Mental illness is so much more complicated than any pill that anymortal could invent. - Elizabeth Wurtzel, Prozac Nation

Let me tell you a story...

I'm kind of really annoyed. No, I'm livid. Pissed? Irritated? I'm not sure there's a word that's been invented yet that quite encompasses what I'm feeling right now. 

Let's back up a bit.

Within the past week, on the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention Facebook page, people were asked to post photos of tattoos inspired by a personal connection to suicide. The AFSP was going to then submit some of the photos with stories to "The Mighty," a support website for people with disabilities, depression, and mental illness. In the replies, I posted a photo of my tattoo with this short description:

"I've survived two suicide attempts and years of anorexia and self-harming. I got this tattoo two years ago right over my self-harming scars to remind myself how far I've come and that my depression and past destructive behaviors do not define who I am. They are a part of me, but definitely not the only part."

This is a SUPER simplified version of my story and there are a lot more parts to it than could be confined to a short description (read old blog posts or ask me to learn more...), but gets the point across. Of the many submissions on the Facebook page, my tattoo was one of 35 that were included in the list on The Mighty. If you want to see it, along with the other 34 amazing

stories, click here: https://themighty.com/2016/08/tattoos-inspired-by-suicide-loss-and-suicidal-thoughts/.

For anyone who's read my blog or knows anything about me, from my mid-20s to now, I've been nothing but 100% open with my battles with depression and the fact that I not only dealt with suicidal thoughts, but also attempted suicide twice in my late teens/very early 20s. It's not a huge secret.

Or so I thought...

After the list was published, I thought it was pretty cool and I was honored to be included on the list. I'm humbled and excited that I was able to share even a teensy bit of my story with others in the hopes that it might encourage others who find themselves in a similar place to where I've been. 

I was so excited, I did what any person in this day and age does: I shared it to social media. Most of the feedback I've received has been overwhelmingly supportive, ranging from people telling me how loved I am, to how proud they are of me, to thanking me for my courage and vulnerability. 

And then, there were the handful of not so positive comments that actually angered me:

"What on earth would compel you to share such a disturbing piece of your past with complete strangers on the internet?

Mmmmmmk, are you sitting down? I hope you're sitting down. I also hope you're planning on taking notes because quite frankly, this one comment is the whole reason I shared it to begin with. It's why I no longer hide my story and what's happened to me. 

Hearing comments like these makes me want to post and share more and more and more. Does it make you uncomfortable? GOOD. Guess what, mental health issues are generally fucking disturbing, fucking ugly, and fucking raw. Mental illness, suicide, depression, etc. are so disgustingly stigmatized that those who desperately need help are afraid to say anything due to it being too much of a burden or too "disturbing" for those they might share with.

If I make you uncomfortable, I hope it makes you that much more aware so you may be able to see the signs in those around you. I guarantee you know at least one person, probably more, who has or is dealing with some form of mental illness. Would you prefer that person share with you regarding their struggles or would you prefer they suffer in silence, until perhaps it's too late? I thought so.

"What would your parents and family think?"

Dear Jon Snow (for my GoT friends), clearly you don't know anything about me to know why this makes me laugh at you. Seriously. I was honest to goodness laughing out loud. If you knew anything about anything, you'd know that many of my struggles have emanated from my childhood and familial trials and tribulations. I laugh at you for even thinking this comment would make me feel anything other than tickled. Was this supposed to make me feel shame or guilty? No longer does everything I've gone through even remotely embarrass me or cause me any level of shame. Let's move on....

"Don't you care what people think? Sharing something like that will hurt you professionally."

For real? This one...I can't. If an employer tries to discriminate against me due to my history of mental illness, then they clearly are unaware of the Americans with Disabilities Act which encompasses mental illness. 

The definition of someone with a disability as defined by the ADA: "a person who has a physical or mental impairment that substantially limits one or more major life activities, a person who has a history or record of such an impairment, or a person who is perceived by others as having such an impairment." While the ADA doesn't specifically list all of the impairments covered, it sure sounds to me like mental health falls under this umbrella. The ADA prohibits discrimination against someone with a disability and that employers are required to make "reasonable accommodations" for qualified people with a disability.

I've been incredibly open with all employers since being diagnosed that I have been in or am currently in therapy. If there are side effects to any anti-depressants I'm on, I also make sure I share those in case anything happens while I'm at work (i.e. dizzy spells, nausea, etc.). Also, in addition to being illegal, any employer who gives me grief or tries to hold my history of mental illness against me isn't worth working for. I'm all set. 

