It’s funny that the mental picture many get in their heads when hearing ‘psychiatric or mental issues’ is a padded room. Because I swore I was standing in one for years, there were days that room sounded far better then being in my own head.

This stage was, and to some degree still is, a huge part of my life. It’s the forbidden word, the one that we as society tries to avoid at all costs. Who can blame them, the highlight reels of the outside world are far more exciting then a topic such as this! 

So, depression, mental illness, psychiatric issues, a nut job, a lunatic – I don’t care what you want to refer to it as – it’s real. And it’s real in alot of other ways then that padded room. 

Josie was diagnosed at the age of 11. My parents never hid the fact that this was a concern. Not only was she treated by medication, but my parents made sure she had also had a therapist to talk through things. Depression is a word that I was very aware of growing up, but nothing I could personally relate too. It honestly never made sense to me. My mentality on the whole subject was ‘pick yourself up by your bootstraps, get over it and just be happy already!’ Then one day, I found myself standing on the opposite side of a fence I never understood, nor cared to ever understand. Once I was there – I instantaneously understood the physical and mental heaviness that so heavily bogged her down, both physically and mentally.

I remember standing in the kitchen while Nathan told me ‘you’re here, but you aren’t here, we need you here mentally just as much as physically.’ I remember thinking, yeah, no shit, I wish that was an option, but it’s something I can’t conceptualize at this point. From a physical standpoint, I had gained 40 pounds within a year – food became my safe haven. Aside from that, getting out of bed was SO much work, and being active was no longer in my vocabulary. I didn’t want to have to see a soul, including myself. I’ve never known mascara stained cheeks to be a trend, and that’s all that would happen if and when I did leave the house. The few times we would go out, I would find myself just standing there looking around thinking, I shouldn’t be here. I didn’t deserve to laugh or have fun. I’d find myself watching others doing just that and think ‘I wish I could do that and it come so naturally again.” No matter how many times I tried, like really tried to laugh or be fully engaged in a conversation, I couldn’t be genuinely engaged, every part of my mental body was a million miles away. The laugh wasn’t genuine, the conversation was surface, probably for both parties, because I’m sure others were unsure of what to say or how to say it. The only thing I could think about was her, how my life would never be the same, how I hated the person I was before this, especially my selfish ways, and yet how I so badly, to some degree, wanted to remember and be my old self again. It was a time of total and complete darkness.

By May of 2008 after suicidal thoughts, that I really don’t think would’ve been that hard to follow through on – I was admitted into the Generose outpatient program. It was the only option I had next to inpatient treatment. I was taken off of work for 6 weeks in hopes of regaining some sanity. That’s when my adventure with medications started, which only added to the weight gain and excessive sleeping at first, but at least when I was awake, I was a little more coherent. I believe most medications are a temporary bridge, there is only so much they are going to do, but the root of the problem often lies far deeper then that. I was directed to a Godsend of a Psychologist, Don Williams, who drastically impacted and seriously saved my life. He gave me insight on everything from suicide, to depression to parenting, to coping, while reiterating I wasn’t as crazy as I felt! (Always a nice reassurance, even if he was lying 😉 I began to look forward to our sessions, even if they were nothing but chronic breakdowns to start. They were my weekly ‘pick me up’ to get me through the next week, it was like a small load would be lifted from me each time I left.  After awhile the intense crying became a little less, but the topic was still repetitive. I remember telling him over and over, ‘I don’t know why I think these terrible things! I hate it, I know it isn’t right and I just want it to stop! It’s MY head, MY thoughts – I should be able to control them, I’M in charge of them! And, as always, his feedback was perfect. He would ask, ‘can a cancer patient make their tumor stop growing?’ Of course I looked at him like WTF does this have to do with anything!? He said ‘that’s the problem with society, everyone thinks it’s that easy, you just flip a switch and you can magically think differently. But this is a disease, just like cancer or heart disease. It’s the same as looking at that cancer patient and saying ‘it’s your body, make the tumor stop!’ It doesn’t work that way. I remember being awed, just like that, things made more sense. Isn’t it funny what we believe on account of what’s drilled into us? I was feeling so guilty for not being able to better control my mindset, but I was sick. Funny how things are viewed so differently isn’t it?

Don was my sounding board for years, he walked me through, step by step how to just survive by putting one foot in front of the other. That’s all it was for a long time, pure survival mode. It was like going back to the basics of teaching a child to eat, sleep and bathe on their own. I had to learn how important it was to shower and take 10 minute walks to try and clear my head, time to decompress, but not too much! I needed to start putting things back on my calendar, even if they didn’t sound the least bit enjoyable. Start wearing makeup and doing something with my hair before work. Things that used to come so easy to me, I was now having to be told to do. They worked – for awhile. But then I’d cycle back around again, needing another medication or dosage change. Fuck, when was I ever going to be normal again?! Better yet, was I even normal before? Did I even like the “me” before all of this? I had done such a good job hating that person, but I equally this one as well. Why can’t I just laugh, why is having fun so hard? Why can’t I be excited about things again? Why can’t I enjoy everything I have? Ready, set, walk…one .foot.in.front.of.the.other. They say slow and steady wins the race, and slow it was!

Continue reading Gluttony and Starvation

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