Hope House

Finally more psych ward synopsis...

I woke up on Thursday morning (D-Day) to the sound of Ingrid singing softly. I was slightly disoriented as I rolled over to turn off my alarm. I looked around me and saw packed bags and empty walls. Where am I? Slowly, it was all coming back together and I remembered what was happening that day. In just a few short hours, I would be getting in a car to fly to California where I would be checking into a psych ward for an indeterminable number of days. It was all surreal and I still couldn't believe I was leaving for (what I thought would be) an entire month. As I was getting some last-minute things together (AKA throwing a box full of tampons into my suitcase because I totally forgot about hormones), my roommate, Natalie, was heading out the door. We had a quick goodbye and hug. I was immediately overwhelmed with the number of goodbyes I would be saying that day.

I was still adding last minute toiletries to my bag(s) when my phone began to ring. I knew it was JanaLe. My heart stopped for a second. This was that next moment. This was me taking the next step towards my new life. I was leaving behind my old, sorry life in Provo and hitting that stupid, red reset button (don't you sometimes wish there actually was a little, red reset button?). I stood up and something wet landed on my foot. It was a teardrop. I didn't even realize that I was crying. My roommates each grabbed a bag and I grabbed my blanket and purse. We walked out to Jan's car in complete silence. There she was, sitting in my parking garage, with a plastered-on smile across her face. I turned to my roommates and tried desperately to convey every emotion inside. Instead, it was just tears. Lots of tears. I said my goodbyes and parted with my last words of wisdom: "Make good choices. Write me. Call me. I love you. Listen to Ingrid. Be friends with Emily. Don't have sex. I will miss you. We do hard things." My roommates laughed while I listed off my last-minute advice. I couldn't help but laugh, too. Bekah suddenly started whispering my current favorite song- Ingrid Michaelson's "I am a Lady in Spain". The three of us laughed as we emotionally sang my favorite lines, a hobby that will never get old. Despite the laughter and smiles, tears continued to fall uncontrollably down my cheeks. I quickly gave each of them another embrace goodbye.

With that, I slid into Janale's car. I sobbed and she reached her arm around my shoulders. "Okay, Rach. I need gas so let's do that... and then we can go to Starbucks, okay?" I nodded because words were not possible at that point. We pulled out of the garage and rain began to pour down on us. I laughed a little. Even the sky was crying. JanaLe turned on her favorite song and said, "I love rainy Thursdays". That's Jan for you. She knows how to make you smile and how to ease a tense situation. Before hopping on the freeway, we quickly stopped in at Starbucks. It's funny because had I not known otherwise, I would have thought it was just any other day. Me and Jan just driving around and eating food :) But, I knew the truth and it wasn't just any other day. We were on our way to the flight that would change my life forever. With hot chocolate in hand, we began the hour-long drive towards Salt Lake. 

Like I said, Janale has a way with people. She doesn't know it, but she can make anyone happy. She has this ability to express love in a way that is rare. Her smile is contagious. It was a little strange to be having such a serious conversation with her as we drove. When small-talk and favorite songs were no longer enough to fill the silence, she finally asked the question I was anticipating: So... what happened? It was a question I had been trying to prepare for, and yet there was still no answer. I don't know what happened. One moment I was okay and the next I felt as if I was in the depths of despair. I had no hope and no reason to live. We talked and talked about it over and over. It didn't feel real. I kept trying to internalize my situation by repeatedly stating the obvious: "I'm going to the loony bin. I am literally checking myself into a crazy house. What am I freaking doing, Janale??" She shut that up really quick. "Rachel, stop it. I won't let anyone talk like that about my friends, even if it's about yourself. You aren't going to the loony bin. You're going to a hope house. That's what it is. You're going somewhere to give you back your hope. One day, I would love to open my own so I can save amazing people like you. Zack (her BF, now husband) can do all the counseling, and I will provide the ice cream therapy." Jan has this theory- no situation is ever made worse by eating ice cream. You're happy? Here, try some ice cream. You just bombed a test? Here, you can have ice cream, too. You're checking into a psych ward? Here, a bucket-full of ice cream for you. 

No matter how silly Janale can sometimes be (in the best way), she was right. It wasn't the end of the world. No, I wasn't going to California for a vacation, but I was going to gain something very valuable: hope. I was going to take a second to re-learn how to breathe. I was going to live in a hope house. I was going to have a reason to live again. I was finally going to be happy.

His Grace is Sufficient

Last week, I went for a drive with one of my friends in the Elementary Education program, Lashea. We finished classes for the day and went to grab a soda before moving onto the rest of our day. One of our professors let us out early because it was his last day of lecturing for the semester. He gave us this really incredible speech about juggling the priorities in our lives and how to not get overwhelmed as we enter the teaching profession. It was amazing and exactly what we all needed to hear (after many of us failed a super important paper for the semester. whoops).

Shea <3

Anyway, Shea and I were talking about this professor, Brad Wilcox, as we walked to her car. He is a literacy professor, but he also writes books, speaks for the LDS church, and teaches religion courses at BYU (along with all of his church work with seminary/institute, EFY, etc.). When I was a senior in high school, my laurel advisor (church youth group leader) had us read and study a talk Brad Wilcox gave for a BYU devotional (it's amazing. and if you watch the video for it while you read it, you will get a feeling for how amazing he is as a professor!). It changed my life. And as we studied this talk and tried our best to embody it in our lives, I felt so much peace and comfort. Nothing prepared me more for the difficulties that would take place in my senior year. And as those difficulties built into what have become the most grueling four years of my life, I'm grateful that such a powerful depiction of Christ's Atonement can be the driving force in my life.

I started telling my friend about some of the experiences I'd had during my senior year, something I hadn't done in quite a while as it tends to bring up a lot of the anxiety that I try to avoid. I don't talk about it much because it bring up a lot of emotions, so I only talk about it with people I trust most. In this group of friends, they know just about everything about me and don't ever judge me. They just love me and want me to be happy in whatever capacity I think is best. So Lashea knew bits and pieces of what had happened already, but didn't know explicit details. I have this policy with my friends: if you ask it, I will answer honestly. If you don't want to know something, then just don't ask it. So, we went into specifics and talked about that day. We talked about how it made me feel and how it affected me as a person. She then started piecing together the timeline of things. How two years later I found myself in a psych ward because was in a situation I couldn't handle. Yet, with the help and support of everyone around me, I did handle it. Shea reached her arm around me and said "Rach, I'm just so glad you're here. Think about everything you've done since then." It hit me and I had to try hard to stay focused on our conversation. These four years have been unfathomably difficult. Year after year, something big hits and it just becomes one more thing to deal with and overcome. We talked a little bit about that and then she quite candidly turned to me and asked "But, don't you see how far you've come? Do you notice a difference?" And with all of my heart, I can say “Yes. Absolutely, totally, completely, thankfully—yes!” (quoted from Brother Wilcox!).

