Over the past few years, I’ve
read the accounts of many of my writing peers as they confessed their mental
health struggles on social media. Each time, I felt glad that they were brave
enough to be open about it…and wished I could be as bold and confident because I have also walked the dark road holding hands with that specter.
Twice, I've sought medical
treatment and been diagnosed with depression. The first time was 2007. The second
time was more recent, February 2015, and it was coupled with anxiety and insomnia.
Allow me to set the stage. -gulp- I’ve never been this open in a
public forum. Here I go.
A (now-estranged) family member had moved in “temporarily,” refused to get a job, and began bullying me to the point that I did not feel safe in my own home. Early in 2013, this person returned to find the entirety of their belongings on the porch and the locks changed. I wish I could say that ordeal had ended there.
In
2013, I began seeing a counselor because I was starting to question my sanity; she helped me see that I wasn’t crazy. I ended a relationship with a man
who was abusive in a way that she never formally identified but -thanks to book research afterward-
I can call it gaslighting. It hit me hard when I realized he’d had nearly all of the classic traits. Months later, I had to file bankruptcy and I lost my
car. (I’d never missed a payment on it but the bank took it anyway because they
could.) So I walked to work for a while and bummed rides when I could.
The day before my birthday in January of 2014 a father-figure passed away and suddenly it felt like I hadn’t grieved my own father who had died in 2008. This was the proverbial “straw that broke the camel’s back.” I had my first real anxiety attack when I was supposed to leave work and go to this friend’s funeral. I made it as far as the front entrance of my workplace, then I found myself back in my office, door shut and sobbing because I COULD NOT GET IN THE CAR AND GO.
I knew it was irrational. I knew something was wrong. And I lied to myself about it just as I had been lying to myself about a host of other things.
Looking back, having all this on top of regular stress and
responsibilities, I can see how that specter was holding my hand, whispering to
me long after a decent bedtime had passed, night after night after night.
**You do not have to have such
troubles or upheavals to suffer with mental illness, but I believe that in my
case, these things were definitive factors.**
At this time in my life a
good, true friend would have been invaluable to me, but (perhaps due to the
burns received from the ‘friendships’ of my youth) I never learned the skills to
be ‘good at’ friendships, to hold on to them and nurture them. Instead, I
became skilled at crawling inside myself and being satisfied with the solitary
act of putting words on the page or making music rumble from my guitar’s
amplifier. Though I’m ‘good at’ being alone and staying busy, solitude in
excess isn’t healthy. At least not for me.
When I wanted to pick up
the phone, the specter would say:
Who will you call? They might be busy.
Besides, you didn’t call when you were happy. No one will want to hear you whining.
When I thought to stop by
to see a friend, the specter would say:
People don’t do that anymore. It’s an
imposition. It’s rude. Besides, you didn’t stop by when you were happy. No one
wants to listen to you talk about how much you hurt inside.
When I considered going out
to where my friends might be, the specter would say:
You can’t possibly go out alone. A woman walking into a bar alone
sends a bad sign, worse if she’s not meeting friends quickly inside. You can’t
have a drink. You aren’t safe out there. Stay home. Alone. You’re safe there.
It cut me off every time I tried to reason my way out.
My own family didn’t
recognize how I hurt. They thought I was in my own space writing and being
creative. But the creativity was meager at best. The part of me I adored most
was slipping away and that hurt most of all. The self-doubt from that is the most pervasive and yet-lingering part.
I would drive myself up to the Mt. Jeez overlook when the house was too constricting {read as I needed some place new to cry}. I often checked-in from there on Facebook,
silently hoping someone I knew would recognize the truth and come talk to me.
Isn’t that a horrifyingly pitiful, selfish, and stupid bit of behavior? I see that clearly now. I feel ashamed to admit that I thought that way, and equally so to admit that I had no idea how to reach out to others without also feeling immeasurable
shame for simply thinking about reaching out.
