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 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.

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.

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.