I am not the same person I was when I started here at BYU. I am not the same person I was 3 years ago, 2 years ago, or even 2 months ago. These experiences here have been awful. But they have been tremendous, too. They have pushed me to places I never could have imagined. I have changed and grown more in these four years than I had in the 18 years leading up to this point. I get a little nauseous as I think about everything that has happened and how jam-packed with life these four years have been. I get excited knowing that I am to be leaving this place. But then I get sick thinking about leaving. While these four years have been some of the worst experiences of my life, they have also been the best. I have learned more about myself and others and God than I could ever articulate. I have learned what real friendship is. I have seen sacrifice, love, and charity day-in and day-out. I've seen changes in myself so drastic and powerful that it doesn't seem real. I've seen some of the most generous acts of kindness-- the stuff of Hallmark movies. I have become something here. I have become a person I can be proud of. 

In these four years, I have accomplished so many things. Not because of my own ability, but because of the support of professors, friends, and family in my life. On days when I struggled to get myself to class, tender mercies carried me through. And as I think about leaving this place, it makes me a little sad. There are places throughout this town and campus that have been the location of pivotal moments in my life. The laundry room where I finally confessed the inner turmoil taking control of my life, the street corner where I cried my guts out to friends, the school where I taught my first lesson, the campus where I faced my fears of failure, the classroom where I met some incredible peers, the apartment complex where I made friends to support me during my biggest trial to date. All of these places have left their mark on me. And even though it's been incredibly difficult, I wouldn't trade any of it. The compassion and love that I have grown to possess would not be possible without the heartache and trials I've endured. The confidence in myself and my ability to be a force of good were gained here. Because without sorrow, there is no joy. Without understanding the empty, dead feeling that comes with a lack of happiness, I would not be able to recognize the beauty of it when I finally allowed those emotions back into my life.  

Me and Brad!

His grace is sufficient to cover all things. His grace is sufficient to change us. His grace is sufficient for me. Although there have been SOOO many people who have helped me grow, there is nothing that has helped me grow more during these four years than the never-ending grace of the Atonement. The ability to overcome hardships and move on from horrible experiences comes from my ability to rely on the Atonement. My ability to use the Atonement to change has shaped me into the person I am now. Christ's constant companionship helped me endure periods of absolute isolation. Christ's compassion and complete understanding has helped me endure the pains of this life. My dear professor helped me to comprehend what His grace means in my life. And my amazing friend helped me recognize the changes His grace has already started within me.

The Roommates

I was nervously sitting in my room waiting for my roommate, Melissa, to come home from school. I don't know why I was scared to tell her that I was leaving because she knew about my depression already. She finally came in and noticed I hadn't gone to class and that I was basically just a hot mess. She sort of stood there and looked at me before saying anything. "Rachel, did you not have class?" I turned and took a deep breath. I proceeded to tell her what was happening and how I was probably going to be gone for the next month or so. A little shocked, she started to cry and just nodded her head. We talked and cried as she folded laundry. Melissa and I have this strange obsession with Haagen Das Dulce de Lece ice cream and we only allowed ourselves to eat one a month. She came in with her half-eaten container and said, "You need this more than I do." We cried and laughed and I rambled out as much advice as I could. Almost every night, the two of us would talk about our day and discuss any problems or irritations. I couldn't leave without giving her my two cents on anything and everything that could possibly arise during the next month or so.

After a while, our other roommate Bekah came home and I prepared myself for another emotional disclosure. As I often did, I walked into her room and snuggled up with her on her bed. "Bekah- Babe, I'm leaving. I might leave tonight, maybe tomorrow. I'm getting on a plane to California and I don't know when I'll be back. Probably not for at least a month..." Silence. I knew she was crying because I could feel her body tremble. Slowly she asked, "Rae-bae, where are you going? Is everything okay?" Deep breath. "Bekah, I don't know. I hope it will be. I'm... I'm going to go check into a psych ward. My life is sort of falling apart and I don't know what else to do." We lay on that bed for a long time just crying together. It had been a while since I had cried like that and once the tears started, it seemed impossible to stop. But unlike times before where I cried by myself in the privacy of my own room, we cried together.

***

Later that day as I walked into my room to begin packing, I noticed something strange on my desk. A bag of goldfish from my fourth roommate, Natalie, next to a bag of Lindor truffles (my favorite!), a pink flower, and a card from Bekah. I was touched at their thoughtfulness. I sat on my floor and tried to quickly compile pictures and mementos I knew I would want with me. My constant flow of tears refused to subside. Melissa walked into our room and walked over to her wall of pictures. On it were posters and pictures of special moments or people. She pulled a picture off the wall of the two of us and gave it to me. Tears streamed down her face as she said, "Rachel, take this with you. I want you to remember me when you're in there." My heart melted. She helped me get my pictures together as I continued to pack up my clothes.

While packing, someone knocked on my front door. A girl in my ward was stopping by (coincidentally) to drop a candy bar off to me. Embarrassed by my red, puffy cheeks, I shyly walked out to greet her. She immediately knew something was wrong and I proceeded to explain the situation. She hugged me and wished me luck. About a half an hour later, another friend of mine stopped by with a bag of cookies and said "I heard you're leaving, can I help you with anything?" I declined her offer, but was touched by how generous and thoughtful these people were being. It made leaving a little bit harder, but it also felt good to know that they were on my side.

***

After I finished packing, I was exhausted. As a last hurrah, my roommates and I decided to make a quick drive through Inn N Out. We drove and ate and laughed, and I forgot for a few moments that I was preparing to check into a psych ward. The thing about my amazing roommates is that despite my "craziness", they were exceptionally supportive of me and never made me feel stupid or worthless for checking in. They never looked down on me or treated me any differently. They loved me and supported me and just wanted me to be happy. It wasn't easy, but because of their support, it wasn't harder. As I've been reflecting on this experience along with many experiences since, I've come to realize how important it is to have people in your life. Everyone goes through periods of despair (some of them last longer than others!), but if we help each other out, it makes it so much easier. Sometimes people get stuck up and look down on others, but I've come to realize that it is because they just don't understand. We all struggle with something. None of us are perfect. We all have hard times and weaknesses; it's what makes us human. But when we embrace this concept and embrace help from others, we become so much stronger than we could have ever been on our own. One of the biggest lessons I learned in 2014 is that it is okay that I am not always okay. It's okay when I'm okay, but it is also okay when I am not okay. We aren't meant to be perfect, and that is perfectly okay. 

