Loneliness. It's a word that can call to mind certain images: a single tree against a vast horizon, a solitary ship far out at sea, a soldier on battlefields far from home, an unwanted child crying alone in the dark, an old cemetery full of neglected gravestones, George, the last Galapagos Tortoise, whose death marked the extinction of his species, an old woman abandoned in a nursing home, or perhaps a prisoner in solitary confinement.
For me, it also brings up specific personal memories, and feelings that began long ago as a child and continued through adolescence, college, and into adulthood. It is the vague but definite impression that while life is happening, I am on the outside fringes watching everyone else, but unable to fully participate. Something is different-wrong-and there is an invisible barrier that I cannot cross to join in. It is a forbidding, absolute, and impenetrable division, which offers a window-like view, but is solidly and often painfully unyielding.
I recently felt that pain when I chanced to rebel, hesitantly, but hopefully. Like an electric shock, the sting of the reminder of where I belong in relation to this divide has reverberated through my entire being. I started to think about it today, and ponder what it means, and if I should just accept my fate, or if there is a secret opening that I am missing which will one day let me cross over.
Is loneliness synonymous in my life with mental illness and depression? Which came first? In the case of the most recent disappointment, I dared to hope, and to dream, and to begin to get attached to someone. Perhaps it is the very nature of my loneliness that caused me to become too attached too quickly, and also to overlook the glaring truth that my own instability is not conducive to romance, and certainly not to a healthy relationship. Knowing the reality of the situation does not stop the same familiar feelings from beginning. The voice that says that I am less than, unworthy, too deeply flawed, and deserve to be rejected begins to pipe up, and with it the rush of awareness of my inadequacies, my failures, and desperate plans about improving myself so that I will somehow have value.
While giving credence to the legitimate feeling of disappointment coming from this specific circumstance, I also want to be more deliberate about challenging the other more destructive thought patterns. Looking at those patterns takes me a little closer to some of where my loneliness is rooted, which is in a terrible lack of self esteem, and gnawing self doubt and insecurity. It is impossible to let go, or to fully engage when you question your own every word and action, and then second guess every reaction and word from others on the premise that they too must clearly see your deficiencies and reject you on this basis. When rejection does not follow immediately, or even after years, there is still the fear that someone will discover the "truth" and the real, unacceptable version of yourself hiding just beneath the surface. Sometimes it even causes you to bring out an ugly, antagonistic side to provoke the inevitable rejection before it comes with precipitating events.
Am I a sick, self-obsessed narcissist? It's possible a sort of weird self preoccupation and obsession is one cause of such a negative self image. Maybe I spend so much time introspectively that I forget how small my own issues really are in the face of life's ugliest realities and circumstances. Maybe I am so busy worrying about what other people think that I am missing an opportunity to connect that is right in front of me. Self-confidence, empathy, and getting outside my own head all seem like some of the possible antidotes for this problem.
Some of the loneliness also makes sense, looking over the past. Growing up homeschooled, and under a strict version of fundamental Christianity that had a very isolating system of rules did not help. Mostly I was at home with my siblings and parents, or in their tiny church, and with a limited sphere of influence and experience outside of books and my own imagination. In that home and church, my voice did not matter, and could only cause offense and punishment if I dared to try to use it. Feelings and emotions mostly rose from sin, were not acceptable, and therefore were best kept hidden. In a house where control, fear, violence, and suppression were daily reality, loneliness was the experience of trying to manage all of the unexpressed inner turmoil and pain that had no outlet, and threatened to drown me. Then, after being sexually abused between the age of 11 and 12, and subsequently being blamed and punished for "adultery" by not opposing the abuser, shame took over and drove me into the deepest, blackest, darkest hell of loneliness I had ever known. There was no processing the abuse or recovery from the scars it left: instead the gravity of my depravity and the knowledge that I was tainted, unclean, spoiled goods, and unworthy was drilled into me in daily sessions where I was forced to repent for my sin, and told over and over again that I had ruined myself. It was drilled in by being beaten, forbidden to leave the house, by not being spoken to by family members, or allowed to interact with other children because I was now no longer a child like them, but a woman of sin who would ruin my friends with my wicked sexuality. I remember specifically thinking that I was less than human, and wishing desperately that I was dead, but hoping that if I were very, very good I might someday earn a rank among people again as one of them. That's how much it was ingrained in me: I no longer thought I was human.
Loneliness was being 16, and finally coming unglued from all of this, and finding myself in a pediatric psychiatric unit for weeks. It was years of college with almost no friends, sitting alone at most meals, and feeling like an alien landing on an unfamiliar planet as I wandered the halls and tried to adjust to classrooms, and a college atmosphere without having ever even gone to school. It was being in a toxic dating relationship on and off for five years before marrying my high school boyfriend, and finding myself in another island of isolation-wearing a ring, and sharing an apartment, but somehow emotionally and mentally a million miles from the man I was sharing a bed and a life with. Loneliness then became almost two years of standing on bridges, overdosing on prescriptions, and trips in the back of police cars and ambulances to hospitals. It was weeks, and months of giving up, and staring at four white walls in the room of yet another psychiatric ward, and feeling in their unforgiving nothingness the absolute blankness of despair. With all of those months came a fresh source of loneliness. My mental illness was another secret; another thing to be deeply ashamed of. It resulted in losing two jobs, getting divorced, moving back home, and even going on food stamps for a time from having no money while others in my peer group excelled at and pursued careers, and had successful marriages, and gave birth to babies. The things that had always made people strangers to me were now magnified by my own fall.
And that brings me to the depression, and diagnosis of borderline personality disorder. Living with depression is isolating and lonely just by its very nature. There is a pervasive sadness, pessimism, lack of enjoyment, desire to withdraw, and inability to engage that is included in my depression. Whether my self esteem issues are part of the depression, or part of the cause of the depression would be impossible to know. Then there is this thing I have called Borderline Personality Disorder, which sounds slightly more important than bat-shit crazy, and scarier than just depression. Depression-ok, lots of people have it, but this one throws people off. One friend of my mom's asked me if this meant I had multiple personalities. Here's a shortened explanation from the Mayo Clinic.org:
"With borderline personality disorder, you may have a severely distorted self-image and feel worthless and fundamentally flawed. Anger, impulsiveness and frequent mood swings may push others away, even though you may desire to have loving and lasting relationships."
