Survivor: Day 1

I didn’t want to go in the front door. I wanted to walk around the half a dozen squad cars parked in front of my house, past the herds of people in uniforms and suits, and in through the back door like any other day. The front door was reserved for guests and special occasions; the back door was where I headed every other time Grace’s dad dropped me off. I knew that if I walked towards the wrong entryway, I would be admitting that something was not right. No one had to tell me something was wrong. I already knew what happened before I even stepped out of the car, but I wasn’t ready to hear it out loud. I wanted to go in the back door.

It was a cold December day in Wisconsin, five days after Christmas and the day before New Year’s Eve 2000. It technically wasn’t even the new millennium yet. There was really no real significance to that thought, just that it passed through my mind several times on New Year’s Eve when she wasn’t there. An impressive amount of snow covered the lawns on our quiet street. It had gotten to the point where the snow was piled up almost like walls alongside the sidewalks making it a lot harder to cut corners when I walked to school.

“Is that the daughter?”
“Dear god, did you know she was so young?”
“Poor girl...”
They didn’t think I could hear their whispering. As was probably typical of girls my age, I was offended that they saw me as such a little kid. Sure, I was a little on the scrawny side with limp, blond hair, but I thought my glasses and nailpolish added at least a grade to my looks. Although, the neon scrunchy maybe pulled my maturity back down a little. So I guess it balanced out to my actual age, a 12 year old girl in 7th grade. They may have been commenting on my youthful look, but I know now that it was because they all knew then that my childhood would be essentially over once I walked through that door. That’s what was so disheartening about my age.
I must have been standing on the sidewalk a little too long. Or they bombarded me; I don’t know. Before I had time to decide which door I should approach, a woman I had never seen before put her arm around me and called me “honey” while another attempted to take my hand. This may have been the moment I subconsciously decided to shut down from reality. I don’t remember walking to the door with these strangers. I don’t remember if I responded to anything they said to me, or if they even did speak to me. Hell, I wouldn’t have been able to pick them out of a line up two seconds after they let go of me.  
I faded slightly back into reality for just a moment when a man standing on the porch opened the door. With dread in his voice, he announced, “She’s here.” I felt as though I floated up those five steps and through the doorway. I suddenly found myself standing in the living room with my dad’s arms around me. To this day, I don’t remember where my coat went and that has always bothered me. That should have been the least of my concerns. Through tears, my dad was able to choke out, “Mom’s hurt.”
Ok, she broke her leg. She was in a car accident. She fell down the basement steps. She was in the line of crossfire when the gas station was held up. It doesn’t really matter what happened because she’s fine. She has to be fine. Oh god, she’s not fine. Dad wouldn’t be crying if Mom was just laid up in a hospital bed. People wouldn’t be giving me these sad eyes. Please, God, just don’t let it be that. Don’t let it be what I think it is. Anything but that. Anything.
These were the thoughts that ran through my head as my dad and I walked from the doorway to the couch. It couldn’t have taken us more than four seconds, but I had the sensation that the physical world slowed down while my braid sped up. I felt dizzy. The relief I felt as I sat down on the couch with my dad almost made me forget that my house was crawling with people wearing ID badges and that every one of them kept trying to nonchalantly stare in my direction.
“Mom’s dead.”
There it was. My dad didn’t have to say how she died. I knew the unforgivable sin and unspoken act that occurred while I was out at the movies with Grace. Those two words captured all the fears and regrets our family had been living with for years, and I suddenly couldn’t wrap my head around it. While I was smart enough to understand the situation, I was also smart enough to know that accepting it would destroy me. So I made the choice to not accept it. I felt as though the rest of the world was suddenly trying to convince me 2+2=5. Mentally, physically, emotionally, I refused to believe it. No, it wasn’t a matter of belief; they were just wrong. As much as I believed two plus two was four, I still believed Mom was alive.
Mom wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t just leave us like this, leave me like this. She is upstairs taking a nap, and will be walking down any second...any second now to make lunch. It’s almost that time. Please, Mom. Please just come downstairs and tell me Dad is lying and get these people out of our house. I know this isn’t real. Come prove to everyone else this isn’t real.
It was then that I realized I had just been told my mom was dead, and I had been staring at the steps leading up to her bedroom with absolutely no emotion in my face. My dad, who I had only ever seen cry once before in my entire life, was bawling, while I sat there wondering what we were going to eat for lunch. I was hungry. But in order to not appear like a heartless bitch to all the people who were still staring at me, I forced myself to cry. That’s the logical thing to do, right? That’s the appropriate reaction? Something inside me broke, but I knew what I had to do. The first tears I shed over the death of my mom were pushed out by re-enacting a dramatic scene in my head from the Emperor’s New Groove.
Apparently I pulled it off. Someone decided that being surrounded by all the commotion was just too much for me to handle, so I was sent to the basement where my two older brothers were hiding out. None of us talked. No comforting words were exchanged, and no hugs were given. While Nate and Connor mindlessly stared at the television, I sat there petting my dog, Miko, in the corner. I think maybe I was trying to convince him it would be alright.
I sat in that cold basement with Miko and near my brothers for what I think was hours. That state of limbo, being completely uncertain of absolutely every aspect of my life from this point forward but not having the mental fortitude to concern myself with it one way or another, was almost pleasant. I liked not being looked at or talked to. These would be the last few moments of real peace I would have for months. Nothing was haunting me. In fact, I felt totally numb and enjoyed it as much as I could enjoy anything while blocking all emotion.
When I heard the basement door open, tears welled up in my eyes. I still wasn’t crying for my dead mom; I was crying because I was upset that my peace was interrupted. My heart started racing, and I sat perfectly still, as though whoever was looking for my brothers and me may not have noticed that I was there if I didn’t draw attention to myself. But when you are the only daughter of the woman who just shot herself, they come looking. And they find you.
Within less than two minutes of being led upstairs, I witnessed two scenes that would be burned into my memory forever. More than a decade later, I still see them as almost photographs in my mind when I blink. More than a decade later, my dad admits that he understands why this day shattered my disintegrating faith.

Slowly, I ascended the stairs, dragging my feet, looking down, and angry that I had  to keep Miko downstairs. When I reached the top, I let out an exasperated sigh that kind of seemed to say, “Let’s get this over with.” You would think that some deliberation would have taken place or plan of action would have been set up before bringing me back up into the chaos. Nope. Instead, I lifted my head to see my dad being fingerprinted by a cop. I had snuck out of my bedroom at night to watch one too many episodes of Law and Order when I was supposed to be sleeping to naively put my head back down. Those fuckers wanted to test his prints with those on the gun. Granted, no one had told me there was a gun. It was another one of those things I just knew. Though I still hadn’t admitted that my mom was dead, there was no way I was going to sit back and watch as they made my dad a suspect, even if it was protocol.

Up until this point, I don’t think I had said a word since I stepped out of Grace’s car. Now without thinking, I was screaming at the top of my lungs at a cop. “NO! He didn’t do it! How could you even think that?!” I may have even lunged at the cop because I was being held by who I think was the same woman who guided me into the house, but that’s another one of those things that still puzzles me today.

