Today starts "World Suicide Prevention Week", and September is "National Suicide Awareness Month". Suicide is a big issue that isn’t talked about very often. I would know, I struggle with it chronically. The only reason I’m here right now is because of suicide prevention.
I remember the first time I checked into a hospital (after attempting), we were in the ER for what seemed like forever (probably 5 hours). We got to know the nurse and as I finally was leaving for the psych floor, I broke down crying. There were a lot of ugly cries that day. The nurse got down on my level and looked me in the eye, “Rachel, you aren’t a failure. Checking into the hospital, admitting you need help is not a failure. What is failing is giving up and hiding it away, not asking for help.” I think about that moment often and it has gotten me through a lot of shame-inducing experiences: getting diagnosed with BPD, having to go to therapy three times a week, and yes… checking into a psych ward a second time. I haven’t told a lot of people that because I worried people would think I’m incompetent. But it is the reason I’ve been able to keep going, because I got the help I needed.
Suicide is a lot more complicated than “I want to die”. Sometimes it’s because you feel stuck and option-less, or you feel like everything is over. Sometimes it’s a mental illness driving it, sometimes it’s your circumstances. Honestly, most of the times that I feel suicidal, I don’t want to die at all. I just want everything (whatever it is) to stop. Mental illness has affected my life more than I’d like people to know, and chronic suicidal thoughts come along with it. They come and go and I am often reminded . In the six years since I checked in that first time, I’ve met a lot of incredible people and seen a lot of incredible places. I’ve graduated from college, gotten a job that I absolutely LOVE (and helps get me up every day), and made relationships I can’t imagine life without. And, if I’d given up six years ago, or any of the nights I think of it still, none of that would have happened.
I am a lot more than my mental illness; a lot more than suicidal thoughts or psych ward stays. I’m a friend, a teacher, a daughter, a sister, an aunt (yay). I’m sarcastic, sassy, and kind (usually). I care and am wiling to drop anything for anyone. I try hard, fail a lot, and get up again anyway. Suicide might feel like the answer, but it isn’t. Life is #WorthLivingFor
Medications help, therapy works, and ice cream never hurt anyone.
I talk about it a lot. Not as much as I think about it, but definitely more than anything else. Not a day goes by where I don't think about it, where I don't have to deal with it. Every morning I fight the thoughts in my head telling me not to bother waking up today. I have to fight off the instinct to jump ship when things get too hard. I have to talk myself into talking to people. Each day, I have to tell myself that people are worth it. I have to take a deep breath and focus on everything going on around me so that I don't get lost in my head. When my friends ask to go out, I have to fight the urge to run away. I talk about my illness because my life revolves around me fighting it off.
I hear the words coming out of my mouth, but I can't stop them. Considering the fact that 90% of my thoughts are about my illness or telling myself off for listening to the self-deprecating thought patterns bouncing around inside my brain, it's pretty good that I can hold a conversation about anything else. My depression has taken hold of my life and isn't letting go anytime soon. My life was turned upside down so violently and suddenly that I can't even remember who I was before it all.
Trust me, I wish I could have even a short respite. I'm tired of it, too. I wish that there was something I could talk about besides everything. The problem is that I have to keep talking about it. If I don't keep talking about my past, it won't stay in my past. It will come back. If I ignore it and pretend that nothing happened, I would be putting something so huge into a tiny box. There is no box spacious enough to confine the complexity of where my depression has taken me. If I try to move forward, the darkness will begin to creep back in. Slowly at first and then all at once. It will take control of me again and I will have to dig myself out all over again.
I watch my friends' faces when it comes back up. They force a smile and sit there listening. They know how to play the part, but it's getting old. I once had a friend ask me why I still talk about it. I just looked at her dumb-founded. It feels like it was forever ago, but it was only two years ago since I tried to kill myself. It's not like it was decades ago. Two years ago I didn't want anything to do with this life and I'm supposed to just get over it. It's not something that just heals right away. But to everyone else, two years feels like a pretty long time. It feels like I should be moved on. Most people just don't really care about it anymore.
Most people don't just check into a psych ward once. It's like rehab. A person who has checked in once is more likely to check in again. Checking in created this huge dichotomy in my life-- while I was in the hospital I wanted nothing more to get out, but the second I left, I would have done anything to go back inside. You're safe inside the psych ward and although it's hard, you don't have to put in quite as much hard work as you do afterwards. I thought the hardest part would be the actual hospitalization. In reality, it's been the readjustment and learning how to cope that has been the hardest. If I hadn't spent the last two years talking through the crazy thoughts, I would have been one of those psych ward returners. If people hadn't continued to pick up the phone (cough cough, Allison) or listen to my ramblings, I wouldn't have made the progress I've made. I wouldn't be where I am today.