So there it is. Fear of abandonment, distrust of people, unstable relationships, and lack of sense of self are all symptoms. All of which can contribute to loneliness, real or perceived. With a combination of mental illness, challenges in my past, and whatever else stands in my way, the question becomes whether or not this can be overcome. With the very few exceptions of some friends and family members, will the longing to connect in more meaningful relationships with others ever be satisfied, or even just the desire to feel like a normal, functioning part of society? Returning to my metaphorical barrier, is there a way through, or is it definitively, and truly insurmountable? Can I reframe my interactions, and perceptions, or is the lens I am looking through permanently scratched and distorted? Dare I hope that someday I will reach a place where I can love myself, and look out in confidence, and then in return love someone else from that sturdier, more wholesome foundation? Perhaps more importantly, can I reside in that space by myself and be ok with it, instead of hoping someone else will help fill that void? In fact, I think that probably is the most vital piece: being ok without the validation of others, and having an inner peace that defies even lack of romance, friendships and social connections. I do believe the need for human connected is real and valid as well, but not to live in fear for a lack of it, and to be ok in the solitude is also a beautiful thing.
I don't know how this turns out, because I haven't arrived there yet. I can write pages about loneliness, and trying to speculate and work through some of its causes, but not a whole lot about the "cure", or maybe it is more of a journey, to recovery from Chronic Loneliness. I can also only imagine what it feels like to live in a different reality without the consistent invasion of loneliness. The bit of an optimist that does survive somewhere in me is hoping for and will not give up on working toward the best possible outcome. I think part of the recovery is included in thinking the issue through, and challenging the beliefs and mindsets that are feeding it, including the low opinion I hold of myself, and the all too present past. So be on notice, loneliness-your reign is limited!
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
The Value of Life
The last couple of days, I have been thinking about the way we as humans place value on a life, and view tragedies. In light of yesterday's events, it is not a popular time to approach the subject, and I am not discounting that the Boston Marathon bombing was a horrible crime, or saying that our hearts and prayers should not go out to the victims. At the same time, I can't help to realize that the only time we seem to truly be concerned about an event like this is when it hits close to home, and we envision that it could have been ourselves or a loved one affected. This isn't an incident in some faraway country that barely makes an impression when we see it in the news: this is the USA, and we aren't used to living with events like this, despite the multiple mass shootings of the past few years. Boston is an American city; a setting, culture, and language that is our own; we understand the politics, we know the cars being driven, stores, street layouts, religious views, foods eaten, and types of businesses that operate there. The people of Boston look like us, and have similar interests, hobbies, careers, and worldviews. It could have just as easily been another American city, perhaps the one in which we live, which also raises the fear level. To drive those emotions even higher, local news stations, wanting a piece of the media frenzy, broadcast interviews with witnesses native to our own geographical location, and discuss security of the local events which attract crowds.
What we don't understand is the atmosphere of a place like, and I will use as an example, Baghdad. I know when I hear about a bombing there, I don't have a context to envision the scene on the street; what the buildings look like, or even what food the Iraqis eat, their religious traditions, what the people are wearing, what the heck is going on with their politics, the language they are speaking, or how they were going about their day before the blast. I have vague images from the few, brief news broadcasts that even bother to address these events since the US pullout. Yesterday 62 people were killed in Iraq in a series of bombings and gunfire; something I personally did not see broadcasted by any media outlets. With our intense nationalism and patriotism, there is a sense that it is o.k. if it happens out there but it damn well better never happen here. Those kind of threats should never darken our lives. We should feel safe, and secure in large crowds, in tall buildings, on an airplane, on a bus, or riding a subway. The people in Boston are Americans: we stand by our own and protect and cherish our citizens and our country first and foremost.
Wanting that safety is not actually a bad thing, and I am not making a case for not being prudent and doing everything possible to protect the people within the jurisdiction of the United States. Nor am I delusional, thinking that nationalism is just an American sentiment. I doubt people in other countries feel much differently, (although it is generally accepted around the world that for all of the education and resources available, Americans are often arrogant and convinced of their cultural and moral superiority, and closed off to and ignorant of other cultures). In addition to it being natural to love one's country, the world is a big place, and no one can be expected to absorb all of the evil and injustice that occurs every day, and feel intensely emotional about each event. In fact, emotions happen automatically, and those emotions are bound to be stronger when what you hold near and dear is involved, similarly to the difference between hearing about a serious car accident, and finding out a family member was in that accident.
So what exactly am I getting at? I am not actually trying to make "a point," but simply processing the events of the last couple of days. I do have to say that on a personal level, as a Christian where there are not supposed to be any racial/national barriers, I am not comfortable with, and can't justify defending, or loving, or caring about the people similar to me more than those I can't identify as closely with. That kind of thinking can result in the unofficial segregation of whites, blacks, Hispanics, Asians, etc.even within our own borders. It may be a natural part of human nature to find your identity within a group where the "members" can relate more to and understand and sympathize better with one another based on similar values and experiences, but I can't feel at peace when I see 149 Pakistanis killed in bombings in February (which if I knew about, I already forgot) and dismiss it and move on with my day, but watch hours of TV coverage when three American people die, and feel shock and horror. At the risk of my words being interpreted as a minimization of the events in Boston, I want to be clear that I am not in any way downplaying what happened. But the Good Samaritan was the example Jesus held up when he said "Love your neighbor as yourself," and the Samaritans were the Jew's enemies.