My dad gave me a look and a nod that seemed to say that he understood what the cops were doing while simultaneously thanking me for the passionate support. I returned a look of solemn solidarity. We had to get through this together, even though a little part of me hated him for letting this happen. But to be fair, I would come to hate everyone for letting this happen.

The police department offered this wonderful service of sending a child psychologist along with the detectives, cops, and whoever else whenever there is a violent or traumatic event with children in the house. Sounds like a great idea, in theory. The child psychologist, Lloyd, was the man who had led me up from my safe haven in the basement, and as he introduced himself to me, he led me to my bedroom. This was the most rational location for him to speak with me. I would be most comfortable on my own turf and away from the intensity of the bastards accusing my dad of killing my mom. Yes, my bedroom would be the safest.

This is when the poor planning and god-awful timing came back into play. “Why don’t you have a seat on the bed?” Lloyd suggested gently. Considering there was no place else to sit, it seemed natural. I took the few steps from the door to my bed that was adjacent to the front-facing window. That goddamn window. No one closed the blinds. I had a front row seat as I watched two men wheel my mom’s body out of the house in a body bag.

Of course, about three seconds later, an unnamed woman burst into the bedroom and inhaled sharply when she saw me standing at the window with that same look I had on my face earlier when I was waiting for my mom to make lunch. She had been sent to close off the house so we wouldn’t accidentally see my mom being carried out of the house. Poor Lloyd was unaware of what he did. The woman apologized for nothing in particular and left the room flustered. Had I acknowledged my mom’s death, this could have prompted another outburst like I had in the kitchen. Thankfully, my denial was still in full force and this image wouldn’t have an impact until weeks later when I would blink and see it as a photograph.

Lloyd tried to talk to me about my feelings and other bullshit like that. I had no feelings, aside from being angry that I wasn’t in the basement and occasionally insulted when he insinuated that something wasn’t right about my family. Obviously my family wasn’t normal, but we didn’t talk about such unpleasant things in our house. One question Lloyd asked stands out in particular: “Why don’t you have any family pictures around your house?”

In my mind, that translated to “Your mom felt unloved. You drove her to do it.” So I did what any 7th grade girl would do. I lied. “We had to put the picture frames away to make room for the Christmas decorations.” I didn’t feel guilty about lying. It’s not like I thought any of this was real anyways, so what did it matter if I added one more fictional detail? In retrospect, I’m actually a little impressed that I was able to come up with such a believable lie to protect my family so quickly when I probably couldn’t have even told him my name in the foggy haze I was in.

Eventually, I completely checked out from the conversation. After a couple questions with no response, not even a courtesy shrug, Lloyd sent me back down to the safety of my basement and moved on to my brothers, one at a time. I remember so little of what happened the second time I went to the basement that I have chosen to remember it as a nap. I don’t want to believe that I’m blocking something out or was so disoriented I don’t have any recollection of even existing. So as far as I’m concerned, those hours were spent in blissful slumber.

At about 6:00 that evening, the house was finally cleared of cops and detectives and child psychologists and accusing bastards. All day, I had wanted them to leave so our home could feel normal again, but without Mom around, it felt eerily empty. Even my basement sanctuary didn’t provide the comfort it had earlier that afternoon. My dad, Nate, Connor, and I sat next to each other in the living room. I wouldn’t say we sat together as no one talked or looked at each other. We lingered there like we were all trying to escape an awkward conversation with someone we ran into at the grocery store. We didn’t know how to be with each other without Mom. Even Miko just laid on the kitchen floor whimpering. This was the moment I realized my family was a little bit more fucked up than I wanted to believe.

“We have to eat.” Leave it to my dad to associate comfort and stability with food. It was true that no one had eaten all day since my mom never came downstairs from her nap to make us lunch. I guess we were going to have to fend for ourselves a little while longer. After what seemed like hours, we mutually decided that every option available to us sounded disgusting, but McDonald’s would be quick and easy. My dad and I headed out into the brisk December air with the hope that we would all regain our appetite once the food was on the table.

Before my dad started the car, he started crying again. “She finally has peace,” he said in a quiet tone that was uncharacteristic of my dad as if that was supposed to be of comfort to me. The disconnect I had this whole day made it hard to even force out the crocodile tears this time. I opted for burying my face in my hands to mimic the motions. After my dad pulled himself together, I gave a couple heavy breaths as though I was trying to do the same, and we started for McDonald’s in silence.

To outsiders, it probably looked like a mundane father/daughter trip to grab some burgers and fries. He had his arm around me, and I still held that blank look on my face as we got to the register. “Umm...yeah...We’ll have 4 double cheeseburgers and 4 large fries, please. To go.”

I didn’t hear the rest of the transaction. I’m sure the cashier asked a few more questions and my dad said some polite words in response. Suddenly I felt dizzy again, like all my senses were heightened beyond what is safe to be exposed to. My heart was pounding, and I felt weak. I wanted to physically run away from this feeling, but I knew if I tried to move my legs, I would collapse. Something wasn’t right.

“Dad, why are we getting McDonald’s?” I nearly whispered in a trembling voice through the first genuine tears I’ve shed all day. It didn’t make sense. My mom, the health-conscious former nurse, would never let us eat McDonald’s for dinner unless it was some sort of special treat. The scared and sad look on my dad’s face explained more than I was ready to hear. We were getting the fast food because Mom wasn’t there to stop us anymore.

It finally hit me. I could barely hold myself up. I started hyperventilating. I felt like I had physically been punched in the stomach. I forgot that I was in the middle of a crowded restaurant on a Saturday night. “Oh god, why did she do it? Why couldn’t I have stopped her?! She didn’t love us!” I knew people were staring at me, but I didn’t care. I begged my dad for answers he didn’t have.

At one point, the manager came out to ask if there was a problem. “No, no problem. We’re fine,” my dad answered almost instinctively. I think we had all been telling ourselves that too long.

“Nothing’s fine!” I shouted as my dad pulled me in closer, half because I wasn’t capable of standing on my own, half because I needed to be comforted more than I ever have or probably will in my life. “She’s dead...She’s dead...She’s dead...” I couldn’t stop repeating it out loud. I was waiting for someone to correct me and tell me she was alive. I was waiting for it to not sound like the most fucked up combination of words that had ever been spoken. Even after I had stopped screaming it in the middle of McDonald’s, I kept repeating it, “She’s dead,” in my head for years, still waiting for someone to tell me it was a lie.

Let it Be

Exactly twelve years ago today, I woke up with a mom and the sense of security every child deserves. I thought my life was normal. I thought what I experienced was what every 7th grader went home to. By the time evening came twelve years ago today, I had no more mom and no more delusions that this was normal. My mom killed herself.

This "anniversary" is always a trigger. Every time I look at the clock, I picture what I was doing at that exact time on this day in 2000. And yes, except for a few hours that are blacked out, I know exactly where I was and what I was thinking at each and every minute. It would be easier if I could make myself stop thinking about it and picturing each scene, but in a sick way, I don't want to. As painful as it is, I know if I don't make myself remember what breakfast looked like that day, I will start to forget what my mom looked like. If I don't remember her complete lack of hope, I will forget that it was her illness, not her choice, that took her from me. If I don't remember how much it fucking destroyed me, I will forget how strong I am. 

