Stigma Fighters: Hasty Words

There are some things we just have to experience to understand.

I couldn’t stand listening to them whine. My classmates, my co-workers, my friends and my family coming to me and sucking my positive energy dry. Those with so called “depression” were always so negative and I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand. I am ashamed of myself for not understanding.

I didn’t understand that depression wasn’t a mood or a frame of mind. I didn’t understand that my loved ones weren’t wallowing in self-pity. I was angry every time one of them attempted suicide or succeeded in killing themselves. I was angry at how selfish they had to have been to think only of themselves, to “take the easy way out”. I am ashamed of myself for not understanding.

I remember lying in bed one night with thoughts flying through my head faster than I could grab them. One night turned into eight months and before I knew it I was an emotionally charged time bomb. Anxiety for my family, friends, job, money, and marriage kept me awake at night. I wrote it all off as normal everyday stress. I am strong, I can handle it.

I wasn’t going to be one of the whiny sad people so I smiled through everything. Until, I started breaking. At first, I got paranoid. I started accusing my friends of treating me differently. I started accusing them of lying to me and not caring about me. What the hell was happening to me?

I internalized everything but I was still pretty good at ignoring the self-deprecating voices. I became obsessive about music, listening to headphones every time I heard the thoughts getting restless. My best friend would tell me to stop wearing them when I drove but I didn’t listen because I needed the music piped into my ears or else I couldn’t ignore the voices. If my husband or my friend got upset the headphones went in and I isolated myself in the music.

I WAS NOT GOING TO BE ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE. Eventually, I got frustrated and with the frustration became anger. Constant battles and constant fights that always ended in regret and shame. Then the voices became too loud to ignore. The voices were right. I was worthless, I was whiny, I was a mess, and eventually I couldn’t hear the real voices of those around me. I was depressed.

I had already been writing for quite some time trying to make sense of things. Many of my poems are dark but they helped me in ways I didn’t understand until later. Writing didn’t cure my depression but writing helped me understand it better. One night I hit bottom and I survived the voices in my head (with help from a friend) long enough to get help.

TRYING NOT TO BE ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE was going to end up killing me.

Writing helped me in my counseling sessions and became part of my therapy. I began sorting through those thoughts I used to try to ignore. I discovered I harbored resentment, distrust, and shame because of the rape I had buried two decades before. I learned what kind of cycle my depression went through and what kinds of things triggered me.

When I start to feel, whether because of something I go through or because of something another person goes through, I sit down and listen to my thoughts. Instead of waiting for them to scream I am dragging them out of their little hidey holes before they get too comfortable. This is why I write poetry.

There is something about having a conversation with your thoughts and trying to summarize them with exactly the right set of words that is therapeutic. If I am especially upset I will focus on the rhyme and scheme of a poem. The longer it takes to write the more exhausted I am of the subject. If you are irrational it takes a good 20 minutes to start thinking rationally again. I can see this as I write.

I still get anxious and upset, I still get depressed, but writing poetry makes it more manageable. I don’t cry every day and sometimes I go months without breaking down. I made poetic duets a major part of my blog because I want others to experience the power of poetry. It isn’t about writing perfectly it is about listening and letting emotions (the tears and the laughter) have their say.

Now, I don’t see whiny people; I see hurting people. I see people brave enough to reach out. It is hard to ask for help. It is hard because we convince ourselves that it is selfish to hurt when you know others are hurting more. I have learned that mental pain can hurt just as much as physical pain and all pain is relevant. Now I listen and encourage PEOPLE LIKE ME to seek professional help because ignoring depression is dangerous.

I continue to write because I want people to understand the cure for depression isn’t as simple as mind over matter. I want those who suffer with depression to know they are not alone and that writing can teach us, connect us, and ground us. I let the voices out long enough to have their say and then I confront them by writing.

