Mental Illness: My Story

I wrote this piece for my creative non-fiction class last semester. I've wanted to share it for a while, so here you go. Enjoy, stay strong, and my love goes out to all of you.

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Trigger Warning: Depression, Mental Illness, Suicide, Self-Harm

  

Note: I will be discussing very heavy themes such as suicide, self-harm, and mental illness. Please always remember to take care of yourself and know that your mental well-being is more important than any article or written piece

I grew up in a small town filled with pretty girls and awkward boys, in a town of cookie cutter homes and old money, in a town filled with painful secrets hidden behind lip glossed smiles. The kind of town you can drive through and think about the beauty but not the unspoken truths lurking underneath. I grew up in the picturesque county of Marin, just north of San Francisco, where the homes have ocean views and everything looks perfect. Everything is just so.

In a town of basic white girl living, where Lulu Lemon stores sit next to hipster coffee shops and expensive electronics stores, Marin county does an eerily encompassing job of hiding our insecurities. That is, until said insecurities and silent struggles cause our fellow community members to overdose, or cut their wrists, or jump off a bridge. At that point, we admit they were having a tough time. That this was a lifelong struggle, and they had expressed this pain before. Their family didn’t know what to do. This was just so sudden. No one ever saw this coming.

Why I Stopped Doing Stand-Up

"Self-deprecating humor is the lowest form of comedy. And I can't even do that right." - unknown

From my stand up days. Yes, I had blue hair.

Sometimes, in the middle of a conversation, I'll stop what I'm saying and mumble something about how I could totally write a stand-up bit about that. That's not just me being fanciful-- I actually used to perform stand-up comedy at a local open mic bar.

At the time, I was 19 or 20 years old and one of the two female performers who would regularly pop in to the twenty or thirty person open mic. I couldn't drink, but the open mics were taking place at 10:30 pm, so I was plenty delusional and weird anyway.

I tried different styles, I got laughs, and it felt good. I would heckle the other comics (basically boo or shout something from my seat). I could be myself, I could be sarcastic and weird. And it was fun.

In my last post, I wrote about my journey sophomore and junior year to becoming the woman I am today. Stand-up comedy was a gateway to self growth, but it was something I had to leave behind.

The Weakest Link

"A chain is only as strong as its weakest link." - unknown

If you know my family at all, one of our defining attributes is a love for travel. I have blogged every summer for the past few years (Summer 2015, Summer 2016, Summer 2017). Blogging was often my way to contribute, a tradition that began with my dad chronicling Eastern Europe 2012, a trend that I continued. While my dad's posts were mainly educational, I liked to blog funny thoughts I've had and random quirky anecdotes.

My sister is the photographer. My dad is the professor. My mom is the second grade teacher. I am the writer. We each bring our unique gifts to travel, and that's what makes our family vacations so wonderful. But it wasn't always this way. My family is currently traveling through India for 10 days (without me). Considering that I hate crowds, noise, scents, spicy foods, overstimulation, anxiety producing situations, lack of food, exhausting days, and so many other trademarks of India, I am happy to be here in Claremont, organizing my sticker collection and admiring Shayna's photos.

But as I consider what it means to be a part of such an adventurous family, with parents who are willing to accommodate my sensory needs and my anxieties, I feel truly lucky I am able to make it work. But it was a journey to get to the peace of mind I am at today.

My mother is proud of me

One of my favorite slam poems is a short piece by Kait Rokowski titled, "A Good Day." The poem describes what a good day is like for someone with depression, how the overwhelming pain can show how simply getting out of bed is an accomplishment in and of itself. The fight with depression, anxiety, and mental illness is very real, and it is a fight that is so often unseen and unrecognized.
One of my favorite lines is both funny and very truthful. 

My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, ”Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.

Living in recovery or remission from depression and mental illness means you must celebrate the little victories. And the external validation, the kind that comes from big awards and presentations, is replaced with casual recognition of your perseverance and offhand compliments about how well you are doing.

The Optimist with a Half Empty Glass

I assume you all know the old adage "Glass Half Empty/Glass Half Full". The idea is, when presented with a glass filled halfway with liquid, do you describe the glass as half empty, or do you say the glass is half full?