The tangled mess of emotions I have spent more than a decade working through, pushing down, and sorting out reels me back into that day. On the surface, I'm sad. No one questions why this day would bring my mood down a bit. In fact, it would be weird if I wasn't a little bit sad. But deeper down, I am still angry at her for not getting the help she needed and deserved when she knew that she had a mental illness. It is hard to forgive someone who willingly left me without even saying goodbye. Without even leaving a goddamn note.

Maybe I'm being irrational (I usually am), but this year is worse. I don't have any family around me that I didn't inherit from boyfriend. I'm pretty certain it's a mutual animosity that have kept my family and me from talking this long. Today is different though. I just want one other person to talk to who actually knew my mother. I want to be able to reminisce with someone who was there. But who the hell am I kidding. We never did that. It's easier to forget she existed; they are probably doing the same with me now. Just cut out the fucking bipolar crazies.  

This is also the first anniversary I have spent knowing that I have the same illness that killed my mother. I'm scared the same will happen to me and angry at her for not being here to tell me it will be alright, the way she used to when I was little. Before she wasn't here to tell me that anymore, and before I stopped believing it.

Guilt - Loving Him and Hating Me

The part I hate the most about having mental illnesses is that I end up hurting those I love most. Every time I have an episode, I feel like I'm stomping all over any plans they may have had. The best I can do is put forward a meager attempt to suffocate my explosion until I'm alone. Like right now.

Boyfriend is a goddamn saint when it comes to dealing with my moods. He holds me when I'm crying because I looked in the mirror for two seconds too long. He figured out a system to get me to slow down and breathe when Wild Mary shows up. He has willingly, happily, and quietly put himself on the back burner.

I love him for doing it and hate myself for letting him do it.

Every time I have a night like this, awake and alone and breaking, the only thing I find solace in is the fact that I haven't kept Boyfriend awake to witness it all. Other than that, my fucked up brain tortures me by reminding me of what I am guilty of.

Boyfriend has to mentally proofread every sentence he speaks out of fear that it may be triggering.

Grocery shopping is an intense experience every week with my unpredictable fear of certain foods.

My episodes have caused Boyfriend to miss countless nights out with friends because I could not be trusted alone and wasn't capable of socializing.

He has to work twice as hard to support both of us when I am a sinking ship. Which feels like most of the time.

Whatever stigma I face, he also faces. And maybe worse. Boyfriend is a well-adjusted member of society who has chosen to be with one of its embarrassments.

Whether he admits it or not, he is plagued by the fear that he may come home to another one of my aftermaths.

It kills me that I have done this to him. Boyfriend has a look he gives me when I'm crying, a look that begs the bipolar and anorexia to just fucking disappear. A look he never puts into words because he knows he can't ask me to do the impossible. He hides the exhaustion and fear so well, but I know they are behind those pleading eyes too. And I did this to him. I am the one who overflows with painful confusion that spills onto Boyfriend. 

While he is busy giving me all the love in the world times ten, I can barely muster a gesture. The pills might make me so hazy that the words and actions swim around in my head leaving me unsure as to what I have said and done. Depression leaves me motionless next to him. Mania rushes me right past him. I am a shit girlfriend for not being able to reciprocate the love I have for Boyfriend, the love he deserves. Every. Single. Second. It's not enough to just be there for him on my rare good days.

Even though I didn't have the formal diagnosis when we first started dating, I knew I wasn't normal. I knew suicide was in the inescapable near future. But I still wormed my way into his heart and made him fall in love with me before exposing my storms and monsters. I have prayed that, for his sake, Boyfriend will come to his senses and take back his freedom. He has given me more love, attention, honesty, second chances, and hope in one year than most girls get in a lifetime. 

I just got my nails did!

Actually, I got them on clearance at Walgreens. The shaking hands because of the damn lithium have gotten no better. I moped at my inability to paint my nails for a bit, but then decided to make fun of a bad situation. Voila! Fancy fake nails!!!

I have never done this before, and feel kind of like a dinosaur with talons. I now understand why there are nail salons everywhere. I am surprised more people don't make dinosaur noises walking out though.

Bah Humbug! No, that’s too strong, ’cause it is my favorite holiday

Good Riddance, Christmas!!! Bah humbug!!! Other anti-holiday phrases! Ok, just kidding. I love the holidays, but can't there be one that celebrates the circadian rhythm? Or maybe a holiday where everyone turns off their cell phones and no one cooks? Fun!

In all seriousness, it is hard to have a mental illness and carry on with the social conventions that appear to come naturally to the rest of the world during festive times. I understand that everyone has stress involving finances, relatives, and general exhaustion this time of year. But when you throw a mental illness or two into the mix, December is not only stressful, it can be triggering.

I can't speak for every person and all illnesses, but here are a few of the hardships I experienced December 23-25.

• Lots of people were in my house two days in a row. This is a big deal. I spent a long time isolating myself, sneaking out of gatherings early, and "feeling sick." Now all of a sudden, I had people ringing my doorbell, and I had to let them in. Because I invited them. 

• Not only did these people want to come in, they expected me to be dressed and capable of pleasant conversation (neither of which are guarantees on any given day). I broke down in loud, messy tears in the middle of pre-party cleaning, hating myself for not being normal and afraid that I wouldn't be able to handle a Christmas party with family I see on a regular basis and friends I talk to daily. "It's my party and I'll cry if I want to"? Bullshit. That is a bad party. A bad party that would have all the guests backing up to door and talking about the crazy lady who thought she was capable of sanity for a few hours.

• Then there is the opposite of depression to worry about when you're bipolar. "Wild Mary" kicked in on Christmas Eve, and she cooked for at least 9 hours, and cleaned for another two, starting at 6 because she woke up before 5. Dainty little appetizers, color-coded fruit kabobs, individual wonton cups for spinach dip, multi-cultural desserts, and dreidel-shaped ice. With the wildness usually comes anxiety. By the time guests arrived, I was sure they would see I'm crazy. My mania was written all over those mini quiches. 

• At my house, every other house, and most offices, food. Food as far as the eye can see. Chocolate and cheese and sausage and breads and pie and egg nog. Do I really need to explain why that may be scary to someone with anorexia? 

• I am not the most superficial girl, but I do like pretty nails. Any coat of color will do really. But Lithium tremors came full force the day before Christmas Eve. I wanted some festive, fun nails. Lithium just wanted to splash red all over my fingers. I felt like I was preparing for a low budget Christmas-themed horror film. 

• Finally, there is alcohol to worry about. I don't go to bars or clubs for the sole purpose of not drinking, but it creeps its way in during the holidays, oozing down the windows and crawling under the door. Oh, right. I wasn't actually in a Christmas horror movie. Fine, I bought it. But not with the intent to drink. It fucks with the lithium. Like, for real. Christmas Eve, I had to make a choice: drink with my friends and suffer the consequences, or abstain like a good girl and feel bitter that I don't get to relax after all my hard work. I drank. I didn't sleep all night. I was dizzy for hours. Bad choice, and I didn't even get close to drunk.