My life didn't turn out the way I'd planned. I certainly didn't expect mental illness to play such a leading role. But I can't go back and change it, nor would I want to. It's what has made me me. I won't apologize for talking about the bravest, most life-altering experience of my existence. I won't apologize for the thing that has shaped me into me. I'm proud of how far I've come and who I've started to become. There's still so much more growing in store for me, but I'm proud of where this part of my story has brought me.
Just over two years ago, I sat at a long table in the psych ward dining hall. For group that day, we discussed goals and how they help us have a purpose in our lives. We talked about setting measurable and attainable goals. We also talked about the importance of goals in our recoveries. After discussing goals to death, we were asked to write down just one goal for our post-psych ward lives. Everyone around me quickly scribbled down something as I sat at the dirty table with nothing on my paper and no ideas in my head. As my fellow psych wardians finished their goals, they trickled out of the dining hall for free time. Soon, I was the only one left with a blank sheet. With my empty page in hand, I tried to sneak out of the lunchroom. It didn't work. After what seemed like forever (but was probably about 10 minutes), I remembered my motto: We do hard things. At the top of the paper, I wrote down my goal: I want to do hard things.
Proud of myself, I walked up to my social worker expecting praise and admission into free time. I was unfortunately denied free time because my goal was "too vague" or some other sort of BS. I sat back down more frustrated than I have ever been. Looking at the nearly-blank page was discouraging. It felt like one of my tedious homework assignments for Allison that are daunting as Hell. Close to tears, I tried to think of something more specific; I was at a loss. After another eternity, I found myself pulling at my hair. I thought about what I would be doing in this exact moment if I didn't have my long hair to fidget with. That would be hard for me. So I wrote it down: chop off hair.
What else was hard? running. Okay, I'll run a 5k. But that would be too easy. I was aiming to write down unrealistic and extremely difficult things. If I was going to do this, my sass was going to shine through like never before. "I want to run a marathon". Bam, another goal.
Finally, I tried to think of something really hard. Instantly I thought of going back to school. Just thinking about it made me nauseous. There was no way I was ever going back to Provo, let alone classes on campus. I couldn't face the prospect of failing again. So, my last item on the list just said: school. I scratched that out and rephrased to to be more specific: graduate from college. There, that's a goal. It'll never happen, but it's a goal. I kind of smirked to myself as I walked up to get it approved. For some reason, my doctors didn't think my list was funny; instead, they thought it was something good for me to work towards or whatever.
***
It would be a little while before I started to see the benefit in making goals. When I was getting ready to get out of the loony bin, I realized I didn't know what I was doing or have any sort of plan. I relied on that list of goals to give me somewhere to aim for. I told my parents that very night that I was going to go back to school. I re-enrolled in some classes and kicked butt to catch myself up. Honestly, that was one of the hardest transitions I've ever been through. I'm so grateful now, but it was long and tedious at the time.
Two months after getting out, I went out with a friend from high school and we talked all about my crazy. We talked about a bunch of things, and somehow started talking about donating our hair. That night we decided we were going to donate our hair. A week later, I chopped off my hair and donated 12 inches of it. That chop was pretty symbolic of my fresh start. Allison always told me that my psych ward check-in would be like a reset button. When I chopped off my hair, I had a physical representation of that reset. During these past two years my hair has been growing, slowly. There were months where I thought "Why did I do that? I want it back." But it has given me an opportunity to practice patience. I looked in the mirror the other day and I didn't recognize myself. I was so excited because it feels like my hair has grown back almost overnight. I looked in the mirror and realized that as much as my hair had grown over the past two years, so had I. My hair is a physical representation of the reset, but also of the change and growth I've had since then.
***
Today I'm writing for another reason. I didn't chop my hair off and I definitely haven't run a marathon yet. But I still did something huge: I graduated from college. It's a big day in anyone's life, let alone mine. When I made my "unrealistic" goals two years ago, I couldn't imagine myself in those long blue robes. I couldn't picture myself walking across the stage to collect my empty, plastic diploma cover. Two years later, I graduated from college and accepted a job for next year. Despite my psychotic break-down two years ago and dropping half of my classes, I did it. I graduated with my best friends in the whole world and am moving on. I overcame every disadvantage and trial thrown my way. Not necessarily tactfully (because what fun is that?), but I did it. I have finally put these four years behind me. I no longer have to live in the shadows and memories of the darkest times of my life. I can move forward and be who I have been working towards becoming.
Although it is sad to leave behind this part of my life and the people I've met here, I am excited to start fresh. Here's to my second fresh start (although I don't need the physical reminder this time, thank you). Here's to starting a new life. Here's to a new me. Here's to accomplishing something hard. Here's to everyone who helped me get through these four years of Hell. I owe you big-time.
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.
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.
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
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.
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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)