Stop Suicide

I'm gonna take a breather on the psych ward story to talk about something that has been on my mind. Today is Suicide Awareness Day and this week is a Suicide Prevention social media campaign. There's a trending #hashtag on Facebook called #StopSuicide. I love it. I feel like that should be a trending hashtag ALL the time. Suicide prevention shouldn't be trendy, it should just be a thing.

My roommate and I attending a suicide prevention event last September

I started my last semester of classes last week and it has been so much fun seeing my friends again and getting back into routines (although the three papers assigned in the first week of classes was a little overkill if you ask me...). One thing I've noticed this semester, though, are the number of side comments and jokes that are casually made about mental health and suicide. I'm not going to lie, I'm guilty of it, too. The "Kill myself" or "Well, I'm just going to jump off a cliff now" comments might seem innocent and maybe even humorous, but there is so much more to it. If we really think about what those jokes and comments are implying, there is actually nothing humorous about them. They are referencing people taking their own life. They are perpetuating a stigma, and the flippant use of these phrases make light of a serious topic. During my classes so far, I have already heard 3 professors make jokes about suicide or being crazy. I cringe every time, but everyone around me thinks nothing of it. How can we be so nonchalant about suicide in our language, but be completely torn apart when it happens in real life? 

Last week in one of my classes, a girl mentioned how she was getting married the next day. Our professor was laughing and casually exclaimed "Wow, she is CO-mmitted... I'm just not sure what kind of committed!" It was an innocent remark but it holds so much more meaning than we give it credit. We associate institutionalization with crazy, to the point that mental illness is often synonymous with crazy or insane. The thing is that mental illness has had this inaccurate label placed on it for centuries, but it's wrong. Having depression, bipolar, or schizophrenia does not make a person crazy, it makes them sick. There is something chemically wrong with them, but there is a physical explanation. There is a reason why people with schizophrenia have a sudden switch when they hit a certain age- their chemical make-up changes. There is a reason why people with depression can't feel happy- they are lacking the chemicals that correspond to that type of response. Just because you can't see a mental illness doesn't make it any less real. You can't see diabetes, but nobody questions its existence. SAME FREAKING THING.

This has been a hard concept for me to grasp and I honestly haven't really grasped it entirely. I struggle with accepting my past and accepting my diagnosis. I struggle to comprehend what that means in my life and how it impacts my daily decisions. It's a lot easier to just say I'm crazy than try to find the words to express what I am feeling or why I reacted in a certain way. "Crazy" just explains it all away and then I never have to do the hard work of becoming self-aware. I had a friend who recently lectured me a bit on calling myself crazy. My casual, self-deprecating speech patterns cause more tangible self-hate in my life. By calling myself crazy, it diminishes my agency and increases the shame instilled by the ever-oppressing shroud of stigma. I hadn't ever realized how influential my thoughts and spoken words are on my actions. It's still easier to just say I'm crazy and avoid the harder conversations. I'd rather "own" my craziness than be ashamed of it or worry about what people will think of me. But I've realized that I need to have those harder conversations in order to move away from the shame. I need to push past this barrier of "crazy" in order to take more control of my life. If I let "crazy" be the dictator of my actions, my life will continue to reflect that. However, if I deal with my illness in a healthy manner, I can move towards becoming a whole person again.

***

Tangent, as always. But really, let's not make light of serious situations. Let's take responsibility for the words that leave our mouths and think about the impact those words have on others. Let's begin to eliminate the jokes revolved around mental illness and institutionalization. It might be uncomfortable or awkward to point out the inappropriateness of a joke about suicide, but it's better than making suicide commonplace in our society. Let's stop suicide, let's stop the stigmatization of mental illness. Instead, let's start to develop tolerance and let's start to rethink our understanding of mental illness. 

*Let's make more decisions with others in mind.

Make or Break

During my last post, I talked about how the decision to check into the psych ward came about. My dear friend, Allison, basically gave me no other choice (and for that, I am grateful). What I didn't talk about were the long hours after that conversation where I was in complete and utter desperation. I didn't mention how many phone calls I made that day or the number of people who reached out and made a difference. As I wrapped my brain around checking in, I wanted people to tell me that what I was doing was right. I didn't know how to make a decision at that point and I didn't trust my own brain. I needed people to reassure me and remind me why this was the right choice. I was completely turned around and lost. I felt insane. I felt like by checking into a psych ward, I would be making myself crazier than I already was. The thing about the psych ward was that I knew people would find out. I knew that no matter how hard I tried, gossip would bring my committal front and center and I knew that it would be a hot topic of discussion. The only other person I'd ever heard of checking in was this girl from high school. I remember when she disappeared from school, everyone started talking about her. I hadn't heard anything about her in months, but the second she checked in, all anyone ever talked about was this girl. I knew that once people figured out I was gone, they would start the rumor mill up. I was frightened that I wouldn't have control over what people thought about me (hilarious because we never have control over what people think about us!) and I feared that this would be the end of who I was. What I didn't realize was that I hadn't been that person in a long time and that by checking in, I would resemble myself more than I had in years. I didn't realize that had I not checked in, people would be talking about me in a much different way.

Up until this moment, not a lot of people knew that I struggled with depression. I kept it under-wraps because I didn't want people to know and I didn't want them to look at me differently. I was completely sucked into the shame and stigma, I was afraid. I was afraid to say something and I was afraid to reach out for help. I was afraid that people would think I was lazy, crazy, or dumb. I cared more about what other people thought of me than of what I thought of myself.

So as I mentally prepared for the journey of checking in, I was scared to finally admit that something was wrong. I was afraid that I was making the wrong decision and I didn't trust my thought processes. What if I'm not crazy? What if I was just making this all up and just needed to wake up from some twisted dream? What if I go and they never let me out? What if I die in there? I had no idea what to expect in the psych ward and I had no idea how long I would be gone. There was so much uncertainty with this decision... and uncertainty always seems to breed the anxiety-driven racing thoughts inside my brain.

Eventually, I reached out to more people. I called people on the phone for reassurance, I texted some to let them know what was going on, and I sat down in one-on-one conversations with friends. I cannot even tell you everyone I talked to. Most of the conversations I remember now are because other people have remembered them for me. It's a little disheartening to know that I can't remember large chunks of time in my day.

One person I reached out to was my high school english teacher. This woman is someone who I look up to and trust more than most. Over the years I have known her, she has never given me advice that had ulterior motives. I knew that by talking to her, I would receive intelligent advice that she believed would help me. She would listen to me and analyze what was going on. She wouldn't make a decision based on emotions, but based on what she logically thought would be best for me. I don't remember what we talked about exactly, but I do know that the conversation was a turning point in my day.  The conversation started with me quickly telling her what was happening (I have no idea if anything I said was recognizable English) and then me desperately asking her if she thought I was crazy. I was pacing back and forth, biting my nails, and pulling at my hair as she tried to calm me down. After talking with her, I knew that I needed to check in. I remember she told me that if I was concerned enough to call her, then it was probably because I needed to check myself in. She told me that she 1) loved me and 2) was concerned for me. She told me that no matter what I decided to do, she would be there for me. It was the push I needed. But it was a different kind of push than what others had been providing up until that point.

