting in the smoke-filled trailer, I told myself, "No one will ever love you," as I dragged the knife across my arm. It had little to do with my Loser Boyfriend and everything to do with myself, my own self-worth. I didn't love me.

I soon found that razor-blades worked better than pocketknives. They made precise little slits into my flesh, nearly as thin as a paper cut. We had a box-cutter in the garage and the little razors that come inside them were perfect. I nearly always cut on my forearm. I would fashion them to look like scratches and when people asked, I'd tell them my cat did it. I'd never owned a cat. When too many people started questioning me, and one or two accused me of doing it for attention, I started wearing long-sleeves all the time, even in summer. I remember bleeding through my shirt in the dead heat of summer at the beginning of my sophomore year of high school and screaming in my head, "Why hasn't anyone noticed?!" I desperately wanted someone to look me in the eye and say, "I know you're going through hell in your own mind. I'm here for you." Or maybe, "You are not alone. I've been there. It gets better."

Pause; but keep going. #semicolonproject

The blood gave me a release. I had all this pain inside of me and I couldn't comprehend it. No one could see it, not even me. If I can't see it, is it even real? Having something to look at, something to see and say, "This. This is what ails me. This is my suffering." I could count them. Sometimes I would name them to myself, a reminder that it's not all in my head. "This one is for when I missed that pop fly in the outfield, this one is for not doing the dishes right and making Mom yell at me at 6am, this one is for when I went ahead with him even though I didn't really want to." It wasn't just that voice in my head making things up. There were actual instances of my numerous failures and shortcomings. I wasn't simply wallowing in my misery.

I think the worst it got was when I brought a razor blade to school with me because I didn't think I could make it through the day without either having a panic attack or cutting myself. I don't remember why I was particularly anxious that day, but I just knew I couldn't make it through without it. I tucked the blade in my sock and felt it rub my ankle all day. Under my desk, I crossed my ankle over my leg, wielded the razor, and made small slices in the flesh of my leg.

My best friends finally spoke up. What had taken them so long? I wondered. "You're scaring me," Shelby told me with tears in her eyes. "I don't want you to hurt yourself. I love you. Please stop. Please, for me if not for yourself." I choked up and nodded, grateful that someone in my life cared. Cared enough to cry over me hurting myself. And she didn't even know about my thoughts of suicide (pills, maybe?) or my frequent wish that I'd never been born.

My Loser Boyfriend finally said something too. He told me he'd break up with me if I cut myself again. That only made me feel guilty about it, which made me hate myself even more. And the hatred made me want to cut more and when I cut, I knew I was disappointing my friends and my boyfriend. Such is the vicious nature of the cycle. Finally, he tried a different approach. He convinced me to tell my parents, to try to get help. Recognizing the loop I was stuck in, I agreed.

My dad was away on a hunting trip when I decided to tell my mother. Maybe she was having a bad night, or maybe I picked the wrong time to unload on her, without my dad there to support her. Whatever the reason, she did not take the news well. My Loser Boyfriend sat quietly by my side as I cried and confessed to my mother that I had been cutting myself and that I thought I needed to see a therapist. I wasn't expecting a tearful embrace or any sort of consoling. But I also was not expecting the cold, uncompassionate response I received. "Why are you telling me this?" she asked. "Why now? Of course you want to talk to someone. Everyone in the world would love to have a therapist to listen to all of their problems. We can't afford that." I cried and begged her to understand. It wasn't just normal teenage angst, I insisted. I lifted my sleeves and showed her the cuts. "I will not walk on eggshells because you feel sad," she declared, slamming the book on the conversation. I was devastated.

I realized then that it would be up to me to pull myself out of this. Luckily, I grew up with the world at my fingertips, as long as I had the patience to wait for the dial-up modem. The internet has been a constant resource, offering stories of people who had been there, who traveled down that dark tunnel with nary a light at the end, and who had made it out the other side. It is my hope now that I can do the same for others searching for hope.

You are not alone. It gets better.

I have scars, but I. Am. Alive.

More to come...