I always hated this test.

The Struggles of ADHD Medication (Part 2/2)

About a week ago I wrote part 1 of this post expressing my frustration around the lengthy and difficult monthly process of attaining my much-needed stimulant medication. (And to anyone wondering, yes, I did get my medication. Emotional Labor sold separately).

The second part of this post, what I am writing here, regards the abuse of stimulant medication. 

To start, I am not attacking anyone who illegally purchases Adderall or Ritalin to cram for a test. Coffee is a stimulant, and a regular part of American daily life. I'm writing this post at Starbucks with a mocha by my side. My argument is not against using stimulants or against the choice students make to do whatever it takes to get the A. 

Yes, I take ADHD medication. No, you can't have any. (Part 1/2)

One of the most ironic issues with taking medication for ADHD is that I forget to pick up my ADHD medication because of my aforementioned ADHD. With my other medications, such as my anti-depressants, I am able to have them delivered to my mailbox with little to no hassle. However, because my Concerta and Ritalin are controlled substances, AKA they're intense uppers for the Neurotypical individual, I have to jump through hoops to get my daily meds.

I have to remember to email the doctor to prescribe the medication. Following which I have to remember to go to the pharmacy when it is open and make sure my prescriptions are called into the right location. And sometimes the pharmacy won't have the medication in stock, because it is a controlled substance, or I will forget to check a certain box on the psychiatrist's site and the whole process starts over again.

I will admit I have never been outright asked for my medication. I know it happens, especially around finals week, but I make a point to surround myself with people who aren't into that. That being said, two events/encounters in the past week have led to my frustration with this culture around ADHD and college and the implicit suspicion that I am actually normal.

I am brilliant; I am flawed.

About a month ago, I had a pretty long text conversation with my uncle about feminist critiques of the protagonists of coming of age novels such as "Catcher in the Rye". (Because, you know, that's the type of small talk you get with me). My argument, largely based on a piece by Roxane Gay titled "Not Here to Make Friends" revolved around the double standards of personality traits in literature depending on gender. For example, characters such as Holden Caufield in "Catcher in the Rye" are read as dark, moody, mysterious, troubled, while women are painted as unlikable, threatening, and I'll just say it, bitchy.

The Da-Nold Trump Code Part 2: Biblical Stories

This semester, I am enrolled in the Munroe Center for Social Inquiry fellowship, a lecture series based around the ideas of conspiracy theories. Specifically, what they are, why people believe them, and how they affect our society.

I have loved conspiracy theories since I was very young. Even as young as 6 or 7, I remember waving up at the sky in the playground to let the scientists watching us know I knew they were there. Looking back, it was probably the CIA who was watching me. I bet they thought I was adorable. Or a threat. I mean, I was in second grade, what did I know?

Too much, probably.

Slipping

Update: I have found a medication issue was most likely the culprit for my depression. Thank you everyone for your support, and I look forward to returning to stability in the next few days :)


My last blog post was about a month and a half ago. Given that I would ideally be posting on a weekly basis, this is a long time for me to go without blogging. I could give you the typical list of reasons: I was busy, I was stressed, I was overwhelmed. All that is true, but something deeper has been lurking-- I am afraid I am slipping.

When I say "slipping", I mean slipping back into old habits. Slipping back into depression, or into anxiety about the possibility of slipping back into depression (yeah, the anxiety/depression combo can be brutal like that). Slipping for me indicates a loss of control. I know something is wrong, I know I may be headed down a spiral, but I feel helpless to get myself back on my feet.

Say it with me: Mental Illness is a lifelong struggle. There is no cure for depression and there are no guarantees in the world of psychiatry. There are things that work, and those differ from person to person. What works for me might not work for you, and what works for me one day may be completely useless the next.

Here is a list of what has worked for me in the past month. Some days are better than others, and each item on this list has helped me in one way or another. What's cruel about depression is that it forfeits your desire to fix things. It seems impossible until it is done, but once you try it, it doesn't seem so bad.