I'm so much more than my scars.

As I've said so many times before, my depression and suicide attempts will always be part of me. While I don't like to be defined by them ("Melissa, the one with depression" or "Melissa, the one who tried to kill herself" or "Melissa, the one who used to cut herself"), they have most definitely made me the stronger individual I am today. Do I wish I didn't have my history or never experienced the things I have? Well, yeah, obviously. It would have made my life so much easier.

However, as my tattoo says, I am more than my scars, so much more. When I wake up in the morning, I don't look at my arm covered with (now mostly faded) scars and feel guilt or regret. Rather, when I wake up in the morning, I look at my arm as the story of a past life. A story of a girl who overcame ridiculous odds. 

I wake up in the morning knowing that I survived.

"Crazy isn't being broken or swallowing a dark secret. It's you or me amplified." ~ Susanna Kaysen, Girl, Interrupted

In the past few days since I made my previous post, I've had the biggest outpouring of love and support from so many people, many who I didn't expect or haven't talked to in years and some people who I've only ever met in passing who wanted to tell me how much they appreciated my words. I've been thanked for my honesty and my fearlessness in talking about something many people avoid discussing or don't know how to discuss. I've also had a lot of people confess their own feelings of depression and inadequacy to me, and the shame of feeling the things they're feeling. I've had even more people thank me for writing this because they have someone in their life who they know is drowning in their own depression currently and they don't know how to help or how to even relate.

The ugly truth about depression is that the evil demon in your head makes you feel 100% alone 100% of the time and makes you believe that no one could ever possibly understand what you're going through so why bother telling them. The even uglier truth about depression is that many people experience the demon but very few people openly discuss it. I don't get that. I mean I do, because as I've said, it's insanely difficult sometimes to put words to the feelings that you don't know how to handle. What I don't get, is when you are in a state of clarity and in a good place, even momentarily, is why you wouldn't even attempt to explain how you feel and to please bear with you when shit gets real. 

Let's get this straight. I know it can be said a thousand and one times, and when you're in the middle of a really bad battle with the demon, it can be ridiculously hard to believe and convince yourself of it, but the bottom line is: you are not the only one who is feeling the way you're feeling. You're not. You are not all that unique in this regard, you are not experiencing something that someone else hasn't before, and you definitely won't be the last. I know how it is. Trust me. I know how embarrassing you feel it is to tell the people in your life that you feel worthless, you feel like a piece of shit, and you feel like nothing you do is worth it. But I also know how much better I feel once I know I have people in my corner of the ring ready to help me fight this thing to the death.

P.S. 

There was one thing that I wanted to clarify, as I have had someone ask/confront/get mad at me for mentioning the happy pills. Personally, I have a love/hate relationship with anti-depressants. Some days really love, other days... When I saw my first therapist when I was 18, I started our first session by telling him I didn't want to be medicated. He respected my decision, however, as our therapy sessions went on and nothing changed, he suggested we start me on the smallest dose of something to see if that would help get me over the slump. 

Long story short, the first anti-depressant I was put on almost killed me and the second I ended up taking the maximum dose and feeling nothing but numb, which in my opinion is far worse than feeling everything. After quitting the Prozac cold turkey, I had about a 4-5 year span with nothing in my system at all. At first it felt great. I felt liberated. Then the exhaustion set in, the 14 hour nights. The medication I'm on now is on the opposite end of the spectrum than Prozac and it's been working for me for 2.5 years. Am I suggesting that medication is the answer? Hell no. I'd argue against putting more chemicals in your system any day. However, if it's what it takes to help me get out of bed in the morning, then you bet your ass I'm taking it. 

End of clarification.

“That's the thing about depression: A human being can survive almost anything, as long as she sees the end in sight. But depression is so insidious, and it compounds daily, that it's impossible to ever see the end.” ~ Elizabeth Wurtzel, Prozac Nation

Three months between posts is absolutely unacceptable. However, I have a good reason. I think. Maybe. You decide. I can't make decisions right now. 

No, really, I swear it's a good reason. Here's the thing. In the past three months, that little demon that lives inside me came out to play. He's an evil little bastard, fucking with my head just because he can. He's mean. He's vindictive. He makes me believe a thousand and one things I know aren't true and makes me feel things I work hard to not feel. Ever. Ever. Ever. EVER. 

I know I've attempted to describe this before, but I'm going to try again. I figure the more I try to explain it, the more I might understand what the hell is going on inside my head. Fifteen years...it'll start making sense soon, right? Maybe? Please? Shit.