I love my family and friends. I love the holidays. I had a wonderful time when I wasn't teetering on the edge and was glad I did it. I proved to everyone that I can hold it together and create a wonderful evening and cook lunch on no sleep the next day. But next year, I'm handing over the reins or serving hot dogs. You guys pick.

I have the energy to fight back now.

I am always afraid that people will think I "chose" to become anorexic so that I would be thin and beautiful. Maybe they will think I starved myself for the attention and darkly glamorous life. I even thought maybe people would accuse me of lying because someone my size could never be anorexic. I could lie and say that I've never heard these things in the 5 years since being diagnosed. One bitch did. She mocked me when I was at my lowest and called me fat when it was in remission. Even though no one with a moral compass or smidge of sensitivity ever said anything negative, that one still keeps me from wanting to talk about it. 

Well, this goes out to that one bitch. 

It is because of people like her that there is a stigma. 

If anorexia was a choice I made to become beautiful, I clearly did something wrong. Anorexia didn't turn me into a waif-like movie star with a narrow waist, big boobs, and luxurious hair. I was a skeleton with bones. And bad hair. And brittle nails. And dull skin. No amount of hot oil treatments, manicures, or makeup could fix the way I looked. But that wasn't the point. The point was that there will still an ounce of fat on the outer part of my left thigh, and I had to get rid of it. That ounce of fat stood between me and my desire to be completely clean, totally empty of anything that was bad in me, mentally or physically.

If I did it for the attention, why did I isolate myself when it was at its worst? That is how I lost all attention. After canceling on friends for months, they stopped calling. I didn't have the energy to make new friends. Or the time. I had a lot of calorie counting, exercising, and pretending to be functional at school to do. I didn't want attention because doing things with people who weren't crazy meant that they would try to get me to eat or ask me why I've lost weight or gossip about me after I left. It was easier to stay holed up in my apartment staring at my books.

And as for anorexia being glamorous? A bony butt that hurts if you have to sit for more than 15 minutes isn't glamorous. Going to sleep every night mentally planning how to not go over your 300 calorie limit for the next day isn't glamorous. Exercising at 2 in the morning because you woke up from a nightmare that you ate a piece of what used to be your favorite cake isn't glamorous. None of it is.

The last accusation: that I couldn't be anorexic because I wasn't skinny enough. That is kinda the nature of the illness in action right there. Anorexia makes you think you're fat when you're not, and deliberately calling someone who has this illness "fat" is like handing someone who is suicidal a loaded gun. I was almost 40 pounds underweight, and I still thought I was fat. I was terrified of other people thinking so too. Obviously, anorexia had a pretty firm hold on my body and mind. But even if I wasn't grossly thin, even I was a "healthy" weight, who is an outsider, with no professional right to diagnose or personal right to comment, to judge what mental illness I may or may not have? 

No one can truly understand what this illness is like unless they have gone through it, but as a society, we should have enough sensitivity to the issue to allow those who suffer from it to feel comfortable sharing their experience, asking for help, and healing without judgment.

A Scar and A Story

***MAY BE TRIGGERING***

***SELF-INJURY DISCUSSED***

"You had a suicide attempt?!"

After two hours of going into great detail about our mental illnesses and joking about the crazy episodes we have each had, hearing that I had a pretty decent scar on my wrist was what made him abandon the easy-going attitude.

"Umm, not really. I mean, kinda? It could have been. I don't really remember."

As we talked about the stigma that comes along with the labels and media hype, I casually mentioned that it is my wrist that makes me feel the most vulnerable. It's the one piece of my illness that it is tangible. And I'm fuzzy on how it got there. I spent this morning staring at, as though it's going to suddenly take a dignified pose and voice to ask for a glass of wine before beginning our chat. Oh, Silly Scar, you know we can't have alcohol anymore.

It happened sometime after my ER visit and before I was diagnosed with bipolar. They threw some Zoloft at me, like they do to everyone who walks through those doors, and told Boyfriend not to let me kill myself. Thanks, Doc. Hadn't thought of trying that. Lucky for us, the next month was pretty boring. I had nauseating side effects. I felt like a zombie. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

*****

Hell yeah, the depression had lifted! I didn't cry at all anymore. I had an abundance of energy that I hadn't felt in months. Years. EVER! This was amazing for my freelance writing work. I could write one article while mentally planning the next and planning what was for dinner and creating a cleaning schedule so nothing was out of place to distract me from the work that needed to be done.

One day was particularly bad though. I was a squirrel on crack with nothing to put my energy into. Since I didn't have the focus to write, I got frustrated. "Frustrated" doesn't do it justice. I was filled with more raw, uncontrolled emotion than the day I got taken into the ER for my safety.

The pacing began. I thought maybe I could cry it out, exhaust myself so my mind had to follow. I tried, but I started to lose my other senses before I even got winded. I couldn't hear myself crying, and the whole world was blurry. I could only see my hands. I couldn't even feel the ground beneath me.

The next part is what really scares me. Since I am not allowed to have razors for obvious reasons, I decided to drive to get some. Granted, I only had to drive for a total of maybe three minutes, but I couldn't see, feel, or hear what was happening around me. And why would anyone sell razors to someone who was shaking, crying, and confused?!

Next thing I know, I'm home and frantically pulling the blade out of the knock off Bic. I'm slicing the tips of my fingers in the process, but I don't feel it or even see the blood. When it finally pulled free, I didn't hesitate to drag it across my skin. I see a fuzzy haze of red beginning to fill my vision, but my arm is just a tingling, numb thing that I deemed useful for only one purpose. And it was failing. I tried again. Over and over but nothing.

Minutes or an hour later, I am finally exhausted. I clean up the blood, throw away my tank top, and take a nap.

The End.

*****

But not really the end at all. Here I am, months later, trying to figure out what happened that day. I don't think my goal was to kill myself, which is why I couldn't really say that it was a suicide attempt. But I do think that I was willing to do anything to get the crazy fast thoughts to shut up for a goddamn minute. Even if that meant risking death.

Because my whole world was blurry and I couldn't hear well, I felt incredibly disconnected from anything physical and time wasn't really a thing anymore. I couldn't be certain that my material possessions were how I left them. I couldn't see past my arms. I felt like I was losing all control and literally slipping out of existence in a way that allowed me to be with the people and things that kept me safe.

When I couldn't feel the pain that I was inflicting on myself, I got nervous. Like maybe I had gone bat shit insane and I was going to get taken away. I think for a while I was doing it because I thought I needed to check to see if I was capable of killing myself. That's not something you should just check from time to time.

As awful as it is to say, my plan did kind of work in the end. After cutting myself, I was able to finally get the thoughts to calm down enough so I could sleep. It was definitely not worth it. It was incredibly dangerous, and I get sick to my stomach when I picture it even though I didn't flinch when I did it. Cutting myself was a desperate measure that I took during a desperate time before being diagnosed, before understanding that this "crazy" I felt was a chemical imbalance in my brain.