I look back on this conversation and admire her so much. She was probably a little nervous. Most people that I talked to were a little panicky. They worried that they would say the wrong thing or that I wouldn't get help fast enough. But she remained calm (at least from what I could tell) and she left it in my hands. She didn't try to take control from me, but she helped me to figure out where I needed to go. I needed to feel in control of the situation because I felt like everything was crumbling around me. I felt like my world was collapsing and I was desperately trying to hold onto a falling piece of wall.

Eventually, I made a mostly-solid decision. The next morning I was going to fly to Orange County when Allison would pick me up and take me to a psych ward. We didn't know which one, or what type of facility, but we were agreed on the checking in. Once the decision was made, I started texting people and telling them what was going on. I had promised to keep my high school teacher in the loop, so I sent her a quick and emotionally-disconnected text.

"I am flying to Orange County tomorrow. My parents have been told, my flight is bought, but the facility hasn't been decided yet."
"This is tough for you, I know. I appreciate your update. I've been thinking about you and you are so brave. Do you have someone meeting you when you fly in? Not sure if you will be able to text when you get to your destination. I'm here if you need me."
"I do have a friend meeting me and taking me to find a good place for me. I will hopefully be checked in by tomorrow night. I will be without a phone once I'm checked in, but hopefully I will have outside communication after a bit. This is hard, but I can do hard things. Thank you."
"I know you can do it. Have a safe trip. I am so very proud of you for helping the most important person in your life."

That's the key right there. There are so many times where I have dropped everything to help someone else. I've gone and picked up friends from the airport at 2:30 in the morning, I've helped friends study for tests during an already-crazy finals week, and I've stayed up late making cinnamon rolls before my friend's GRE exam. There was this one time where I didn't do an entire school project because I decided to drive around with a friend who was having a hard day. The thing is, I know I would do it all again if the choice was presented to me. Why is it, then, that it is so much harder for me to drop everything and take care of myself? Why is it that dropping everything to ensure that I am okay feels like I'm letting everyone else down? It's stupid. Yes, it's important to focus on others, but when it sacrifices your own sanity... it might not be worth it.

Sometimes, it's okay to take some time for you.

***

I'm grateful to the people who waited patiently as I slowly stomped out my own path. I'm grateful to the people who picked up the phone and listened to the irrational ramblings of my unhinged self. I'm especially grateful to all of the people who saw me in that state and yet continue to see me as I am now instead of how I was then.

That Moment of Weakness

It has taken me a while to really get into this whole blog thing. It's actually a lot harder than I imagined. Phrasing things in a way that is both honest and not "airing the dirty laundry" is a tricky balance, especially when this topic is filled with dirty laundry. This post in particular is difficult. I've tried writing it a thousand ways, but it never does it justice. I don't think I ever will be able to express it perfectly through words, but it's finally time for me to just do it.

I started to rip the band-aid off when I first posted about the psych ward. Yada yada- I am a crazy person. Except, I'm not. And somewhere, a part of me recognizes that I'm not. But another part of me still wants to recognize that I am a little bit crazy. We are all a little crazy in our own way, but my crazy is one that people can't quite understand until they have "walked a mile" so to speak. So as you read the rest of this post, try not to read this through your eyes. Read it though my eyes, because my experiences and thoughts won't make sense through the lenses of your own perspective.

***

Two nights before I checked into the psych ward, I had a psychotic episode. That's what they called it. Leading up to that night, I had been struggling with intense depression. After months of feeling invisible, worthless, tired, confused, and jumbled, I just couldn't take it any longer. I don't know what it was that night that set me off, but somewhere in the late, dark hours of Provo, I gave up. I stopped fighting the thoughts inside my head and gave in to them. I let them take control and I lost my ability to think rationally. I couldn't talk myself down or think my way through it in a normal, sane way. It wasn't the first night I felt like giving up, but this night was different. This night was the night where I no longer felt like I had a reason to stay.

There are only 2 reasons that I know of for checking into a psych ward: you are a danger to yourself or you are a danger to others. I have never been a danger to others. However, that night, I was a significant danger to myself. I had what they call "suicidal ideation", AKA the fascination with, obsessive thoughts over, and acting on suicidal tendencies. It's funny (in a 100% NOT funny way) because I can't really remember that night very clearly. I hoped that as I worked on these posts and wrote about it, more pieces of memory would come back. They never have. It's something that honestly changed my life forever, but it's all very fuzzy. I vented this frustration to my best friend's mom once and she looked at me silently for a moment before answering. In a quieter, more reserved voice that she saves for her most serious conversations, she looked me in the eye and said something I will never forget. "Rach, I think it's probably a good thing you can't remember that night. Our bodies are built to protect us. You will remember it if you need to." It's taken me a long time to accept that.

That night, the one where I went crazy, was the night that qualified me for the psych ward. I made decisions that I regret every day. That night, I made a very real attempt to take my own life. I don't have any other way to put it, I wish I did. I wish I had some sort of eloquent way to phrase it so it doesn't sound so... trivial. I wish there was a way to make it less ugly, less harsh. I haven't said those explicit words too often. I allude to it, but those exact words aren't frequently used. Maybe I'm ashamed of it or maybe because once I say it, there is no way to ever take it back. Maybe it's because we use those words in such a cavalier way that they have lost their meaning. I guess it just makes it feel less significant. I don't know. But it scares me enough to take an entire post to attempt to rationalize it... even though the whole point is that it wasn't rational. Suicide happens in the dark corners of our lives and is talked about in hushed tones. But just because it *usually* happens when no one is looking, it still happens. The old saying "if a tree falls in a forest..." doesn't apply here. We can't ignore it and pretend it isn't a thing. It's a thing. We have to start talking about it because if we don't, it will continue to happen. So, here is my story- the dark, ugly, harsh one (that I am desperately trying to make less dark, ugly, and harsh).

It was terrifying to wake up the next morning with a hazy recollection of what took place. It was even more terrifying to realize that I had almost made a decision that was irreversible. And even though I woke up and still had those thoughts pulling me down, I woke up. In doing so, I finally realized that I wanted those thoughts to go away. I realized that I couldn't keep living this way, because it wasn't really living. I realized that for the past few months, I had been walking around as if I had already died. It was in these early morning moments that I realized that I needed serious help and that this "phase" was not a phase. This phase was leading me down a path I wasn't ready to walk down. I knew that if I didn't do something, things would continue to get worse.

