I’d just yelled my life’s story to a panhandler as sincerely as I could. I wanted him to understand that I wasn’t his enemy, that I could be trapped in my own private hell. I breathed deeply once or twice to get some air back into my lungs.
We do all the normal things while overriding the insecurity and uncertainty that self-stigma hammers us down with. We manage that, which takes a certain strength. So be proud. Take time to practice some self-care in your own inimitable way. Live your best life. You deserve it.
Mean people suck. In my first draft of this blog, that bumper sticker sentiment was all I could type. It’s a natural response to an emotional situation, but I know better. Responding in anger only fuels more intolerance. I have enough to deal with just managing my mental illness. Advocacy is not a license to bully. Leave that to the narrow-minded. Then help them change their mind through peaceful interaction.
Pop culture had shaped my views on mental illness and psychiatry, so I approached therapy with some trepidation. Would I have to lie on a couch while the therapist sat out of sight, furiously scribbling notes in a journal? Would I be forced to talk about embarrassing things from my past? Would those notes be sent to my insurance company for billing purposes the way my medical records are made available upon request?
I’ve lived through enough pain that I don’t need the drama. My illness is unpredictable, which is why I take medicine to handle the heavy lifting that self-knowledge can’t.
After the three-week stay in the hospital, where they changed up his meds because he had become psychotic, he hasn’t settled yet. I implored them to keep him through the transition. I mean, changing serious, anti-psychotic meds after ten years is no small thing.
Short and long-term memory is challenging for me; the memories in between are where I live, when I can. I perform daily activities based on patterns I have set up. If my routines get disrupted I have a hard time staying on task.
My mind is continually creating an existential puzzle, the solution to which will invariably leave me under yet another layer of loneliness.
Take a few minutes and read. I know how much you need to hear from a mother who is completely honest about the missiles and darts of motherhood, mental illness; impossible teenagers, and the fact that, at night time, all that holds true is that you love them so completely, so ridiculously…