Somehow, cutting myself apart was my effort to make me feel whole again. It was a last ditch effort to bring back all the senses, connect my body and mind, and remind my monsters that I'm still in control. When an initial cut didn't do the trick, I tried again and deeper. For whatever reason, be it defeat or glimpse of sanity, I stopped short of causing any real damage. I just got a scar and a story.

I don't Measure Up

Ironically, I thought anorexia was like a friend that helped me keep my sanity. I wanted to starve myself to the point where my brain couldn't infiltrate my daily life with its madness. I thought it was working to keep the racing thoughts and depressing mantras at bay. I thought I was in control.

Holy shit, was I wrong.

This "friend" wasn't helping me at all. Instead of giving me back the control I needed, the anorexia was taking over my brain to kill my body while constantly lying to me. Even though I would watch the numbers on my scale drop and had to wear clothes from the children's department, I somehow believed I was getting fatter. I was constantly cold, passed out on a regular basis, started losing hair, and developed a heart condition, but refused to accept that this was anorexia's fault. 

No amount of therapy appointments or visits to the doctor or regaining consciousness on the floor could convince me that the anorexia I needed  to calm my mind was killing me. But a two minute friendly battle during a girl's night could.

The details leading up to the life-changing moment are fuzzy. I think we were arguing about who would look better in a certain dress or skirt. She told me she would totally wear it, if she didn't have such thunder thighs. I told her she was crazy and that I would kill for legs like hers. Mine were too squishy. Her mouth dropped. She grabbed a tape measure, and proved to me once and for all that my legs were thinner than hers. By a lot. 

For her, that was the end. She won the argument, and we went back to whatever trivial thing we had been doing that got us on the topic of dresses in the first place.

It was far from over. I put on a good show for the rest of the evening, acting like I wasn't completely distracted and scared out of my fucking mind. When I was alone again, all hell broke loose. I grabbed the measuring tape and went wild. 

The microwave is smaller than the stove, right? Yes. 

Is my cat bigger than the pillow? No, I didn't think so. 

My toothbrush is skinnier than my hairbrush. Yup, I knew that.

Is my arm bigger than the table leg? What the fuck.

Full on panic. Why was I able to see everything else for what it really was, but I couldn't do the same for my own body?! I spent hours measuring and recording results and remeasuring and crying in a ball on the floor and redoing the experiments with another tape measure. I couldn't make sense of what was happening without admitting that I was crazy. I was determined to prove that I wasn't wrong, that the anorexia hadn't betrayed me. But she had.

I realized, with anger, fear, resentment, and defeat, I couldn't trust my brain anymore. If I was going to get better, if I was going to stay alive and actually start living, I needed to learn to trust other people to tell me what was best. More importantly, I needed them to tell me what was real.

Even after this epiphany, I didn't go down easily. I dropped out of treatment, I relapsed, I skipped meals and lied to loved ones. But eventually,  I learned I had to stand up for myself against anorexia. And I needed help  from sources stronger than me to do that.

I still have days that I cry because I think I'm fat. I won't wear certain types of clothes because I don't think they flatter my "strange" shape. Some of that is just being a self-conscious girl. A little part of it is the anorexia that still lives in the back of my mind, buried under coping mechanisms, years of healing, acceptance, and desire to move forward.

It's a Tornado

Boyfriend and I call it "going wild." We speak of it in almost an affectionate way, kind of like you would a puppy who is lovable but needs to be watched closely. I get far too excited. My pulse pounds. My hands sweat. My breath quickens. I can't stop moving. My mind and body are in a race to reach a finish line that doesn't exist. There are no winners, there can't be. But they still go faster.

This is nothing like a puppy at all. It's a storm. When the ominous clouds roll in, I run outside to greet them. I am captivated by their power and in awe of their majestic size. I expose myself, arms outstretched, breathing in the silence before the storm, welcoming the flutter that is entering my chest. No matter how many times this storm comes, no matter how many times I find myself in the aftermath, I keep thinking that it will be a great time. It's fabulous. It's wonderful. It is not a shit storm.

When the rain pours over my head, it is refreshing. It is a baptism that cleanses me of the sickness and promises to make me better. I am capable of anything. I toss my umbrella. I shed my raincoat and heavy boots. I splash in the puddles and laugh louder than I should. Every idea I have is brilliant, and every moment is a gift. The people inside the bright, dry houses gawk at me as I radiate in the dark, wet chaos. And maybe they warn me. I don't listen. I keep jumping in the puddles.

Eventually, those puddles get deeper and deeper. I'm still trying to jump, but I'm done laughing. In the middle of everything I thought was wonderful, I find myself irritated by how wet my socks are and how my hair is ruined and how the puddles are not as uniformly deep as I want them to be. I suddenly remember. There is a tornado coming for me.

I haul ass trying to prepare for this storm the way my neighbors did hours ago, the way they asked me to when I was busy jumping in puddles. I drag my heavy patio furniture into the garage while everyone watches. I close the windows and lock the door. I grab my kitty, a blanket, and a few cans of whatever, and run to the corner of my crumbling basement. My pulse still pounds. My hands still sweat. My breath still quickens. I'm crying.

It's too late. The tornado easily breaks down the shattered structure I placed myself in. The walls, weakened by years of shrugging at cracks and putting pictures over holes, are torn down by the tornado. As I sit there, still wet from prancing in the puddles, I beg him to leave and ask him why he hunts me down. He spins around my head for hours. He forces me to curl up and hold on to nothing for dear life. If only I had gone inside earlier. If only I had patched up my safe place my head wouldn't be at the mercy of this disturbance.

Hours later, the tornado disappears. I am mentally and physically exhausted by the whole ordeal, but I pick myself up to rebuild my wall for next time. I stack rocks and jagged pieces of concrete on top of each other until I can't reach any higher. It's not sturdy. I am afraid it will fall over on me at any time. There are more cracks, more holes than before.

It's time I asked for professional help in the rebuilding process.

Mental Illness and Violence in the Media

Yesterday, our country experienced a great tragedy. We lost future doctors, parents, artists, teachers, friends, innovators. We lost lives that made the lives of others complete. My heart goes out to those families and everyone who has been affected. They can never be replaced, and they will never be forgotten.

I am feeling what most people are. I am furious. I am livid. I want to take action. I simply cannot wrap my head around how someone could do that to innocent children, and I am glad that I can't. But last night, I needed answers. After putting the kids I nanny for to bed, I started reading every news article on the first 20 pages of Google News. When I look at my kids, all I want to do is love them and play with them and keep them safe and happy and oblivious to the horror that lies outside the safety of what they know.

During my frantic reading through news articles from across the country, I noticed a disturbing trend. The "cause" for this sickening act of violence is apparently mental illness. This is because he was odd, maybe had schizophrenia, or Asperger's or OCD. And, as this article discussion board states, he quite possibly had bipolar disorder, and, as we all know, people with mood disorders are a danger to themselves and everyone around them.

That is the answer that the media is feeding the public?! That mentally ill people are dangerous, violent psychopaths who can shoot down innocent children?! There is already a massive stigma that surrounds mental illness. People are discriminated against in the workplace, by their peers, and by insurance providers, just to name a few. We are thought of as crazy, dangerous, unstable, undependable, irresponsible, and scary. How do we expect people to go get the help they need if doing so means that they will have to carry around these stereotypes?