I'm tired of telling people I'm "fine." But at the same time I have no idea how the hell to actually describe this thing, or these feelings inside me to give any more detailed of an answer than just "fine." In other words, "fine" is pretty much straight bullshit and can almost always be translated to: "There are a thousand and one things going on inside my head and a thousand and one feelings, none of which make any fucking sense, and for whatever reasons, the connectors in my brain don't want to connect long enough for me to even say this out loud, so I'm just going to lie to you and smile like my life is peachy keen." Also, trying to go into any more detail than just "fine" is damn exhausting. Complicated enough? Oh it gets better, trust me. Or worse. Half empty/half full.

Let's take a second here for me to try to describe for you the directions the neurons are firing in my brain. Sometimes, I know exactly what's going on up there. Sometimes. And by sometimes, we're talking, very very rarely. On the off-chance that this happens, I often don't want to tell anyone, because the shit going on up there scares even me. I had a therapist quit on me when I was 100% honest. True story. It's too awful to make up. Then there's the other times when I think I know what's going on up there, but when I try to talk to someone, it's word vomit or just doesn't make sense. This shit in my brain isn't lining up with the words coming out of my mouth. Then there's still other times when I want to describe what's going on up there, but there's nothing. Literally, nothing. I know I'm feeling something but I can't describe it. Or other times I'm feeling like a whole lot of nothingness and blah and miserable and people love hearing about that. "No, really, I just feel like suck and I can't explain why." Yup. That's fun.

This winter has been absolutely brutal for me. That whole seasonal affect thing is kicking my ass and just isn't letting up. That and my little demon friend are refusing to let me do anything. Sleeping is nice...in theory. And I don't remember the last time I felt rested. I also have absolutely no energy to do anything. Nothing. When I get asked to go anywhere, I feel like I can't. I panic. I can't find the energy to get off the couch and put on real people clothes. To get up and shower or brush my hair. I hate feeling like I'm letting people down, but it takes a lot of mental will-power to just get myself moving to do what I have to do, like go to work, grocery shopping, etc....forget any social life. I miss my friends. A lot. But I get panicky when thinking about spending anything more than an hour or so out of my home. And when I do actually spend a decent length of time out, I start to have that little social anxiety thing kick in, and then I get REALLY panicky. Like "can't-breathe-feel-like-I'm-going-to-puke-everywhere-and-maybe-pee-myself-in-public" panicky. Sounds like fun, don't it?

I feel everything and nothing all at once. I feel dead inside and then immediately feel like I am feeling every emotion I've ever been capable of having and even ones I haven't and am in danger of it flooding out my ears, nose, eyes, and pores. I'm in constant danger of crying without any sort of warning and it can be triggered by the dumbest, nonsensical things. Example: funny cat/dog/baby videos. It's really annoying actually. I don't do weepy well. I hate it actually. Bodily fluids, running out of my face. Am I the only one who's bothered by this concept? Stop. Just no. 

What really sucks, is that there's nothing else to do but push through, even when I don't feel like anything is worth it or I don't have the energy. In her book Prozac Nation (which, next to Girl Interrupted by Susanna Kaysen, could be the handbook for attempting to figure out me and my brain and my life), Elizabeth Wurtzel writes, "If you are chronically down, it is a lifelong fight to keep from sinking." That is quite possibly the best way you can describe how I've been feeling since my pre-teen years. I constantly feel like I'm drowning, suffocating through this thing we call life. I mean, it's always in varying degrees, but there's always that feeling there. That feeling deep in my brain that I'm not good enough, that I'll never be good enough, and that I should just give the hell up. Drowning. I'm drowning in my own convoluted thoughts and feelings. Add some yummy anti-depressants and therapy here and there and sometimes I can tread water long enough to keep myself afloat until the tide goes out and I can reach the ground again. But the tide always comes back in eventually. And sometimes it washes over me completely.

Over the years, I've figured out who my real friends and family are. I don't sugar coat this or pretend it doesn't exist, but as you see, it can be hard to explain what is going on all the time. It's hard to explain the little evil demon bastard living in my brain. People want a "good" reason why I can't meet at the bar for a drink or why I can't go to a party (hellooooooo anxiety central...party of me?). And you know what? Sometimes, there isn't a good reason. Hell, sometimes there isn't a damn reason at all. There just isn't. Please stop fishing for one. You won't find anything. It'll only make me feel worse for not having the answers for you when I don't even have the answers for myself, and will only perpetuate this entire cycle. The people I keep close are the ones who know, understand, and accept, that I'm not intentionally shutting them out, but that I'm shutting myself in, because it hurts too much to come out and play. Because it's exhausting. These people know I care and love them, but I can't always physically, mentally, emotionally, or psychologically be there on the days that the demon is winning the battle. The people I keep close are the ones who sit there and say, I'm here to listen, if you can find the words, and I have a hug waiting or a shoulder to cry on whenever you want, or are ready, to be touched. 