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HastyWords is an anxiety driven over-analyzer. With a mind full of rainbows and devils she began giving her thoughts a way out of her head by writing poetry. Writing began as therapy for her depression and helped her gain perspective by putting her tears and laughter into words! You can follow her journey at:
hastywords.wordpress.com or you can submit your own poetry where she is an editor for the online poetry journal TheReverie.com

Stigma Fighters: Rich James

Hi! My name is Rich and I live a happy life. I live with schizophrenia and depression daily, but enjoy my life to the fullest extent I can. It’s been a long road to get to this point, but I’d like to share my journey with you.

Back in 2001, I was working in a humdrum, mind-numbing office job. My role was to input the details of direct debits and standing orders for a popular high street bank. I used to type, at speed, with headphones on, listening to music all day, 5 days a week. The hardest part was that everyone around me was talking about me while I wasn’t listening. I knew they were doing it, for certain. This made me very sad, worried and uncomfortable. Whether they were really talking about me, or whether this was the start of my new life, I will never know. It was as real to me as anything ever had been, but with hindsight, I fear this was my new way of life emerging.

In the final quarter of 2001, in the office, it all suddenly and without warning became too much for me to bear. I broke down. I felt deeply and darkly low inside, lower than I had ever felt in my 27 years on Earth before. I felt broken, defeated and empty. With tears rolling down my face, I told my boss I had to go home, and made my way back to the flat I lived in with my wife, Sarah. Sarah was at home, working with a colleague when I arrived. I phoned her from the front door in utter desperation. She told me to wait around the back of the flat while her colleague left and it was safe for me to collapse in private.

However I appeared to Sarah that morning, she took my despair seriously and took me to see our GP that evening. He spoke to me for half an hour, then diagnosed depression and wrote me a prescription for some antidepressants. I was numb, but grateful that how I was feeling was being taken seriously. We returned home.

I spent the next year sleeping in the day and staying up all night in a daze. My medication was changed numerous times, until I finally regained a little control over my emotions. I thought I was on the mend and, although I had lost my job, I could get back to normality.

At this point, my paranoia would flare up violently, taking over my mind with conspiracy theories and thoughts of my loved ones dying around me. It was very hard to cope with, but I didn’t know what was wrong. One day, in early 2004, I was driving myself and Sarah back from a friend’s house. I stopped the car to allow a few people to cross the road, as I frequently did on this journey. Sarah asked me what I was doing. I explained. Her reply hit me hard. “What people?”, she said. “There’s no one there!”. I was confused. I could see 4 or 5 people crossing the road but Sarah couldn’t see them. What did this mean? This happened a few more times in quick succession. I started to believe Sarah and accept something was wrong with me. I had also begun to hear voices telling me to harm myself, quietly in the background of music or the television. I was cutting my arms daily in response to these voices, but they wouldn’t stop. The paranoia was getting worse too.

I had seen 3 psychiatrist’s by this point. All 3 had sent me on my way with a clean bill of mental health. The last appointment Sarah came with me, and Dr Psychiatrist told us both that there was absolutely nothing wrong with me but Sarah was a cause for concern as she didn’t hear voices or see hallucinations! I felt so very let down and despondent.

Sarah, with help from a friend’s father, researched what was happening to me on the internet. She took me to see our GP. After almost an hour of chatting, he bravefully and very helpfully diagnosed me with chronic schizophrenia and prescribed me risperidone – an antipsychotic medication.  Within a week of adjusting the dose, all my symptoms except the paranoid episodes had vanished. It was like stepping out of the dark into an all encompassing warm sunshine.

Now, in late 2014, I enjoy and appreciate the little things life brings. I’m a happy person. I still live with cycles of depression and high moods, but I have learnt to adapt my life. I still suffer from bouts of paranoia, but my wife keeps me in check. I go out of the house to work everyday and enjoy mixing with people. We don’t go out in our spare time, I feel safest at home and my wife has to change the bed most nights due to my night sweats, but we’re happy. It’s taken from when I started my antipsychotics in 2004 until now to learn to live, but I’m enjoying life so much.