Maybe the gunman did have a mental illness that he wasn't addressing. Maybe this wouldn't have happened had he gotten help. But if that is so, the problem isn't that mental illness is dangerous. The problem is that he was able to get a gun easier than he was able to get help for his potential illness. We will never know for sure what he had, if anything, so let's not scare the public into believing such disorders are dangerous and let's not shame them into not getting the help they need.

Extensive research has been done to prove that those with mental illness, even severe disorders, are no more dangerous than the average person. SAMHSA has put out an amazing spreadsheet with statistics, facts, and research results proving that point. Dr. Grohol dispelled this myth with his study years ago in this paper. These are just a few of the scientifically credible resources that vehemently disagree with what the media frenzy profits off of. Basically, what is important to know is that the triggers for violence are the same among those with mental health issues and those without. These include drugs, alcohol, or coming from an abusive background.

I am not saying that we should drop mental health out of the discussion entirely. Just the opposite. I am saying that we should talk about it, but not in a way that alienates those who need the help. Instead of trying to diagnose a man who is dead, bring professionals in to talk to the children who have experienced more trauma than most of us can even imagine. Provide the parents who have lost a child with the resources necessary on how to cope in a way that is not harmful to themselves. Let everyone know where the resources in the community are. And if they aren't there, create them. They are needed.

Ramblings of an Insomniac

Sleep isn't part of daily life for me. I suppose I should be used to it. I've lived without other necessities.

Like food. But I got gratification from not eating. I was in control. I could decide what and when and where. Or not at all. If I changed my mind, I could burn it off by going for a run in my neighborhood or doing jumping jacks in the restaurant bathroom. 

Years ago, not sleeping used to be just as awesome. I could go to school full-time and ace all my classes and work full-time and keep a clean house and exercise every day and still have time for fun. Because I didn't need food or sleep, I felt impervious to disaster. I defied biology or chemistry or whatever science this falls under that I clearly didn't study because I thought this all was okay.

Now, my inability to sleep doesn't feel so great. It's not my unbounded motivation keeping me awake at night or my superhuman ability to wake up after 3 hours of sleep to alphabetize my books. It's an illness. It's a mental illness that takes over my life, forces me to obsess over it alone in the middle of the night because it won't let me get a moment of rest.

Normal people have no problem falling asleep after being awake for 20 hours. Normal people don't start work when they wake up 3 hours before their alarm is set to go off. Normal people don't celebrate being able to fall asleep without taking Benadryl.

Before I was prescribed the Lithium, I was able to function around the clock. I had insane amounts of energy, so if I wasn't sleeping, I was occupying myself some other way. The Lithium has slowed me down. I want to sleep. I don't feel like working 3 in the morning, and cable sucks at that hour.

Ok, I know I sound like I'm complaining. I will be the first to admit it. But the inability to sleep is to my bipolar what a buffet was to my anorexia. Fucking terrifying and anxiety-producing. It's at night, when I am alone and pleading with the Sandman to let me have a break from it all, that the worst of all my racing thoughts creep up front and center. The moment I take off my glasses to attempt sleep, I can feel whether it will be a night of calm contemplation or unrelenting hysteria.

Thank You Letter

Since starting this blog less than two weeks ago, I have gotten tons of feedback. People are commenting on the Facebook page, emailing me, calling me, inviting me over. And everything I've heard is positive. I'm told I'm so brave for sharing my story with the world and that everyone is so proud of me. Strangers from across the country are thanking me for putting into words what they have always felt. People I haven't talked to in years, people who I pushed away for trying to help me before I was diagnosed, are giving me confidence to continue this effort.

I am in awe of how accepting people have been of my going public with something so controversial. Instead of being thanked, I feel like I should be the one doing the thanking. It is too easy for me to feel sorry for myself or think that it's not fair that I have to suffer with mental illnesses while everyone else gets to be healthy. Several people (friends, family, and strangers) have admitted that they suffer from some sort of illness as well. They have hid it, just like I did for so long. Thank you for making me feel less alone.

Even though I always knew it, I am realizing what a fantastic support system I really have. I have amazing friends who are willing to talk me down when I'm freaking out about whatever it is that may be driving me crazy in the moment. I have a great family(-in-lawish) who constantly reminds me that I am loved. And I have Boyfriend who, on top of everything else, never makes me feel like I have to hide who I am. 

I know that someday, probably someday soon, someone will read this who is not so accepting or supportive. And that's ok. Knowing that I have everyone else who is makes me confident that I will be able to handle it. Or at least that I will have many shoulders to cry to. 

With Love,

Mary

Racing Thoughts and Breaking Down

The hardest thing to explain is what happens in my head when I'm going crazy. When I'm crazy, communicating is nearly impossible, and when I'm sane again, I can't make sense of what happened. My best friend always tries to reassure me, saying that he doesn't think I'm crazy, no one else does, and no one will. Well, bullshit. I am. He's not there when I'm having my breakdowns, and my jumbled texts to him can't convey what's going on.

It starts with a single thought. Maybe it's remembering something awful someone said to me. Maybe it's thinking for a second too long about something I regret. Maybe it's even an idea for a book. I don't know. I can't pinpoint the beginning well enough to stop it from it continuing.

Over the next couple of weeks or days (or sometimes hours), more thoughts cling to that first one. This is great when it's fueling my creative or productive side. But I can't stay in that glory forever. The racing thoughts build an army. When there are just a few, I can try reasoning with them. I can ask them to get in a single file so I can sort them. They don't listen. I try to ignore their constant pressure, like that of a dozen elephants trying to fit out a window the size of a pinhead, but they grow in number. Eventually, I can't make sense of them. All I can do is beg them to not be so loud in my head. They still don't listen.

That one thought snowballs until it is big enough to run me down and crush me. To gain strength over me. To suck all the sense and life and ability to function out of my fragile head. Now there are hundreds of thoughts. Some of them good. Some of them bad. It doesn't matter what the thoughts are at this point because I can't understand them anyways.

I am stuck in my head. Fucking trapped. I pace my apartment. Sit down on the couch. Get up. Walk upstairs. Find myself in the closet. Why am I here? Back downstairs. Couch. I need to get out. Open the door. No. I can't see. Shit. Why can't I see? It's night. Oh. Lay down in bed. Fuck. Suffocating. Get up. Bathroom. Small and safe. I can hide here.

I am sitting on the toilet hugging my knees and staring at absolutely nothing. I am so in my head that the outside world doesn't exist. Everything looks blurry and my head is loud. I want to scream. I want to make lots of noise and shatter and kick and punch things and snap myself back to reality, but I can't move. I can't be that loud. I'm not sure I can even talk. They're winning.

I know what I need to do. I need to remind myself I have a body. There is more than just the tornado in my head. And I am in charge of it. I have the power to stop all of this. It's the right thing to do. I need something sharp.....