I know I don't naturally love the world around me like that. When I am being honest and not falsely praising myself for being open-minded, I have a hard time seeing beyond geographical, religious, racial, and cultural differences. I realize how easily I can start to classify people, or see a "Them," and either be indifferent, or feel threatened by the unfamiliarity and differences with whatever group, and cling to the comfort of not stepping outside of what I understand and know. That mentality is something I have written against before, since I have experienced what it is like to be one of Them, and Other while struggling with mental illness, but it's much easier to point out in other people than it is to be transparent about that tendency in yourself.
I want to remember that the child killed in Iraq by a car bomb yesterday was just as precious and irreplaceable as the eight-year-old boy killed in Boston. I want to feel the same compassion for one of the Afghan allies who lost a limb that I feel for a returning American soldier in the same situation. I want to be more passionate about the movement to end human trafficking, of which I am currently a small part of, than I will ever be about something like debating gun control laws, because if Americans were being pressed into forced labor and sex trafficking at the rate people in other countries are, the whole gun control debate would pale in comparison. My home is in Heaven, not here, and people from every tribe, tongue and nation are going to be there, so I ought to get to know and appreciate them here on earth when given the opportunity. I also know that I can't do any of that on my own, and the way to grow love is not by digging down really deeply into myself, or working a lot harder to produce it. Generally I find the deeper I dig, the more ugly stuff comes up to the surface, not the opposite. Jesus already came and gave himself for the whole world, sending his disciples out into "all the nations." If that's where his heart is, I am confident that he is willing and able to make mine reflect that.
http://www.iraqbodycount.org/
Tuz Khurmato: 7 by car bombs.
Mussayab: 4 by car bombs.
Tikrit: 4 by car bombs.
Nassiriya: 2 by car bombs.
Mosul: 2 by car bomb, gunfire.
Ramadi: 3 by car bomb, gunfire.
Khalis: 1 child by car bomb.
Shirqat: 1 by gunfire.
Falluja: 2 by car bomb.
Kirkuk: 4 by car bombs.
Tarmiya: 1 policeman by gunfire.
Buhriz: 1 by car bomb.
April casualties so far: 249 civilians killed.
What we don't understand is the atmosphere of a place like, and I will use as an example, Baghdad. I know when I hear about a bombing there, I don't have a context to envision the scene on the street; what the buildings look like, or even what food the Iraqis eat, their religious traditions, what the people are wearing, what the heck is going on with their politics, the language they are speaking, or how they were going about their day before the blast. I have vague images from the few, brief news broadcasts that even bother to address these events since the US pullout. Yesterday 62 people were killed in Iraq in a series of bombings and gunfire; something I personally did not see broadcasted by any media outlets. With our intense nationalism and patriotism, there is a sense that it is o.k. if it happens out there but it damn well better never happen here. Those kind of threats should never darken our lives. We should feel safe, and secure in large crowds, in tall buildings, on an airplane, on a bus, or riding a subway. The people in Boston are Americans: we stand by our own and protect and cherish our citizens and our country first and foremost.
Wanting that safety is not actually a bad thing, and I am not making a case for not being prudent and doing everything possible to protect the people within the jurisdiction of the United States. Nor am I delusional, thinking that nationalism is just an American sentiment. I doubt people in other countries feel much differently, (although it is generally accepted around the world that for all of the education and resources available, Americans are often arrogant and convinced of their cultural and moral superiority, and closed off to and ignorant of other cultures). In addition to it being natural to love one's country, the world is a big place, and no one can be expected to absorb all of the evil and injustice that occurs every day, and feel intensely emotional about each event. In fact, emotions happen automatically, and those emotions are bound to be stronger when what you hold near and dear is involved, similarly to the difference between hearing about a serious car accident, and finding out a family member was in that accident.
So what exactly am I getting at? I am not actually trying to make "a point," but simply processing the events of the last couple of days. I do have to say that on a personal level, as a Christian where there are not supposed to be any racial/national barriers, I am not comfortable with, and can't justify defending, or loving, or caring about the people similar to me more than those I can't identify as closely with. That kind of thinking can result in the unofficial segregation of whites, blacks, Hispanics, Asians, etc.even within our own borders. It may be a natural part of human nature to find your identity within a group where the "members" can relate more to and understand and sympathize better with one another based on similar values and experiences, but I can't feel at peace when I see 149 Pakistanis killed in bombings in February (which if I knew about, I already forgot) and dismiss it and move on with my day, but watch hours of TV coverage when three American people die, and feel shock and horror. At the risk of my words being interpreted as a minimization of the events in Boston, I want to be clear that I am not in any way downplaying what happened. But the Good Samaritan was the example Jesus held up when he said "Love your neighbor as yourself," and the Samaritans were the Jew's enemies.
I know I don't naturally love the world around me like that. When I am being honest and not falsely praising myself for being open-minded, I have a hard time seeing beyond geographical, religious, racial, and cultural differences. I realize how easily I can start to classify people, or see a "Them," and either be indifferent, or feel threatened by the unfamiliarity and differences with whatever group, and cling to the comfort of not stepping outside of what I understand and know. That mentality is something I have written against before, since I have experienced what it is like to be one of Them, and Other while struggling with mental illness, but it's much easier to point out in other people than it is to be transparent about that tendency in yourself.
I want to remember that the child killed in Iraq by a car bomb yesterday was just as precious and irreplaceable as the eight-year-old boy killed in Boston. I want to feel the same compassion for one of the Afghan allies who lost a limb that I feel for a returning American soldier in the same situation. I want to be more passionate about the movement to end human trafficking, of which I am currently a small part of, than I will ever be about something like debating gun control laws, because if Americans were being pressed into forced labor and sex trafficking at the rate people in other countries are, the whole gun control debate would pale in comparison. My home is in Heaven, not here, and people from every tribe, tongue and nation are going to be there, so I ought to get to know and appreciate them here on earth when given the opportunity. I also know that I can't do any of that on my own, and the way to grow love is not by digging down really deeply into myself, or working a lot harder to produce it. Generally I find the deeper I dig, the more ugly stuff comes up to the surface, not the opposite. Jesus already came and gave himself for the whole world, sending his disciples out into "all the nations." If that's where his heart is, I am confident that he is willing and able to make mine reflect that.
http://www.iraqbodycount.org/
Monday 15 April: 62 killed
Baghdad: 30 by car bombs, IEDs.Tuz Khurmato: 7 by car bombs.