Sometimes, there are no answers. Sometimes, there isn't a "good" reason. Sometimes, all I need is a hug. No, a hug won't make it all better. I know that. But it also lets me know that I'm not alone with the little demon. Sometimes, that alone is the difference between sinking or swimming. 

People should smile more

Just fine, thanks.

Random person: "How are you today?" 

Me: "Well, before 9am I almost got run off the road on my way to work this morning, was flipped off by a complete stranger before I even had any form of caffeine and I realized when I got to work that I wore two different shoes, my sweater was backward for the majority of the day and no one said anything and I have to constantly fight my low self-esteem and pretend that I am confident when I actually don't like the person staring back at me and my insanely dysfunctional family loathes everything about my very being."

That'd be honest. 

Instead, I just say "Oh, fine, thanks." I know it's just a pleasantry. I know someone doesn't want to know the details of the ups and downs of my day or life. Maybe it's just me, but I'd rather skip this particular society-regulated pleasantry in the name of honesty.

I will never have it all together.

Earlier today, I read an article my friend Jenn posted on Facebook (http://www.chattingatthesky.com/2013/05/13/one-thing-your-daughter-doesnt-need-you-to-say/). Sadly, I could relate far too much, and in ways even worse than what this article describes.

I grew up in an incredibly strict, incredibly religious, Baptist household. Between the set of parents I had, and their interpretation of what a good "Christian" girl should be, I was trained to never let people see me upset. God forbid I allow someone to see me cry or angry. I was punished and yelled at when I wasn't happy or expressed unhappiness. Everything was always good even if it wasn't. And even if it was good, I wasn't allowed to be "excessively happy" about it for long. There were many times when I tried to confide in people in the church, but those I did, only told me that if I wasn't happy, my faith wasn't strong enough because God makes everything good and happy. Epic fail, church folk, epic fail.

There's something very wrong with me.

Between being in a religious family and being in a Chinese family, early in my life I had a constant pressure to be perfect. My grades, my looks, my dress, my attitude, my weight. I always had to be the fastest. I had to be the best. I had to be the thinnest. I got one bad grade in college due to health reasons. The anxiety of making sure my parents didn't find out was almost as bad as the financial anxiety of losing my scholarship. 

Clearly, this only got worse the older I got. Due to this constant internalization of emotions, I've battled depression for years. While I wasn't diagnosed until I was 18, I remember fighting depression, eating disorders, and self-mutilation as early as 12, possibly even earlier. I thought I was broken, I thought there was something wrong with me. I wasn't praying hard enough. I wasn't a good enough person. I wasn't trying hard enough to be happy. I was trying to be miserable. Everything was my fault. 

Yup. There was something wrong with me. It couldn't possibly be with everyone else. It couldn't possibly be that the good people in the church were wrong. Last time I checked there wasn't any spot in the Bible that required people of the faith to be happy all the time. It just isn't humanly possible. 

Searching for "normal"

Even into adulthood I still feel a constant pressure to live up to some unreal expectation that's been drilled into my head. I'll be 27 this summer, and yet I constantly feel like I have to be better than everyone and be a good example for everyone. But of what? Why can't I just be me? Why can't I be the sensitive girl I am while also being strong? Human nature is a constant contradiction of blacks and whites, why can't I be the same way? Life isn't the huge competition and pageant of "perfection" I was raised to believe it was.

Within the past few years, a close cousin of mine has struggled with some issues very similar to my own. Over and over I've reminded her that hiding behind a false smile won't help anything. Masks have to fall off eventually. 

Yes, I'm content

These days, if I'm sad, I'll cry. If I'm angry, you'll know. If I'm frustrated, I'll probably stomp my foot before figuring out what I need to do next. But nothing will make me hide that again. People who know my story have seen my transformation over the years and I've been happy to share my journey with them. People who find out my story, share theirs with me and thank me for not hiding behind some facade. 

"Happy" means something completely different to me now than it did even 5 years ago. Happiness is contentment. It's allowing yourself the possibility of being happy. It's fulfillment. It's knowing that you're being true to you regardless of the thousand different directions you may be pulled. It's not taking no for an answer. Happiness is being me.

Random person: "How are you?"

Me: "Honestly? Absolutely content."