Knock Knock Knock

Boyfriend has come to make sure I'm alright. He knows I'm going crazy, but he won't understand. He can't possibly understand why I need to do this right fucking now. "Go away. I don't want you here." Good, I can still speak. He comes in the bathroom. Fuck. Didn't lock the door.

"I don't want you to be here. We shouldn't be together. It's over. Leave. Or let me leave. You don't have to put up with this. It's my problem. I want you to go away. Please, please, please. Leave." I ramble on and on through tears and shaky breathing. Boyfriend calmly explains that he cannot leave me alone right now. If I don't want to be around him, then he will have to take me to "the place." (The awful psychiatric crisis facility we went to last time I hurt myself.)

Of course, he's totally right. No one in their right mind would leave me alone in the condition I'm in. But logic is beyond my capability at this point. Hell, I think it's reasonable and right to slit my wrist to make my racing thoughts shut the hell up. It's not just that I can; I should. And now.

After hours of crying and yelling, with Boyfriend holding me and reasoning with me, I am exhausted. I give up. The racing thoughts are done screaming but now they're snickering. They will be back. They know they won this round.

Best Therapist I Ever Had

Therapy has always scared me. It's hard for me to get to that point where I can openly talk about the things I would rather hide forever with someone I barely know. (Talking is way different than writing). Naturally, I tend to lie to the therapist. I'd have tears running from my bloodshot eyes, but I'd still smile and say I'm fine. I'd drag my 90 pound self to the office, pass out on the couch, and claim to be eating.

But there was one therapist, one out of about a half a dozen, that I actually connected with. Michelle. After maybe 2 sessions, I was flung open. I shared everything from my mom's suicide to my cat's favorite toy. Michelle knew the ins and outs of my anorexia, its possible causes, triggers, and goals. She cried with me, encouraged me to write, and made me believe that maybe I could get better for real this time.

I was explaining to Michelle what I now recognize as a possible manic episode. Every time I left the house, every time I was around people, every time I wasn't making an incredible effort to shut down my brain all the whirling ideas, plans, musings, dreams, monologues, and fears rushing through my head at once would frustrate me to the point of tears. I wanted to slow down. I wanted one thought at a time.

Michelle looked at me very seriously. She put down her pen and pad and told me that she thinks she knows what is happening. My heart was racing. She begins to explain: I had spent a long time numbing myself by not eating. Now that I was up to almost 800 calories per day, the parts of me that had been in hibernation were being reawakened.

"Mary, I think you might be psychic."

Michelle believed that I was able to feel the emotions of people around me, which is why crowded areas freaked me out. It also explained why I had so many conflicting thoughts at the same time. It could even explain I started starving myself to become numb in the first place.

She handed me several books on honing my psychic ability and keeping it under control on a regular basis. We hugged, awkwardly, as my arms were filled with strange books, and a moment later, I was alone in the hallway.

"What the fuck?" I didn't believe it. But when you throw a bunch of books at someone who is manic, she will read them. And find more. And research the hell out of it, whether it is important or not. Or at least, that's what I did. Michelle gave me an outlet to pour my extra energy into.

I'm not a skeptic. Boyfriend will vouch that I believe in some weird shit. But I did not believe I was psychic. What I did believe was that Michelle was kind of crazy. And that made sense. Of course I would connect with the only crazy therapist I've had.

I continued to see Michelle twice a week for another couple of months. Most of the sessions were spent practicing breathing techniques and meditation exercises that were meant to keep my psychic ability in check. I think she saw me as some sort of project or discovery. Her techniques did work to keep my mind calm at times, but I eventually quit therapy again and quit eating again. At that time, that was the only thing that really worked to calm my crazy.

Most would not call that a successful story, but how many people can say they have been called a psychic by a mental health professional?

Happy First Day of Chanukah!

This one will be short but sweet. Here's a picture of a Chanukah present wonderful Boyfriend got for me. I've got to say, my first Chanukah ever is pretty freaking sweet.

He knows me so well!

Ending the stigma, one sock at a time.

Several months ago, I took a little trip to the Psychiatric ER at the county Behavioral Health Division. I can honestly say I have never felt so low in my entire life.

I was on the verge of committing suicide. Boyfriend had to be with me literally every second to make sure I wouldn't grab the nearest sharp object or swallow a bottle of something. I wasn't going to make it to my scheduled appointment on Wednesday. So that Sunday morning, Boyfriend made the decision to get me the help I needed whether I wanted it or not.

Doctor's offices aren't open on Sunday morning. I didn't have a therapist I could reach out to. We were lost. Or we would have been had we not had Dad. To get me help that day, to avoid the inevitable suicide attempt that was on the horizon, our only option was to go to the Emergency Room and explain over and over and over again to every nurse, doctor, and receptionist there what a disaster I was.

They took my shoes. They made an inventory of everything I had in my purse. They casually glanced at the cut on my wrist. They made notes in a folder about my crisis without even looking me in the eye. And then they made me put on the blue socks.

I did NOT want to put those damn socks on. Those were the socks worn by the patients in the psych ward. Wearing those socks meant that I was on their level. I was a totally normal girl who was having a bad day. Bad week. Ok, bad couple of months. Cycles of depression throughout my life.

It was when they asked me to put on the socks that I felt the sting of the stigma. Everyone who saw me would know that I was "crazy." I felt like the bright blue socks were a warning sign to those around me. It was this stigma that made me want to go home and not get the help that literally saved my life. In that moment, I would have rather suffered in silence than have people judge me for having a mental illness.

Of course, Boyfriend and Dad would not have let me walk out of there in the condition that I was in. They stayed by my side the entire 7+ hours we were there. They even took responsibility for my well-being so that they let me go home instead of staying overnight. 

Still, I was embarrassed, scared, and ready to burn the socks. 

The instant I was discharged, I buried the crazy socks in the bottom of my giant purse with the intent to throw them down the trash chute with my ear pressed up against the wall to listen to them being crushed into a compact square of other memories people wanted to forget. That didn't happen. Boyfriend wanted to keep them. As I stood there horrified, he said something along the lines of, "They're warm, they have grippers so I don't fall, and all my socks are boring white." 

And he wore them nearly every night. Eventually we got to the point where we could joke about the "crazy socks," but only after he showed me how they are just freaking socks. Only after he erased the stigma that I attached to them could I look at them as an article of clothing and not a sign of my madness. I felt like I was propagating the stigma by trying to hide any and every sign that I had a mental illness.

This is why I share my story. Sure, there are people out there who will judge me for having mental illnesses. There may even be people who shy away from me out of fear and lack of understanding. But before I can expect the stigma to disappear, I need to accept the reality of mental illness myself. So I will continue to put myself out there and stare down the stigma until it retreats.

Also, here's a picture I took TODAY of me rockin' the crazy socks.

It's happening again.

I thought I was done feeling like this. With all the drugs I take throughout the day to keep me sane, I thought my days of waking up with tears in my eyes were gone. The part that is really f-ed up is that I think I woke up crying because I miss my crazy.

I miss being able to spring out of bed after 4 hours of bad sleep.
I miss not having to stop for breaks throughout the day.
I miss feeling invincible.