I was fortunate in all of this to have my amazing friend/role model/hero, Allison. Although I cannot remember what exactly I said to trigger the red flags, Allison recognized the warning signs in me. The morning after the psychotic break, she called me. We talked about what had happened and she presented me with two options. It's all pretty fuzzy still, but I do remember parts of this conversation. Allison has always been very good at helping me recognize my options. As a part of the depression, you often feel stuck and option-less. One way for me to feel less trapped is to recognize that I can still do whatever I want. I am not stuck. However, that morning was different. I was in a different situation with different, real problems going on. Allison knew that. So when she calmly relayed my options, it made sense that my options were limited this time. "I am worried. I worry because I live 10 1/2 hours away. If something happens, I can't get to you in time. It will be too late. I'm sorry, but Rachel, you really only have two options. You can drop out of school and come live with me, or you can drop out of school and check yourself in somewhere. Either way, it's time for you to take a break from school." Allison had been trying to get me to do either of those things for a while. She felt strongly that I needed to hit a reset button. But I was too proud to do it. This time was different though. I didn't fight the fact that I needed to leave school. She was right- if something happened, she would be too late. I did fight the psych ward every step of the way. I believe my exact response to the psych ward was "no no no no no no no no no no".

Obviously, my opinion of the psych ward changed as I continued to go throughout that day. It took a lot of serious conversations with many important people in my life for me to realize that I really did need professional help. Going and living with Allison would have been a good step in the right direction, but it would have been difficult. It would have put a lot of strain on many people's lives. And it would have been an unfair situation to put her family into. That ultimately was the reason that led me to check into a psych ward. I couldn't put that pressure on her. I couldnt force her to take on the dead shell that used to be me. I owed it to her, after everything she did for me, to take the bigger step. I owed it to her to get myself better. I owed it to her to not throw my life away after the countless hours she spent talking me out of the crazy.

Although I now know that I owed it to myself to get better, I didn't feel like I owed myself anything while I was stuck in the crazy. I felt so guilty and I felt like a burden on everyone around me. I needed Allison because I needed someone to owe (along with the many other reasons why I needed Allison. The list is never-ending). I needed a reason to check in. If not for me, then I could check in for her. In fact, there were multiple moments where I had to re-convince myself to check in by telling myself I was doing this for Allison. Even though it's my story, it's also kind of her story. She played such an intricate role in my journey, so you'll be reading a lot about her.

Anyway, that was kind of random. I want to tell my story. I want my voice to be heard, and not just behind closed doors. I want people to understand what my experience was actually like. When people hear those two magic words "psych ward", they immediately get these snap judgments of what happened. It was nothing like that. I was never dragged in with handcuffs or straight-jackets. Nobody forced medicine down my throat and no doctors attempted to cut out half my brain. I didn't get locked in a padded room with rubber lined floors or lose my ability to function. I was still me, but I was put into an environment designed to help me thrive. I was given an opportunity to reclaim myself and recharge my focus in life.

Unfortunately, in order to tell my story, I had to first tell this story- the one where I tried to kill myself. And maybe this post left more questions unanswered than answered, but I did the best I could while still preserving the private, personal nature of the events. I don't want to glorify my actions or have them exposed to the entire world. I don't want to ever see those words written on paper. But the truth is, it happened. In a moment of weakness, I made a choice. But the rest of my story isn't about moments of weakness. It's about bravery and courage. It's about friendships and overcoming the hard things.

It's about every step I took after that moment of weakness.

Random Thoughts

After my initial posts, I had an amazing response from friends and strangers alike. It has definitely opened up the doors for some incredible conversations. One such conversation was with my amazing friend, Sammi. She turned to me and asked, "Rach, what would you want people to know who have never experienced depression or a mental illness? What do you think they should know?" I stood there a little thrown. I've talked to people about meds, psych wards, thought processes, and tendencies. I have never had to answer that question before. I didn't have a response. I've thought about that a lot since then. What do I want people to know?

First and foremost, it's a battle within yourself. I think everyone has had some period in their life where they have had a sort of inner turmoil. A debate or battle that takes place inside your mind. That's the closest thing I can think of to compare it to. You have these spiraling thoughts that don't make sense at all. The thoughts tell you that you aren't good enough, that so-and-so actually thinks you're a piece of sh*t, and that you don't deserve x,y, or z. They come from a place inside of you, but they just appear one day. All of the terrible things people have ever said to you go through your mind over and over and over in a never-ending cycle until you internalize them. You believe them.

Sometimes those thoughts are so tangible. I can vividly remember this one time where I was laying in my bed crying as I texted back and forth with my friend, Allison. We were discussing my thoughts and it was going well until suddenly it wasn't. Like a lightswitch, I took everything she said the wrong way. I ignored her, I sassed her, and I said things I really didn't mean. This was neither the first nor last time I reacted in this way. Well, there was a catalyst to that lightswitch. Just like the lights in a room don't just turn on automatically, something has to flip the switch. For me that night it was this very real thought that was almost a voice. No, I was not hearing voices. But the thought was so direct and vivid that it almost seemed like it. "Rachel, she doesn't really care. You are wasting her time and she doesn't want to hear it anymore. She doesn't understand you and she never will. All you are doing is dragging her through the mud. You are dumping all of your problems on her and are just a burden. Stop talking to her." And within seconds, I believed it. I stopped texting her and I stopped responding until I finally just said, "K thanks goodnight." Luckily, she knew me SO well. She told me goodnight and that she loved me, but she waited until the next morning to reason with me. I woke up that morning to a text saying, "Rach, did you believe me last night when I said I loved you? Because I meant it. And I could tell that you were getting irritated" (She said irritated, my other friend Michelle would call it my sass, my roommates call it crazy brain. I tend to call it the dark and twisties. Either way, it all means the same thing). After getting some sleep and getting a fresh day's perspective on the conversation, I realized that I had been misinterpreting what she was saying. I had let those doubting thoughts get the better of me.

Also, it's important to recognize that every case is SO different. The things that worked for me might not work for someone else. You won't have a fix-all solution for someone. And it's really frustrating for us when you think you do have all the answers. "Rachel, are you getting any exercise? That really helps." Yeah, I know. I try to work out 5-6 days a week (and if I'm really crazy, every day), thank you. Because it does help. But it doesn't always fix it. More importantly, when I am in the pit, I don't feel like getting out of bed and going for a run. Sometimes it's LIT-ER-ALL-Y impossible to move. It's an accomplishment when I have enough energy to get up and brush my teeth. It's like being sick with the flu for weeks on end. Your body aches, your brain is foggy and numb, and you don't want to do anything. Don't try to fix us. Just be there for us. Love us.