Mussayab: 4 by car bombs.
Tikrit: 4 by car bombs.
Nassiriya: 2 by car bombs.
Mosul: 2 by car bomb, gunfire.
Ramadi: 3 by car bomb, gunfire.
Khalis: 1 child by car bomb.
Shirqat: 1 by gunfire.
Falluja: 2 by car bomb.
Kirkuk: 4 by car bombs.
Tarmiya: 1 policeman by gunfire.
Buhriz: 1 by car bomb.
April casualties so far: 249 civilians killed.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
The Ugly Truth
I spent most of my return time to this blog unsuccessfully attempting to figure out how to link it with my other blog. I also sat and thought about whether I was too honest in some of my postings, and might want to retreat a little from sharing things in my life that I can't boast about, and that don't necessarily paint me in the most positive light. There are a couple of things I have blogged about, and a lot more things I haven't (since I am sporadic about it at best) that I wish I could make disappear so that I would feel more admirable, more appealing, more "normal." Being open is difficult, and not something I do well unless it is with my closest friends, or when I have no choice because I am unable to hide my shortcomings. I did use to say a lot of things about how I would not allow people to make me feel ashamed or silence me from telling the truth, and that I refused to try to paint over the bad things in life. My childhood was filled with ignoring reality and trying to pretend that things were neat, orderly, and correct, instead of chaotic, painful, and filled with fear. I never wanted to return to that, and so I vowed to do the exact opposite in my adult life.
But the truth is, I want to be liked and accepted. I want people to think well of me. If things aren't the way I want them to be, and I am not the person I want to be, than I tend to redouble my efforts to make things look good, as if by changing the presentation I can alter reality. It's not that I never was forthright, but again, it was to select people and in situations that felt safe. To put it mildly, all of that tends to fall apart when your marriage collapses, you lose jobs, and you have a mental and emotional breakdown. Any self-confidence turns to shame. It may be that your marriage was struggling from the beginning. It may be that while talking about being a Christian you felt condemned instead of free because you thought it was up to you and all you did was fail to live up to the standards. It may be that you suppressed the depression and despair for years, but lets face it; no one really cares about all of that as long as you can keep (pardon my language) your shit together. When all of that garbage is out on the table, it isn't really something anyone cares to see, but when you spend weeks at a time in the hospital, and your marriage ends, there is really no hiding. Not only do you expose yourself simply by "falling apart," but you also feel like you have an obligation to explain to everyone and their brother what your personal issues are, as if you need to apologize endlessly for your failures, and justify your existence and misery somehow when you don't even feel that it's justified. You are the object of pity, worry, and often understandable anger and confusion, and your family, loved ones, and even strangers think that if you do something as crazy and stupid as trying to take your own life, than your privacy is forfeit. Your every thought and motivation is up for examination and demands are placed that they must be revealed. There is no longer a decision about the self that you want to put out there, and people are left to draw their own conclusions, which are largely influenced by things like whether or not they believe in such a thing as mental illness, whether they think you need to pull yourself up by your bootstraps, whether they factor in spiritual influences or past trauma, and whether they decide to stand by you or to walk away.
After all of that it would make sense to retreat and begin working on rebuilding my self image. It would make sense to try to get a really great job or return to college and achieve high marks, and take on social causes and try to be a really good person to earn respect again. Every month, every year that passes would be one I could check off against what sees like, and partly may be, a really incredibly enormous series of mistakes, mental illness, misinformation, lack of understanding, deep depression, and bad decisions. The hope would be that it some point I would have worked hard enough and distanced myself enough from this chapter of my life that I could sweep it under the rug and maybe vaguely refer to it as "a difficult time."
A big part of me wants to do that, and it might seem like the best path to some people. So why wouldn't I? Back to the beginning of this blog, when I said I am tempted to erase the blogs that reveal embarrassing or personal things that make me and others uncomfortable. I won't do that either, because this is my story, and I can't rewrite it to make it conform to what society approves of, or what I would have wanted. I hope healing and redemption and new life can come out of it, but whatever the result, it will be influenced by this time in my life. I don't like it, I would not have chosen it, and I do worry about what people will think of me as a result of it, but ultimately my flaws don't define me. What God thinks about and says about me does, and He sees the mess I am, and doesn't say like so many other people, "Go clean your act up and then we'll talk," but "I see the mess you are and that is why I sent my Son. Come just the way you are." That's the truth I often don't believe the way I should, but that also sets me free from going back into hiding.
But the truth is, I want to be liked and accepted. I want people to think well of me. If things aren't the way I want them to be, and I am not the person I want to be, than I tend to redouble my efforts to make things look good, as if by changing the presentation I can alter reality. It's not that I never was forthright, but again, it was to select people and in situations that felt safe. To put it mildly, all of that tends to fall apart when your marriage collapses, you lose jobs, and you have a mental and emotional breakdown. Any self-confidence turns to shame. It may be that your marriage was struggling from the beginning. It may be that while talking about being a Christian you felt condemned instead of free because you thought it was up to you and all you did was fail to live up to the standards. It may be that you suppressed the depression and despair for years, but lets face it; no one really cares about all of that as long as you can keep (pardon my language) your shit together. When all of that garbage is out on the table, it isn't really something anyone cares to see, but when you spend weeks at a time in the hospital, and your marriage ends, there is really no hiding. Not only do you expose yourself simply by "falling apart," but you also feel like you have an obligation to explain to everyone and their brother what your personal issues are, as if you need to apologize endlessly for your failures, and justify your existence and misery somehow when you don't even feel that it's justified. You are the object of pity, worry, and often understandable anger and confusion, and your family, loved ones, and even strangers think that if you do something as crazy and stupid as trying to take your own life, than your privacy is forfeit. Your every thought and motivation is up for examination and demands are placed that they must be revealed. There is no longer a decision about the self that you want to put out there, and people are left to draw their own conclusions, which are largely influenced by things like whether or not they believe in such a thing as mental illness, whether they think you need to pull yourself up by your bootstraps, whether they factor in spiritual influences or past trauma, and whether they decide to stand by you or to walk away.