Deep down, I know that the manic part of my disorder is just as bad as the depressive part of it. But I don't care. It's hard to care when I still vividly remember how great some of my manic days were. All the work I got done. All the money I made. All the creative ideas that jumped out at me faster than I could write them down. Knowing that I could have that again even after a night of shitty sleep makes it hard to take my lithium in the morning.

How am I supposed to accomplish all the lofty goals I have for myself when my medication makes me too slow to carry out even normal tasks? But how am I supposed to justify dropping my meds when I damn near killed myself without them?

Monsters Inside Me

Some people are born with heart conditions, learning disabilities, or missing body parts. I was born with monsters. As I grew older, they grew stronger. For the past 24 years, or as long as I can remember, I have been in a constant battle with myself.

One monster tells me that I'm not worthy of real love.  Another monster tells me the world is filled with pain and evil that will never fade, no matter how many guardian angels are sent to it in the form of lovers and best friends. There's even one that does nothing but whisper the horrible words I've heard validate the first two monsters. "You are nothing." "You'd be better off dead." "It's all your fault." 

The strongest monster simply smiles sweetly and says, "They're right." When I'm clinging to a thread of sanity, when I can physically feel the monsters strangling the life out of me, she cuts it. She cuts my last thread of hope without breaking that sweet smile of hers.

I couldn't exactly go around broadcasting this type of thing. Or at least I didn't think I should if I wanted to keep up the facade that I was normal, that my proudest moment wasn't that one time I told the monsters to shut the fuck up for long enough so I could finish a slice of pizza without hyperventilating.

That was how I dealt with the monsters without having to confess to anyone I was crazy. I needed to take their strength away. I needed to get the power back under my control. I needed to starve them. When they were weak, they were quiet. That smile the strong one used to give me became more of a tired sigh of defeat.

Knowing that I could subdue something so powerful made me feel strong. Not only that, I overcame basic human needs. I didn't need food anymore. I felt as thought I could win a lifetime of battles with sheer self control. I felt free. I felt powerful. I felt light.

Eventually, I was given a choice: eat or die. The doctors didn't like my answer, and they didn't care that they were feeding the monsters too. There was no way for me to explain that eating just meant that I would die on  the monster's terms. Either way I was going to die because of them. A more accurate choice: let the monsters I've been fighting for so many years win or go down fighting.

It has now been 5 years since I was forced to start eating again. I'm still here. The monsters haven't won yet, and for the first time in my life, I am not convinced that they will kill me. With the help of medication, therapy, and surrounding myself with people who love me, the monsters are finally quiet. And I am stronger.

Top 10 Benefits of Being Anorexic

TOP 10 BENEFITS OF BEING ANOREXIC

• My crazy obsession with food has made me a pretty good cook.
• I always have gum.
• My cold hands are perfect to lay across Boyfriend's forehead when he has a fever.
• If I was held prisoner and denied food until I gave up whatever secrets my captor wanted out of me, I would outlast everyone.
• I can spend my last couple of dollars on art supplies instead of food when I'm broke.
• No one needs to look up how many calories are in any food with me around. I have them all memorized. 
• There is no way to style my thin hair, so I get to sleep in an extra 10 minutes.
• If Starvation Protester ever becomes a professional job, I will be rich.
• Passing out in public always livens up everyone's day.
• Catching every cold floating around in the winter gives me an excuse to not go sledding when I am already freezing.

***Obviously, I'm kidding. Anorexia is an absolutely awful condition to live with. End of story. But making light of it takes away some of its power, right?***

If you are looking for someone to talk to who understands, I'm here. I am not a therapist, but I am someone who has been on both sides of this illness. Email me: zoloftandcoffee@gmail.com

I am stronger than the stigma.

I knew I wanted to start this blog as an effort to end the stigma surrounding mental illness, but I did not realize how much that stigma has held me back. It has been less than 24 hours since my first post. Not even a dozen people have seen it. But I am already wondering who knows about my mental illnesses now.

When most people start their blogs, they forcibly drag everyone they know in front of a computer and strap them down to read and comment and "like" and share. They check their stats hourly in hopes that it went viral and is being turned into a 3D movie by next Christmas.

Two friends and Boyfriend know this blog exists. 
And only Boyfriend knew about my mental illnesses before reading it.

My Fears

1. What if a future employer discriminates me for my mental illnesses after seeing this?
2. What if someone who doesn't like me uses them against me?
3. What if friends stop hanging out with me or treat me differently when they find out?
4. What if Boyfriend's family sees this and worries that I'm dragging him down?
5. What if I do not help a single person with this blog, and all I've done is broadcast my own "faults"?

If I stop now, I'm letting the stigma win. And that is all the motivation I need to keep on writing.

Armed with my laptop and passion to end the stigma, I will push those fears aside (with a little help from my Zoloft and Lithium) to tell my story.

All I wanted was to sleep...

I took my first Lithium 2 and a half hours ago. For about 2 hours and 20 minutes, I have been in analyzing mode. I keep staring at my hands to check if they’re shaking and stopping dead in my tracks, totally unprompted by any feelings of discomfort, to decide if I am nauseous. So far, no tremors or vomiting that I’m aware of.

When I went for my monthly check-in a few days ago, I was all set to tell my doctor how much better I’m doing. My creativity is back, I enjoy sex A LOT again, and I am no longer isolating myself from the people who love me. The one and only problem I saw was that my sleep schedule was off. I would be so wound up from the excitement of living again after being depressed for so long that it was difficult to relax my mind. That’s nothing a little Ambien can’t fix.

“Nope, you’re not happy; you’re insane!. No Ambien for you. Take TONS of Lithium and calm the f*ck down, crazy lady!”

Ok, that’s not what the doctor said at all, but that’s definitely what I heard. My anti-drug attitude made starting the Zoloft a couple of months ago unnerving enough. But being medicated for the same disorder that killed my mom was terrifying.

On the drive home, I thought of every reason I shouldn’t take it.

• I’m anorexic. It could be mentally damaging to take a drug that might make me gain a little weight. Taking it would be irresponsible.
• The next day is Thanksgiving. They expect me start a nauseating drug during the season of eating?
• I can try natural remedies to cure whatever I may have.
• I never drink enough water during the day. The lithium will kill my kidneys.
• If I take this drug, it will dull the creative side of me that earns my paycheck.
• No one knows that I have been prescribed it. I can just dump the pills and tell them my doctor wants me to stick with the Zoloft regiment. (Since I am not the secret-keeping type, I emailed Boyfriend at work about how upset I was before I even took off my coat.)
• I’m not crazy.
• Seriously, I’m not crazy. I’m fine.

Talking things out with Boyfriend reminded me that I have the best support system in the world. Boyfriend’s dad reassured me that the pills are meant to help but I am in no way committed to them. And one of my best friends promised me that he will keep me active so I don’t get fat. I stopped pacing, but still wasn't ready to accept it.

After all was said and done, it took a long, hot, soul-searching shower alone to get me to accept that this may be for the best. I am still extremely leery of the medicine and terrified that I might have my mother’s disorder, but I felt like not giving the Lithium a shot would be like taking a step backwards in my recovery.