In 2010, I began writing music again for the first time since my mid-twenties. I record now under the name All Star Motivator and have even had my music featured in a drama, a soap opera and an advert on TV in the UK. I am very proud of how far I have come, although I owe so much to Sarah. She is my guardian angel.  I now also run a record label in my spare time. My new single is a free download from http://pmusic.co/3P5X5N if you fancy listening.Life has proved to me that we can overcome, or at least fit in with, anything. Thank you for reading.

Life has proved to me that we can overcome, or at least fit in with, anything. Thank you for reading.

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I would like to introduce myself…
My name is Rich James. I’m a musician, songwriter and producer recording under the name of All Star Motivator. I compose across a broad spectrum of genres, mainly focusing on Electro synth pop songs and instrumental Dance styles (although I have released a children’s song about animals dancing for charity!). To date, my music has featured on TV in the UK in the drama Skins, the soap opera Hollyoaks and a trailer for comedy programmes. I also run, along with my wife, the label I am signed to, Pink Dolphin Music Ltd.I live in the West Midlands, UK with my wife and our 3 furry kitties.

 

Welcome to my music, I hope you enjoy. If you like what you hear, join me and help spread the word!

Stigma Fighters: Michael Coleman

I follow Stigma Fighters and admire the courage of those who have “come out” before me and shared their stories. This is the first time I’ve gone public with this and in all honesty I am feeling levels of increased anxiety and vulnerability with literally every letter I type.

A firm believer in the idea that the secret to happiness in life is love and respect, with self-love and self-respect being the necessary catalysts to ever hope to receive love and respect from others, I think it is okay to finally be open about what I navigate each day and love and respect myself entirely without apology.

My specific mental issues revolve around OCD. This phrase is sometimes used by people who are really particular about something, but for those of us with more involved conditions it is a bit more to handle.

There are countless forms of OCD that can involve obsessions (symmetry, religious, sexual, etc.), fear of contaminations, causing harm to yourself or others, and other fears and/or obsessions.

I read a wonderful book by Lee Baer called The Imp of the Mind that was an absolute game changer for me.

I did so at the recommendation of an incredible therapist who specializes in OCD. She has given me exercises I do daily that have allowed me a different level of
functionality in my every day life.

My particular diagnosis deals with symmetry, counting, rituals, checking, repeating, ordering, arranging as well as fears about saying or doing things that are right or wrong.

To people without the condition, my issues can seem trivial. Just don’t do it. But it is not unlike being drunk, knowing that you’re
drunk, and trying to just be sober by willing it to happen. And when an episode or circumstances occur that flare up my condition, I can reach levels of anxiety that are almost paralyzing and my responses
are not unlike the responses of someone with autism.

I need to check everything I do (set alarm, lock a door, set a record button, etc.) three times. I cannot place my items at the grocery in non-symmetrical orders or out of categories and even re-aarange the items of people in front of me or behind me. I count two steps at a time up to ten and start over everywhere I go, and have for as long as I can remember. I have not stepped on a line or a crack in my entire life as far as I can recall.

My clothes all hang. All of them. And they all hang on a hanger that matches all other hangers in my possession. And they are arranged by color and type. Some of these seem silly, and truthfully I do try to find humour in some of it when possible as it is a part of the healing process. I can lose an entire day in a state of paralysis if there is too much “chaos” in my home or life.

The fear of saying/doing right or wrong causes me to be socially awkward at times. Never with any ill will intended or crossing my mind, I sometimes find myself saying or doing stupid things to ensure I don’t say or do stupid things… only to end up doing the very thing I try with all of my heart to prevent.

In addition to complete shut downs this can also result in deep levels of depression, self-doubt and numbness.

I think it is a generous gift that people like those on http://stigmafighters.com exist and are opening doors to awareness on subjects of mental illness. It’s a very difficult thing to go public with and it shouldn’t be. I think public awareness and understanding would greatly increase the opportunities for those with some form of mental illness to seek out support and live more fulfilling lives.

If anyone suffers from any of the ideas I’ve listed above I always have an ear to bend without judgment or conditions.