After all of that it would make sense to retreat and begin working on rebuilding my self image. It would make sense to try to get a really great job or return to college and achieve high marks, and take on social causes and try to be a really good person to earn respect again. Every month, every year that passes would be one I could check off against what sees like, and partly may be, a really incredibly enormous series of mistakes, mental illness, misinformation, lack of understanding, deep depression, and bad decisions. The hope would be that it some point I would have worked hard enough and distanced myself enough from this chapter of my life that I could sweep it under the rug and maybe vaguely refer to it as "a difficult time."
A big part of me wants to do that, and it might seem like the best path to some people. So why wouldn't I? Back to the beginning of this blog, when I said I am tempted to erase the blogs that reveal embarrassing or personal things that make me and others uncomfortable. I won't do that either, because this is my story, and I can't rewrite it to make it conform to what society approves of, or what I would have wanted. I hope healing and redemption and new life can come out of it, but whatever the result, it will be influenced by this time in my life. I don't like it, I would not have chosen it, and I do worry about what people will think of me as a result of it, but ultimately my flaws don't define me. What God thinks about and says about me does, and He sees the mess I am, and doesn't say like so many other people, "Go clean your act up and then we'll talk," but "I see the mess you are and that is why I sent my Son. Come just the way you are." That's the truth I often don't believe the way I should, but that also sets me free from going back into hiding.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Feeling like an outcast
When you have a mental illness, in addition to all of the depressed thoughts that drive you to isolate and feel unacceptable and unlovable, there are the very real repercussions of the stigma toward the mentally ill that separate you from "normal" society. In my last blog, I mentioned how awkward it is to run in to someone I know who doesn't know what is going on in my life, and to then wrack my brain for a politically correct way to say I have mental illness, and where my life circumstances stand as a result. In fact, I am pretty sure there is no PC way to say it, which is why I try to think of honest but incomplete answers that will silence any further inquiries. It's something that makes people terribly uncomfortable, and/or produces a myriad of pat responses. It's not something that usually takes a toll on your physical health, so it is hidden, mysterious, and scary. Why did people for so long just lock away those with mental illness and let them die forgotten? Maybe it was in part because medicine had no answers, but I think it was also because for the average person without mental illness, it is difficult to be around, accept, or be close to someone who is mentally and emotionally irregular. It can be volatile, unpredictable, and painful. It would be easier, like then, to just sweep it under the rug and not look at it, because it can sometimes be quite ugly. People don't know what to say or how to respond, or what exactly it even means to be mentally ill. One person recently asked me when I told them my diagnosis, "So, does that mean you have different personalities?"
"It's just like if you have cancer or a broken leg," mental health professionals say, but they are either delusional, or flat out lying. I imagine announcing that you have cancer is not an easy thing to do, but while people may still struggle with exactly the right response (you'll beat it, I'll pray for you, etc), they don't judge you. If your leg is in a cast, chances are no one is going to think you were an idiot for not being cautious enough to prevent it (not to say that people who handle illness badly might not disappear in these cases). With mental illness, it is different. In my many mental hygiene arrests I have had so many well-meaning cops and emergency medical workers give me the same pep talks. "You're young, and don't have a serious illness. Nothing is worth trying to take your own life. You just need to work on seeing the good things, and focusing on them." It's the old "Pull Yourself-Up-By-Your-Bootstraps and Stop Feeling Sorry for Yourself" speech, and underneath it is the assumption that somehow, your mental illness is in your hands, and you could turn it around if you wanted to. In the end, if you are responsible, then the so called "mental illness" is not an illness at all, but a bad choice you are making to stay in a negative mindset. It's a lot easier to explain mental illness if it is people making bad decisions about how to think.
Even if it is not necessarily about placing blame, for a lot of people, who again may struggle to define exactly what it means to have a mental illness, they may instead automatically substitute the term with mental weakness. Strong people and the ones with character are the ones that make it through any adversity intact. They are the ones whose courage, or faith, or determination we admire because they overcame difficult external circumstances. With mental illness, whether or not it is caused or magnified by external factors in an individual's case, there is often present the idea that it was an inherent flaw that either caused the person with the illness to not recover from external difficulties, or to now fail to overcome internal turmoil. And when people think you are seriously deficient in resilience or character, they don't seem inclined to be very forgiving or accepting.
Even many of my friends and loved ones, with the best intentions, have given me the same feedback, although they are mostly gracious enough to acknowledge mental illness as a real diagnosis. When I am hospitalized for a suicide attempt, or for being suicidal, there is a head-shaking sense of when is she going to get tired of this? When is she going to stop making "stupid" (and yes that is the word that is often used) choices? When is she going to decide to look to God for healing and stop wallowing in her misery? When is she going to forgive, or let go of the past, or whatever is holding her back and move on? When will she toughen up and decide to get a life? The misery that drove me there is not as of great a concern as how I handled it, and that I once again "failed." The best intentioned people don't seem to know exactly where to draw the line between a genuine illness, and bad decisions, choosing to remain stuck in one place, etc.
Maybe I am projecting some of that judgment in my own shame and embarrassment, but I know that is not entirely the case. For instance, several people told me I really just need to get back to work and I will be OK. I have worked since I was fifteen, and already feel ashamed to be out of a job, but when I tried to return, it was only three months before I was hospitalized twice and had to go out on health leave. If my body is intact, there is the sense that it must be laziness preventing me, and in America's strong work ethic, of course returning to work will aid in my recovery-again, so long as I can physically work, that is the right thing to do. So in additional to being an anomaly, the mentally ill often become for a period of time (or some permanently) a "burden on society." Believe me, there is a huge sense of loss for those of us who can't work, and a strong desire for the most part on the part of those individuals to be productive again.