That shame is the specter's punishment, one I wanted so much to avoid. Via hindsight I can say that I now see the choice I could not see then. It was: Avoid the shame and stay in the dark alone and stagnating, or face and accept the shame and take the chance of reaching out and growing.
PLEASE, DON’T WAIT FOR SOMEONE ELSE TO FIX IT.
I made an appointment to see
my doctor in late February 2015. He prescribed something to help me
sleep and another something for depression. We had a bit of trial an error but
by summer I was feeling much better, if lonely. The sleep was so good.
The loneliness was there, but it didn’t hurt. Because it didn’t hurt, I
was able to move slowly back into the light where the loneliness finally began to fade.
After about six months, I
quit taking the medicines. I had discussed the exit strategy with my doctor at
the beginning and it was important for me to know if I needed a kick to
straighten out, or if I needed medicine as a daily part of my life. Maybe it
will come to that someday but for now I haven’t been on the medicine for over
a year. I feel good. I sleep 97% of the time good and naturally.
Every day of life is a learning opportunity. Good days and bad days alike.
I learned to know me better and recognize my
warning signs. The shadows remain, and probably always will, but I have learned
that there is truly no shame in seeking treatment. If I find I’m not
kicking the occasional lows, or if the anxiety is unmanageable, or if the sleep stops
again, I will not wait or argue with myself about going back to my doctor because I know that specter is out there, and I know what it does: It tricks
you into the lonely dark and into stagnation where confidence dwindles and self-doubt grows to monstrous proportions.
I don't want that. Not again.
Telling all of you this private
stuff about me, I believe, is part of helping myself keep the specter at bay.
I've told it because the #HoldOnToTheLight initiative brings awareness, the kind that not only helps people with mental health issues, but will help other people recognize mental health issues in their loved ones. If someone in my family hadn't been ignorant of the signs, perhaps they could have/would have done something and I might have gotten help so much sooner.
I’ve
told it because I remember seeing my peers and being encouraged by their
admissions.
I’ve told it because if you’re reading this
and you’re struggling, I want you to know without a doubt that YOU ARE NOT ALONE.
Do not listen to
that specter’s lies; things are not hopeless and you do not
deserve this.
Do not let it convince you that it is shameful to ask
for help.
Do not stagnate, you must keep growing and learning and doing and
being.
Don’t wait. Take the initiative, please. It IS worth it. Reach out, let people help you.
Neither you nor I have to
walk the dark road holding hands with that specter.
-
Linda
About the campaign:
#HoldOnToTheLight is a blog campaign encompassing blog posts by fantasy and science fiction authors around the world in an effort to raise awareness around treatment for depression, suicide prevention, domestic violence intervention, PTSD initiatives, bullying prevention and other mental health-related issues. We believe fandom should be supportive, welcoming and inclusive, in the long tradition of fandom taking care of its own. We encourage readers and fans to seek the help they or their loved ones need without shame or embarrassment.
Please consider donating to or volunteering for organizations dedicated to treatment and prevention such as: American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, Home for the Warriors (PTSD), National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI), Canadian Mental Health Association, MIND (UK), SANE (UK), BeyondBlue (Australia), To Write Love On Her Arms and the National Suicide Prevention Hotline.
To find out more about #HoldOnToTheLight, find a list of participating authors, or reach a media contact, go to https://www.facebook.com/groups/276745236033627/
But-- and forgive me for getting a bit political-- I know one fictional setting that I don't want to live in, and that's Octavia Butler's Parables duology.
If you haven't read Parable of the Sower and Parable of the Talents, a quick summary: it's set in a near future dystopia, where the American government has effectively collapsed to privatization and a fearmongering leadership. And as opposed to the hip dystopias of Hunger Games or Divergent, this one is disturbingly plausible. At the time I read it, it felt like a place that we might actually reach, it felt more real from its lack of rules or rigidly defined divisions. Instead, all the divisions are just the usual Fear of the Other-- someone who isn't one of mine can't be trusted.
But the point of the series is how fear and selfishness tries to squash hope, unity and empathy.