One of the biggest things for me was learning to be honest about my thoughts and feelings. You could ask my friend, Allison. Holy cow. It was like pulling teeth. One of the most helpful things for me is to talk out what is getting stuck in my head. Allison is all about the analogies. I love that about her. She can come up with an analogy for anything. Her analogy for this is a clogged toilet. You can try all you want to flush it out, but you have to unclog it first or it just sits there and starts to reek. You can't progress if you don't unclog that toilet of a brain of yours. So, sitting and talking it out with someone really helps me. That's hard, though, because that means I need someone who is willing to sit and listen. I don't usually need someone to constantly comment or try to fix me (see above paragraph). I just need someone to be there. I need someone who cares enough about me to be willing to watch me struggle with the words and the thoughts. I really have to focus and work in order to express what goes on. I have a good friend, Michelle, who has definitely been one of those people in my life. We will go for drives and sit in awkward silence until I find the words to express what is clogging my brain. If it is anywhere near as awkward for her as it is for me, I AM SO SORRY. But it has really helped me.

Number one, above all else, we need people who are understanding and patient. Holy cow I slip up so much. I mess up, I fall back into destructive thoughts, and I make mistakes that shouldn't be happening. But they do happen. There is no point in getting mad or yelling at me. That just makes me feel worse. More than likely, the person already hates him/herself for getting back into that position. Don't judge me. Even though I 100% believe we have the ability to choose our actions, behaviors, and thoughts, it doesn't mean it isn't hard. I completely understand people who are alcoholic bums. Does it mean that I want that for myself? Of course not! But I get it and I don't hate them for it. Please, be patient with us. We are trying the best we know how, even if (more often than not) it seems like we are being purposefully destructive. Retraining the way you think and act is difficult stuff. That's the problem with a brain disease. You have to change the control center of your body. Your brain controls everything. Your thoughts, your actions, etc. How disconcerting is it to have to be mistrustful of your own thoughts, to second guess them? I can tell you: very. Every time a thought enters my mind I have to think "Where is this coming from? Is this coming from my crazy brain or my rational brain? Is this a good thought or a bad thought? Will I be proud of this decision in the morning? If so-and-so was here, would I be willing to do it in front of them?" That last reasoning statement is HUGE for me. I wouldn't want to do half of my destructive tendencies in front of another person. So if I can get myself to the point that I recognize I would be ashamed if they were standing right next to me, I can usually talk myself out of it. The more I practice this, the better I get. I have gotten a LOT better at recognizing the crazy. I'm at the point where I can be in the middle of it and think "Rach, this is your crazy talking. Stop it. Stop the crazy. You don't mean any of the things you are thinking/saying/doing." It helps. It's been a LONG, painfully slow process. And I wouldn't have been able to do it without the people in my life who have helped me along the way. There have been so many people standing there next to me waiting to pick up the pieces when I crash. That has helped me recover so much faster. I can also tell you that it would have been so easy for my friends to leave after the 20th, 30th, 500th time of falling down. But, I have been blessed with patient friends.

That was a random tangent, but that's fine. Essentially, I just want people to realize that it isn't easy. I didn't say it isn't possible, but it definitely isn't easy. It takes work. And time. And love. And restarting. And more work. And more time. And more love. So, please.
Be patient with us.

Thank you.

I couldn't go through the day without writing this post. Today marks one year since I checked into the psych ward in Laguna Beach. I am honestly at a loss for all other words besides "Wow". This year has been full of so many ups and downs. It is absolutely unfathomable to me as I look back on it all. Just twelve months ago, I sat on a plane with tears in my eyes as I prepared to embark on a truly terrifying adventure. Everything was so up in the air and I had no idea what was going to happen during the next couple of days, let alone the next twelve months. However, after the psych ward, I finished out my semester at BYU and surprisingly did quite well (3.93 semester GPA-- I'll take it!). Nine months ago I moved in with the Bradshaw family for the summer to work. It was when I started to finally feel "normal". Seven months ago, I convinced myself to return to school despite my fear of falling backward. Three months ago I flew by myself to travel around Italy. And three weeks ago, I made it onto the Dean's list due to my 4.0 the semester before. Starting next week, I begin my first practicum experience in the classroom and I cannot wait. In just twelve short months, I have come such a long way and it is indescribably humbling.

I wanted to take this post to say thank you. I wouldn't be here writing this or thriving in school if it wasn't for the abundance of support and help I have received in my recovery this past year. Thank you to those of you who have stuck by me through this ongoing journey. Thank you for the love and support you have provided in my life. It is completely overwhelming as I look back on the number of people who have helped me through so much. There were countless people who pitched in and helped me along the way and I am truly blessed because of it. Thank you if you spent innumerable hours and nights texting with me, talking with me, or supporting me (cough cough Allison Smith). Thank you if you were one of the many people who helped to convince me it was time to check in. Thank you if you helped drive me to or from the airport (cough cough Janale). Thank you if you supported me while I was there- through phone calls, visits, or prayers. Thank you if you were actually IN the psych ward while I was there (you hold a special place in my heart). Thank you if you helped to support me as I transitioned back into normal functioning society (aside: I saw and talked to many people just after being released. If you were one of them and still loved me despite the hot mess of a person I was at that time, you are seriously a saint). Thank you if you have been a friend to me and helped remind me why I am still here. Thank you if you have sat with me and talked out my twisted thoughts. Thank you if you have been there with me as I continue to find my way. Thank you if you are taking the time to read this rambling stream of words! Thank you if you are in my life. Holy cow, just thank you.

I often think about these experiences and can't quite believe they really happened. Most days it feels like a dream, a funny story that makes me laugh. I often forget about the heartache and suffering that took place at that time. I forget about the raw fear I felt in myself and saw in others as we prepared for this experience. I forget the panic that overcame me as I realized what was going on. I forget the desperation in friends' voices as they tried to convince me that my life was important. As more and more time passes, I forget.

It has been a trying year. It has been one for the books (or the blogs. either way). It has been memorable for so many reasons. While it has definitely had some complicated moments, I wouldn't trade any of it. It's been a beautiful journey of heartache and strength. It's reminded me of the important things in life. It's reminded me that we all struggle and that is okay. It is okay to be okay and it is okay to not be okay. It is okay to ask for help. It is okay to need help.