I want to say that in some ways I agree with people about mental health being in the hands of the person with the diagnosis. Not that being mentally ill is just a change of mindset, or something you can switch on and off, but that I am responsible for doing what I can to try and improve and not to just accept this as a way of life. Your leg will never set correctly if it is not put in a cast, and your cancer will not go into remission on its own if left untreated. There is some personal responsibility for most people with mental illness, although I will say in being in and out of the hospital, I have seen people so severely affected that I truly do not think they can control their thoughts or actions anymore. By personal responsibility, I don't mean accepting that you must have done something, or must be continuing to do something, wrong. I don't even mean that if you try hard enough you can kick this thing. I refer to being willing to take medicine, and to get treatment, and to work as hard as you are able, and keep your mind as open as you are able, to recovery (for me this also has spiritual implications and recovery that is needed as well). Recovery may never mean being symptom-free, but I hope and pray that someday I will drive over a bridge without wondering if it is high enough to jump off. That I will wake up less days with despair and hopelessness. That I won't feel so much pain inside that everything goes black and ugly, and I am driven to give up on life.
However, this blog isn't really about recovery, or what I hope or think that will look like, or the future I hope I can have. I am just tired of seeing other people in treatment with me feel like and be treated as societal outcasts, and of feeling like a "less than" myself because of the stigma carried with mental illness, whatever form that illness might take, and because I am not working right now and am in treatment instead. I am sad that in addition to dealing with our symptoms, we have to think about the way other people treat us as a result. I admit terms like paranoid schizophrenic and bipolar scared me too before I spent a lot of time in hospitals with people who carry these diagnosis, but I found they are regular people who may not be able to function in the same way most of society does, just like at this time I cannot. After suffering symptoms for years and managing to keep them at bay, when you can't manage anymore, it feels you are suddenly standing naked and all that is showing is fat, stretch marks, and scars. I am the same person that loves animals and worked in a vet clinic for three years during high school. I am the same person who fell in love with and married my high school sweetheart, even if that did not work out. I am the same person who went to college, who likes to laugh, and walk outdoors, etc. I am a dynamic whole, and if you choose to see me as a walking diagnosis, don't believe my illness is real but is "just in my head," or are put off or frightened because I don't have all my crap together, then that is your decision. I am tired of owning it as a reflection of my own flaws. I am tired of blaming myself and feeling guilty for being mentally ill because other people seem to hold me at fault. I'm going to do everything I can to improve, but that's because living with acute symptoms every day is a truly miserable thing, and I believe God has more for my life than this. However, I am not going to hold myself responsible and beat myself up for having this hurdle to deal with. I know that if I could have pulled myself up by the bootstraps, I already would have, because I have hopes and dreams, and things that I want to do in the here and now that would be a lot more fulfilling than therapy and inpatient hospital stays.
"It's just like if you have cancer or a broken leg," mental health professionals say, but they are either delusional, or flat out lying. I imagine announcing that you have cancer is not an easy thing to do, but while people may still struggle with exactly the right response (you'll beat it, I'll pray for you, etc), they don't judge you. If your leg is in a cast, chances are no one is going to think you were an idiot for not being cautious enough to prevent it (not to say that people who handle illness badly might not disappear in these cases). With mental illness, it is different. In my many mental hygiene arrests I have had so many well-meaning cops and emergency medical workers give me the same pep talks. "You're young, and don't have a serious illness. Nothing is worth trying to take your own life. You just need to work on seeing the good things, and focusing on them." It's the old "Pull Yourself-Up-By-Your-Bootstraps and Stop Feeling Sorry for Yourself" speech, and underneath it is the assumption that somehow, your mental illness is in your hands, and you could turn it around if you wanted to. In the end, if you are responsible, then the so called "mental illness" is not an illness at all, but a bad choice you are making to stay in a negative mindset. It's a lot easier to explain mental illness if it is people making bad decisions about how to think.
Even if it is not necessarily about placing blame, for a lot of people, who again may struggle to define exactly what it means to have a mental illness, they may instead automatically substitute the term with mental weakness. Strong people and the ones with character are the ones that make it through any adversity intact. They are the ones whose courage, or faith, or determination we admire because they overcame difficult external circumstances. With mental illness, whether or not it is caused or magnified by external factors in an individual's case, there is often present the idea that it was an inherent flaw that either caused the person with the illness to not recover from external difficulties, or to now fail to overcome internal turmoil. And when people think you are seriously deficient in resilience or character, they don't seem inclined to be very forgiving or accepting.
Even many of my friends and loved ones, with the best intentions, have given me the same feedback, although they are mostly gracious enough to acknowledge mental illness as a real diagnosis. When I am hospitalized for a suicide attempt, or for being suicidal, there is a head-shaking sense of when is she going to get tired of this? When is she going to stop making "stupid" (and yes that is the word that is often used) choices? When is she going to decide to look to God for healing and stop wallowing in her misery? When is she going to forgive, or let go of the past, or whatever is holding her back and move on? When will she toughen up and decide to get a life? The misery that drove me there is not as of great a concern as how I handled it, and that I once again "failed." The best intentioned people don't seem to know exactly where to draw the line between a genuine illness, and bad decisions, choosing to remain stuck in one place, etc.
Maybe I am projecting some of that judgment in my own shame and embarrassment, but I know that is not entirely the case. For instance, several people told me I really just need to get back to work and I will be OK. I have worked since I was fifteen, and already feel ashamed to be out of a job, but when I tried to return, it was only three months before I was hospitalized twice and had to go out on health leave. If my body is intact, there is the sense that it must be laziness preventing me, and in America's strong work ethic, of course returning to work will aid in my recovery-again, so long as I can physically work, that is the right thing to do. So in additional to being an anomaly, the mentally ill often become for a period of time (or some permanently) a "burden on society." Believe me, there is a huge sense of loss for those of us who can't work, and a strong desire for the most part on the part of those individuals to be productive again.
