“Something else is hurting you- that’s why you need pot or whiskey, or screaming music turned so loud you can’t think.”

For too long I tried to deny a war wreaking havoc on my mind. Whether it was pot (as pictured), whiskey, or the deafening sound of the bass hitting, I tried to run and hide or mask the inner turmoil that so consumed me… until the cops showed up and I was forced to truly look within myself. This past year has without a doubt been the most personally challenging I have ever faced- from court rooms to a psychiatric ward to the countless hours spent in personal therapy. Looking at these challenges might come across as extreme pain or grief or despair, but I’ve come to realize instead that I was given an opportunity. I was given a second chance, the opportunity to redirect my life and rebuild myself before there was no turning back. If there’s one thing I’ve learned through a mountain of mistakes, it’s this: Pain doesn’t show up in our lives for no reason. It’s a sign that something in our lives needs to change. 

the semicolon project

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Today I went to a tattoo artist, and for $60 I let a man with a giant Jesus-tattoo on his head ink a semi-colon onto my wrist where it will stay until the day I die. By now, enough people have started asking questions that it made sense for me to start talking, and talking about things that aren’t particularly easy.

We’ll start here: a semi-colon is a place in a sentence where the author has the decision to stop with a period, but chooses not to. A semi-colon is a reminder to pause and then keep going. 

In April I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety. By the beginning of May I was popping anti-depressents every morning with a breakfast I could barely stomach. In June, I had to leave a job I’d wanted since I first set foot on this campus as an incoming freshmen because of my mental…

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“I prayed for a broken bone that would heal in six weeks. But that never happened. I was cursed with an illness that nobody could see…” –Andy Behrman

Over the course of the next seven years, I went through two additional depressive episodes, each dragging on for years at a time. In all likelihood, the number of appointments I scheduled during these episodes mirrored that of a cancer patient. But the difference between this cancer patient and I is why over 41,149 Americans died in 2013. This reason plays a significant role in the fact that every 12.8 minutes in America, another person dies by suicide. When a person receives a cancer diagnosis, they receive an outpouring of empathy and support from those around them. When someone receives a mental illness diagnosis, the stigma surrounding this category of illness leads many, including myself, to suffer in silence.

People generally seem to think that one can control a mental illness, which is absolute madness. There is no magical switch to ‘turn off’ these intangible symptoms, just as there is no switch to ‘turn off’ a physical symptom like a migraine or an upset stomach. You can’t just will the pain away. As each new depressive episode became undeniable, the cycle of treatment would begin again. I saw a psychotherapist at least every other week to try to draw out the deep-rooted issues within my personal complex. I saw a primary care physician in an effort to maintain my physical health and check for chemical imbalances. I saw a psychiatrist monthly, whose prescription pad offered me medication after medication after medication. During my third episode, I broke my foot walking down a set of two single stairs. Naturally, I went to see a doctor, who gave me an evidence-based diagnosis and put me in a boot. Two months later, I could walk with only a minimal amount of pain in my foot. In another month, I was pain free. I was healed. But the symptoms of depression raged on.

The Words I Never Said

For the next two years, I was awakened to the power of an invisible force that wreaked havoc on every aspect of my life. I learned to be silent because I couldn’t understand, let alone explain this state of being. I learned what it was like to be unable to get out of bed despite alarm after alarm screaming into my ear. I learned what it felt like to be so incredibly numb that the only thing that could bring me to life was the kiss of a razor blade against my skin. I learned what it was like to lose friend after friend because “I’d changed” and couldn’t explain why. I learned the embarrassment of reaching out to a health teacher for body wash, shampoo, and permission to leave class to take a shower, because keeping up with personal hygiene was damn near like moving a mountain…and people were starting to stare. I couldn’t stand the way depression zapped the life out of me, so when no one was looking, I learned that tobacco, drugs, and alcohol could raise me up or drop me down. I learned that medications carried no promise of raising me from the depths I was drowning in. I learned that I wasn’t like most kids my age, but I also learned that there were others who heard the whispers of the same demons that spoke to me. I learned that there were certain things, things that seemed so ‘normal’ or ‘natural’ in my mind, that weren’t very normal at all. But through those first two years, the most important thing I learned was that even though I couldn’t find my voice, or a proper explanation of how I felt, or to explain how things just weren’t right, I could unravel those feelings in the scribbles of a notebook. It was on these blank pages that I learned to speak the language of the words I never said.

One Swift Kick

My first official battle with depression hit me at just 13 years old, a freshly deemed teen entering my first year of high school. Within the first month of going back to school, I spent a week straight at home with only enough energy and will to move from the couch a time or two a day. My primary care physician offered a mononucleosis diagnosis, better known to teens as “the kissing disease”—one of the most common viruses to infect humans around the world. At the time, the diagnosis seemed plausible to both my family and I. Anyone who regularly comes into close contact with large numbers of people is at an increased risk for mono, leading high school and college students to frequently become infected. In addition to statistical odds, several of my close friends at school were spending time at home in bed infected with the virus. I assumed I’d caught it too—that my fatigue, muscle weakness, headaches, and perhaps even a sore throat (I can’t recall for sure) were all just part of this draining teenage illness. Although my testing for mono came back negative, my doctor remained faithful in the mono diagnosis, as the testing typically only detects the virus two to nine weeks after the initial infection. Looking back, I highly doubt I ever had the virus at all. I just didn’t know what it felt like for every thought, every memory, every conversation, every unascertained demon, to knock you to your knees with one swift kick.