I've learned a lot about myself in these past twelve months and I have changed dramatically. I am less insecure. I am stronger. I am more passionate. In fact, passion is something that sort of defines me (just ask my friends in the El Ed program. passion). I am all in or all out. I'm not a wishy-washy sort of person. I've learned that I am a people person and even when all I want to do is sit alone in my room while watching Netflix, I need people. I need to be out and about. I need to be doing things. I've learned that I am a stronger person than I once believed. I have the ability to impact people and touch lives. I've learned that there is more to life than just these small moments. Above all, however, I have learned that I can do hard things. I thrive when I am busy and working hard and accomplishing difficult tasks. I can do hard things. We can all do hard things.

As I reflect on this past year, I'm grateful that I had the opportunity to experience it. Every day I wake up and realize how lucky I am to be here and how many amazing experiences lie ahead of me. Life is constantly changing and moving forward. No matter how hard life gets or how defeated I may feel, this year has taught me that those moments are brief. They eventually end and we eventually move on. We re-learn how to laugh and smile and enjoy being alive. We do hard things because they make us stronger, better people.

Sorry for this rambling nonsense. Most of my other posts are not quite as "stream of conscious" as this (ehh, maybe they are. Sorry, I'm not a professional writer or anything!). But I would be remiss if I didn't take a second to express my gratitude for people, experiences, and all that life has to offer. I am so grateful to be alive, no matter the circumstance. I am grateful that I did not make a permanent mistake while stuck in the temporary delusions of my mind. I am so, so grateful for all those who are in my life. I am especially grateful for my dear friend, Allison. I wouldn't be here without her and I owe her my life. I am grateful that she took the time out of her crazy-busy life to listen to my irrational ramblings. I am grateful that she decided to take action when I lost my ability to think appropriately. I am just so grateful that she was put into my life.

***

Sometimes we need someone to sit on our bench. At different times in our lives, we serve different roles. Thank you to everyone who sat on my bench. Thank you to anyone who continues to sit on my bench. <3

The Stigma of Mental Illness

What is the first thought that comes to your mind when you hear the words "mental illness"? I'm just guessing, but you probably didn't know exactly what to think. For many, it was something along the lines of I don't know much about mental illness or maybe it was something like mental illness is the leading cause for violence in America. Maybe, just maybe, you thought of a friend or family member struggling from a mental illness. Maybe you thought of someone you lost to mental illness. I could be wrong, in which case I'll pack up my soap box right now, but most people don't truly understand what it means to be mentally ill. Part of the problem is that there are so many varying degrees of mental illness, many of which I don't have a complete understanding of either. There's depression, bipolar disorder(s), schizophrenia, Post-traumatic stress, anxiety, Seasonal Affective disorder, borderline personality, autism spectrum, eating disorders, Obsessive compulsive, schizoaffective, dissociative, tourettes, and so many more. Each of these disorders is different and not only affects a person's brain differently, but also requires differing treatment plans. One thing is for certain: nobody would willing choose to suffer from a mental illness.

***

Mental illnesses affect the functioning of everyday life. You don't sleep well, or you sleep too much. You lock the front door 15 times before leaving the house. You let out profane words uncontrollably. You don't always know who you are. You don't eat or absorb the proper nutrients. You isolate yourself. In one way or another, your mental illness negatively affects your life and your interactions with others. Nobody would want the added weight of living if they could choose.

Talked about behind closed doors and in whispered tones, people suffering from mental illness fear the reactions of friends and family. The constant worry of judgment and misunderstanding follows you through every step of every day. People believe you are crazy, lazy, or pitiful. Nobody views you in the same way, which is reflected in the way they treat you. I can tell you from personal experience that I have had some friends criticize me for my disorders (which are out of my control, by the way!). I have had friends delete me on facebook, talk about me behind my back, and send harsh messages over social media or text. While most of my friends have been relatively open and understanding, there have been some who have made me question myself enough to tell you that the stigma is still alive in this generation (which is stupid. screw them, right? right.).

Any time there is some sort of tragedy or mass shooting, people jump to the conclusion that the perpetrator suffered from a mental illness- depression, schizophrenia, bipolar, etc. I've researched the subject in depth (I wrote a paper on it, actually) and the truth of the matter is that this stereotype comes from the uninformed media. 1 in 100 people suffer from schizophrenia and 1 in 4 suffer from a mental illness. If every person who suffered from a mental illness committed a violent act, they would be occurring even more frequently. Mental illness doesn't cause violence, bad people cause violence. We are afraid of this idea, though. People search desperately to find a reason behind these senseless acts. Instead of it being random and evil, people find a reason to blame these inexcusable acts on. Look at the way mental illness is portrayed in the movies and TV shows. Jokes about psych wards and "crazy pills" are thrown into the media ever-so nonchalantly. Look at the movie psycho. The killer is "psycho" (hence the title) and struggling from mental illness. That movie gave me nightmares, as it was supposed to. In reality, that sort of violence is rare and not an accurate depiction of those struggling with mental illness. A more accurate depiction would be someone like you or me (oh wait, yes. Definitely me); someone functioning in society LIKE A NORMAL PERSON (because mental illness is not crazy or unusual).

Mental illness is neither rare nor dangerous. The danger comes from the stigma. The danger comes when people don't know how to get help or are too afraid to admit something is wrong. I know I was. 1 in 4 people. 25%. 1/4. ONE IN FOUR FREAKING PEOPLE GOSH DANG IT. It is SO common, and yet how many people do you know openly admit to this ailment? Not many. I don't know how else to say this, scream this, post this, prove this. If it doesn't mean me, it means that someone else you know and love is suffering right now whether you know it or not. Just because they haven't told you, doesn't meant they aren't struggling. It just means they are too scared to speak up. Although these types of illnesses are battled inside the brain, it does not make them any less real. They are as real as any other medical disease such as cancer, high blood pressure, or diabetes. I doubt that any of you would walk up to a woman with breast cancer and tell her to "snap out of it" or "if you pray hard enough, it will go away", which are a sampling of responses I have received over the time I've been struggling with these disorders. For some reason, people seem to think this is an appropriate response to people suffering from depression or mental illness. Trust me, nobody would choose to suffer from a mental illness just like nobody would choose to be plagued with cancer. Mental illnesses should not be taken lightly as they seriously affect people's lives. However, with the right medication and counseling, people with mental illness can be fully functioning members of society. Just because a person has a mental illness does not mean they are doomed to a life of destitution. With the right help, we can all live happy, healthy lives.

This video is a perfect summary of this whole post:

"It's woven into the fabric of our society and it stems back centuries, really, when mental illness was considered a character flaw."

"Every life is touched by mental illness"

"We have to be the generation to really normalize and get people talking about it because if we don't nothing's going to change, and we need it to change."

#stigmasucks #bethechange 

Please, it's too important to not try to change it.