I want to say that in some ways I agree with people about mental health being in the hands of the person with the diagnosis. Not that being mentally ill is just a change of mindset, or something you can switch on and off, but that I am responsible for doing what I can to try and improve and not to just accept this as a way of life. Your leg will never set correctly if it is not put in a cast, and your cancer will not go into remission on its own if left untreated. There is some personal responsibility for most people with mental illness, although I will say in being in and out of the hospital, I have seen people so severely affected that I truly do not think they can control their thoughts or actions anymore. By personal responsibility, I don't mean accepting that you must have done something, or must be continuing to do something, wrong. I don't even mean that if you try hard enough you can kick this thing. I refer to being willing to take medicine, and to get treatment, and to work as hard as you are able, and keep your mind as open as you are able, to recovery (for me this also has spiritual implications and recovery that is needed as well). Recovery may never mean being symptom-free, but I hope and pray that someday I will drive over a bridge without wondering if it is high enough to jump off. That I will wake up less days with despair and hopelessness. That I won't feel so much pain inside that everything goes black and ugly, and I am driven to give up on life.
However, this blog isn't really about recovery, or what I hope or think that will look like, or the future I hope I can have. I am just tired of seeing other people in treatment with me feel like and be treated as societal outcasts, and of feeling like a "less than" myself because of the stigma carried with mental illness, whatever form that illness might take, and because I am not working right now and am in treatment instead. I am sad that in addition to dealing with our symptoms, we have to think about the way other people treat us as a result. I admit terms like paranoid schizophrenic and bipolar scared me too before I spent a lot of time in hospitals with people who carry these diagnosis, but I found they are regular people who may not be able to function in the same way most of society does, just like at this time I cannot. After suffering symptoms for years and managing to keep them at bay, when you can't manage anymore, it feels you are suddenly standing naked and all that is showing is fat, stretch marks, and scars. I am the same person that loves animals and worked in a vet clinic for three years during high school. I am the same person who fell in love with and married my high school sweetheart, even if that did not work out. I am the same person who went to college, who likes to laugh, and walk outdoors, etc. I am a dynamic whole, and if you choose to see me as a walking diagnosis, don't believe my illness is real but is "just in my head," or are put off or frightened because I don't have all my crap together, then that is your decision. I am tired of owning it as a reflection of my own flaws. I am tired of blaming myself and feeling guilty for being mentally ill because other people seem to hold me at fault. I'm going to do everything I can to improve, but that's because living with acute symptoms every day is a truly miserable thing, and I believe God has more for my life than this. However, I am not going to hold myself responsible and beat myself up for having this hurdle to deal with. I know that if I could have pulled myself up by the bootstraps, I already would have, because I have hopes and dreams, and things that I want to do in the here and now that would be a lot more fulfilling than therapy and inpatient hospital stays.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Just Say No to Bridges
"Get down now! Get on the ground! Do not resist me!"
I am at the top of a bridge, high over the Genesee River, my leg caught in a railing, with a police officer dragging at me and screaming at me to get on the ground. I want to tell him I cannot because my leg is caught, but my voice doesn't seem to be working, and the harder he pulls the more it hurts. Plus, I am now hanging awkwardly upside down, and despite the unbearable pain in my leg I think, I hope my pants don't get dragged off. Eventually, when I feel certain my leg will break, I manage to squeak out that I really would love to comply but cannot. By then more cops have arrived, and they ease me loose, where I am then handcuffed and led to the back of a police car with several giant bruises.
This is not a chapter in my criminal history, but a different sort of history, and one I never foresaw. When I run into people I know, and they ask, "So, what are you up to?" my brain goes into panic mode. I am not good at giving generalities, and if pressed for any more details, I crack like an egg and spill the goods. However, I do try to mop up the mess a bit, because the hard truth might go something like this;
"Funny you should ask! I first overdosed over the weekend in February 2011, but that was no big deal. I had to drink some nasty charcoal, they sent me home, and I went back to work Monday. Then in October, I was feeling keen on hanging myself, and called Lifeline. The overly enthusiastic local cops arrived in a half dozen pack threatening to kick my door in, and I was whisked off to the hospital in an ambulance and admitted. Since then, it has been almost non-stop overdoses, trips to the top of bridges, mental hygiene arrests, and hospital stays. I can't pay the bills, or keep a job, and my marriage ended partly due to my mental illness. Oh, and I live with Mom and Dad now."
There is an identifier I never imagined using for myself. Mentally ill. Icky and yucky. The title has all kinds of negative connotations, and scares a lot of people. Frankly, it frightens me. When I was pounding away at my college papers, this was not part of the future plan. I didn't take exams about how to survive weeks in the psyche ward, or maybe more importantly, how to survive real life after being discharged. They did not lecture on how to navigate confusing diagnosis with fancy names, like Major Depressive Disorder, Anxiety Disorder, and Borderline Personality Disorder, or the plethora of pills the doctors hand out with these diagnosis. I never had Plan B For Financial, Mental, Emotional, and Marital Ruin. There are a lot of things that have brought me here that I won't get into, but after one hospitalization for depression and being suicidal at the age of 16, I thought of that as something in the past that I could leave behind me if I worked hard enough at school, my jobs, and my marriage.
"Just go jump off a bridge," we used to say as kids. When did that become a joke? When you are standing at the top of a bridge staring far below and weighing your options, it doesn't seem terrible funny. Maybe there is some subtle strain of humor I missed out on-
"So, Bobby jumped off a bridge last week."
"Bobby from accounting?"
"The one and only. They still didn't find the bastard's body!" and everyone shakes their heads and chuckles.
Most people won't understand what drives someone to that extreme, or feel that it is a position they can easily relate to. They will never be admitted to a psyche ward in their life, and will maybe never even know someone who has, or at least someone who admits to it. I can't say exactly what my number of hospitalizations is, because I lost count back around 12. I am not bragging to sound like the craziest fool out there, but because after just getting discharged a few days ago, and being determined to close the pages on this chapter of my life, I am wondering what comes next, how someone like me, with my tract record, best keeps from failing again.
I never intended to be a "someone like me." Someone like mes are mentally insane, serial killers, arsonists, people with terrible diseases, etc. (On a side note, I don't really believe in someone like mes anymore, because I believe people fundamentally all have issues and are flawed in some way). I spent all of my life trying very hard to be a "someone like everyone else" to blend in and stay invisible, because I was so insecure, afraid, and ashamed. Now instead of blending in (which clearly I am not very successful at any more) or hiding, I want to discover who I am, and not be driven to the top of any more bridges along the way. I appreciate the services of the law enforcement officers, paramedics, nurses, doctors, and techs who have kept me safe while I was too distraught to even want to live, but I don't want to go back to those dark places.
I usually leave the hospital with a lot of oomph, determination, and hopeful optimism. All the hospital staff cheers you on and claps you on the back as they gently herd you out of the locked doors and into the surprisingly bright and noisy world outside. All of the people who have not fled in terror out of your life or burned out like candles against a bonfire also join in that "we believe in you!" spirit (although it gets more lackluster around time ten). After lack of success a couple of dozen times, while I recognize this as a journey, and one I need God to gain the victory over, I also see that in part, to kick this thing's butt, I need to learn to say no to pills, say no to razors, say no to homemade gallows, and of course, bridges.
So nothing against you bridges; in theory you are still beautiful and I may one day again enjoy you safely, but for now I am saying No to Bridges.
I am at the top of a bridge, high over the Genesee River, my leg caught in a railing, with a police officer dragging at me and screaming at me to get on the ground. I want to tell him I cannot because my leg is caught, but my voice doesn't seem to be working, and the harder he pulls the more it hurts. Plus, I am now hanging awkwardly upside down, and despite the unbearable pain in my leg I think, I hope my pants don't get dragged off. Eventually, when I feel certain my leg will break, I manage to squeak out that I really would love to comply but cannot. By then more cops have arrived, and they ease me loose, where I am then handcuffed and led to the back of a police car with several giant bruises.
This is not a chapter in my criminal history, but a different sort of history, and one I never foresaw. When I run into people I know, and they ask, "So, what are you up to?" my brain goes into panic mode. I am not good at giving generalities, and if pressed for any more details, I crack like an egg and spill the goods. However, I do try to mop up the mess a bit, because the hard truth might go something like this;
"Funny you should ask! I first overdosed over the weekend in February 2011, but that was no big deal. I had to drink some nasty charcoal, they sent me home, and I went back to work Monday. Then in October, I was feeling keen on hanging myself, and called Lifeline. The overly enthusiastic local cops arrived in a half dozen pack threatening to kick my door in, and I was whisked off to the hospital in an ambulance and admitted. Since then, it has been almost non-stop overdoses, trips to the top of bridges, mental hygiene arrests, and hospital stays. I can't pay the bills, or keep a job, and my marriage ended partly due to my mental illness. Oh, and I live with Mom and Dad now."
There is an identifier I never imagined using for myself. Mentally ill. Icky and yucky. The title has all kinds of negative connotations, and scares a lot of people. Frankly, it frightens me. When I was pounding away at my college papers, this was not part of the future plan. I didn't take exams about how to survive weeks in the psyche ward, or maybe more importantly, how to survive real life after being discharged. They did not lecture on how to navigate confusing diagnosis with fancy names, like Major Depressive Disorder, Anxiety Disorder, and Borderline Personality Disorder, or the plethora of pills the doctors hand out with these diagnosis. I never had Plan B For Financial, Mental, Emotional, and Marital Ruin. There are a lot of things that have brought me here that I won't get into, but after one hospitalization for depression and being suicidal at the age of 16, I thought of that as something in the past that I could leave behind me if I worked hard enough at school, my jobs, and my marriage.
"Just go jump off a bridge," we used to say as kids. When did that become a joke? When you are standing at the top of a bridge staring far below and weighing your options, it doesn't seem terrible funny. Maybe there is some subtle strain of humor I missed out on-
"So, Bobby jumped off a bridge last week."
"Bobby from accounting?"
"The one and only. They still didn't find the bastard's body!" and everyone shakes their heads and chuckles.
Most people won't understand what drives someone to that extreme, or feel that it is a position they can easily relate to. They will never be admitted to a psyche ward in their life, and will maybe never even know someone who has, or at least someone who admits to it. I can't say exactly what my number of hospitalizations is, because I lost count back around 12. I am not bragging to sound like the craziest fool out there, but because after just getting discharged a few days ago, and being determined to close the pages on this chapter of my life, I am wondering what comes next, how someone like me, with my tract record, best keeps from failing again.
I never intended to be a "someone like me." Someone like mes are mentally insane, serial killers, arsonists, people with terrible diseases, etc. (On a side note, I don't really believe in someone like mes anymore, because I believe people fundamentally all have issues and are flawed in some way). I spent all of my life trying very hard to be a "someone like everyone else" to blend in and stay invisible, because I was so insecure, afraid, and ashamed. Now instead of blending in (which clearly I am not very successful at any more) or hiding, I want to discover who I am, and not be driven to the top of any more bridges along the way. I appreciate the services of the law enforcement officers, paramedics, nurses, doctors, and techs who have kept me safe while I was too distraught to even want to live, but I don't want to go back to those dark places.
I usually leave the hospital with a lot of oomph, determination, and hopeful optimism. All the hospital staff cheers you on and claps you on the back as they gently herd you out of the locked doors and into the surprisingly bright and noisy world outside. All of the people who have not fled in terror out of your life or burned out like candles against a bonfire also join in that "we believe in you!" spirit (although it gets more lackluster around time ten). After lack of success a couple of dozen times, while I recognize this as a journey, and one I need God to gain the victory over, I also see that in part, to kick this thing's butt, I need to learn to say no to pills, say no to razors, say no to homemade gallows, and of course, bridges.
So nothing against you bridges; in theory you are still beautiful and I may one day again enjoy you safely, but for now I am saying No to Bridges.
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