***

For more information about mental health and suicide prevention here are some resources that can get you started:

http://www.nami.org/     National Alliance for Mental Illnesses
http://bringchange2mind.org/       Bring Change 2 Mind
http://twloha.com/       To Write Love on Her Arms
http://www.afsp.org/   American Foundation for Suicide Prevention

IF YOU OR SOMEONE YOU LOVE ARE STRUGGLING WITH SUICIDAL THOUGHTS, PLEASE call this hotline and start on the healing road to recovery! 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

The Psych Ward: A Preface

I've thought a lot about how to start this blog. I've probably written and rewritten this post thirty times. I wanted it to be perfect. But, that's sort of the whole problem, isn't it? We have this idea of how everything in our lives should be, how we're supposed to act, and how we're supposed to think. The only problem is that real life happens and we aren't who we think we should be. One day we look in the mirror and we no longer recognize ourselves. We're different. It isn't a bad thing, but I think we sometimes lose sight of the bigger picture. We are alive. We have so much potential. It's with this potential that we become something. When we hit our rough patches, we face them and try to survive. That potential is tested and tried. As for us? We learn, we grow, and we become. Sometimes it takes hitting rock bottom to see it, though. That's what this blog is about- how I hit rock bottom and how it became the trajectory of my "new" life.

***

I'm getting ahead of myself.  For those of you who have never met me or don't know this very personal aspect of my life, these posts might be sort of a shock to you. Three years ago, I was a senior in high school and only a select group of people knew that I was going through some pretty heavy stuff. Quite honestly, I couldn't comprehend the full extent of it. It was all piling up and the storm was just preparing to touch down. Thanks to this thing called denial, I'm pretty sure most people around me would never have guessed the baggage that I was carrying. As time progressed and I moved on to bigger and better things, my baggage came along, too. It followed me from high school to college. But it grew exponentially as time passed. I turned a problem into a catastrophe by waiting and delaying help. Denial is a funny thing- you feel good while you're in it, but then you feel even worse than before because it's had time to fester inside.

I was extremely good at faking it. I could (and still can!) throw on a perfect smile despite my insides eating me alive. I can laugh and joke and push it aside when needed, which is why I was able to get so far into my life while struggling with an undetectable disorder. Except, there were cracks showing. Outbreaks of emotions, sudden periods of quiet, and rambling hysteria were all moments of distress when I couldn't control my emotional instability. Rather than the hormonal, PMS-stricken, bitchy teenage girl many of my friends and family saw me as, I was struggling with something much more serious and terrifying. For years I struggled with completely treatable mental disorders, but was too scared (and proud!) to say anything to anyone. I was afraid that people would no longer see me as this independent, smart, fun-loving girl full of potential. I feared that the second I reached out for help, I would become less than human. I was afraid of how everyone around me would view me, rather than fearing how I would one day see myself.

I wouldn't be here writing this, though, if I hadn't made the biggest, hardest, and also the best decision of my life. When I was 20 years old, I was struggling hard core with myself, my thoughts, and what I perceived to be my reality. What most people don't know about me is that I have Major Depressive Disorder (clinical depression), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), and Bulimia Nervosa. Throughout all of that, I also struggled with an addiction to pills that helped to mask the chaos taking place inside my mind. It was taking over my life. I couldn't think clearly; I couldn't see the point of living. Over the course of my first two years in college, I had multiple periods of time where the thoughts in my mind got pretty dark and scary. During the first 6 months of my freshman year, it seemed like the world was against me and I could feel my life collapsing before my eyes. However, I somehow pulled out of that first real episode and thought "Okay, well that sucked. Good thing it's all over and I can move on from this". And for a while, I did. For the next 8-10 months, my life seemed to be smooth-sailing. I worked my butt off over the summer and loved every minute of it. I was pretty nervous about returning for my sophomore year of school because I feared my depression and twisted thoughts would return. Much to my relief, the year started off wonderfully and I felt myself thriving. Fast-forward to Christmas break and things started to crumble again. By the second week of January, I was back in my apartment starting my second semester and the dark, twisty thoughts were back along with a lot of suppressed anger, resentment, and guilt. I reached out for help, but I was spiraling out of control faster than I could receive the help I needed. I had let myself unravel too far and I needed serious professional help. On February 27, 2014, I checked myself into a psychiatric facility for five days to be treated with the help I needed.

Why does it all matter? I didn't know much about mental health and mental illness before these experiences. I grew up in the same media-skewed bubble as everyone else and didn't think it could ever happen to people I knew, let alone myself. I thought that once you were "crazy", there was no coming back. We joke and laugh about psych wards and mental illnesses like they're some distant freak show. NO. It is so real. People all around us struggle with it and we have no idea. This blog matters because it could save someone's life. You could be reading this while struggling with similar things or know someone struggling with similar things. We are afraid of the unknown. I know I was afraid of all of this before learning what it really means to be mentally ill. I wish I had found a blog like this when I was in the midst of it. I wish that I'd had a better understanding of what it means to be mentally ill before going through this. I wish people understood how it makes me cringe when they talk lightly of mental illness. Cracking jokes and adding to this hate-culture doesn't cause you to become immune to it. All it does is add to the stigma and push people further and further into the darkness. Seeking help for this real disease- in whatever capacity necessary- is neither weak nor shameful. It's actually one of the bravest things a person can do (I might be slightly biased). There is a HUGE stigma surrounding mental illness and the time is now for us to change the way we view it, talk about it, and treat it. We live in a country where we like to believe that everyone is treated fairly and equally. I hate to burst that naive bubble, but it's not happening. There is a group of people hurting from a treatable disease because they are afraid to get help. WHY DO WE DO THIS TO OURSELVES?? 25% of the adult population will suffer from a mental illness at one point in their lives. Why don't we get the conversation going and help people get the help they truly need? I'll tell you why: it's because of the stigmatized culture we have created. We might not have the power to change society on our own, but we can definitely change our own personal views. While one person's views might not seem like a big difference, one by one we can make a change.

***Disclaimer: This material is real and I do not plan on censoring anything because of the nature of this topic. There will be posts that may make you feel uneasy or cringe. I'm #sorrynotsorry. Don't read it if any if this offends you. This is what happened and I am tired of pretending that I am something I am not. With that said, the names, places, and events might be altered slightly to protect others' privacy. I am comfortable with who I am and what has happened, but others may not be and it is their right to feel so.

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For more information about mental health and suicide prevention here are some resources that can get you started:

http://www.nami.org/     National Alliance for Mental Illnesses
http://bringchange2mind.org/       Bring Change 2 Mind
http://twloha.com/       To Write Love on Her Arms
http://www.afsp.org/   American Foundation for Suicide Prevention

IF YOU OR SOMEONE YOU LOVE ARE STRUGGLING WITH SUICIDAL THOUGHTS, PLEASE call this hotline and start on the healing road to recovery! 1-800-273-TALK (8255)