I encourage you to read the book Imp of the Mind, go through therapy and give yourself a chance to be who you want to be. I can be found @1michaelcoleman on Twitter or actormichaelcoleman.com or mcoleman@schoolcreative.com

Again, I am feeling incredibly vulnerable with this “share” but I truly hope it offers some level of community or hope or love for
anyone who feels similar “feels” to what I’ve shared.

Love and Respect,

Michael Coleman

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Best known at this moment in time for performing the role HAPPY on
ABC’s ONCE UPON A TIME, Michael is a writer, voice-over actor, actor for stage and screen, and actorpreneur with decades of experience. Before his current series, Michael performed roles on Smallville, Fringe, Supernatural, Stargate (SG-1 and Atlantis), Dragonball Z, Inuyasha, Hamtaro, Hello Kitty, X-Men: Evolution and many, many more.

Stigma Fighters: Dr. Margaret Rutherford

I didn’t want to have something “wrong” with me. Certainly not a mental disorder.

March 1984, The night I opened the doors into a big hotel lounge in Dallas, filled with friends, mostly strangers. All just having a good time. My heart started racing. My hands were sweaty. The walls of the room seemed to cave in where all I could see was a mass of people. No specific faces. I couldn’t breathe.

I turned around. Practically ran out.

I was having a panic attack.

Not my first. I had had them for at least 3 years. I didn’t want to admit there was a problem.

My 1st? Occurring when I had a solo in my hometown church. I was working at the time as a professional jingle singer. Justified that one by saying that I hadn’t sung in church in a long time. Must have been a weird case of nerves.

The 2nd. Auditioning for a solo in a studio. My legs started shaking. I remember the producer looking at me curiously. “You all right?”. “Just tired”, my response.

I didn’t get the solo.

I was in my mid-20′s. The typical time for panic attacks to begin. They started happening not just at times I was truly “performing”. Other times when I would feel somehow, irrationally, pressured. A need to do something incredibly well. Even if that was just to listen to a friend.

I needed to be all things to all people. Never disappoint. Always be at top performance.

Interestingly, this all began occurring when the reality of my life was far from perfect. Divorced. Living a more chaotic lifestyle, with a relationship that wove in and out of my life that was confusing and belittling. I seemed addicted to choices that led to my own unhappiness.

I had been in therapy. But had never admitted the full extent of the panic. I went to 3 different therapists in the end. One used hypnosis, which I think now would have worked, had the rest of my life been a little less provocative. I didn’t really give his techniques much of a chance.

The second therapist was just bad. A nice enough guy. But we never got down to anything concrete.

Finally, I got to Larry. I remember distinctly what he said.

Me: “I want to get rid of these attacks. I hate them”.

Larry: “The more you hate them, the more power they will have. You have to try to have compassion for the part of you that shakes. That trembles. She is just as real as the part of you that you find acceptable.”

I didn’t like hearing what he said. But suddenly it made sense.

Acceptance. Of all of me. What a novel idea.

I am sure that I no longer remember his exact words. I have now said something similar to so many patients, that I probably am quoting myself. But his message made a strong impact on me.

Basically, I could quit trying to be all things to all people. To be somebody I was not.

Some kind of perfect human being.

My mother had full-blown obsessive-compulsive disorder. From some newspaper clippings I have found, it sounds like my paternal grandfather had panic attacks. So I was genetically set-up to have anxiety.

It’s just what I have. I no longer feel shame about it.

I wish that I would take the time, like Dan Harris details, to learn a technique like meditation. I would probably lick the attacks themselves. He has written about his journey in the excellent book “10% Happier”. I don’t think he would define it as a technique. More like the adoption of a lifestyle.

Maybe I will get there.

It can be awkward if it happens. Irritating. Like getting a cold on vacation. But I don’t hate it any more. It’s just something that I manage. I cope with.

I fairly frequently realize I haven’t “panicked” in a situation where I might have, in earlier times, automatically grabbed for the beta-blockers I keep in my purse. My “just in case” meds that can be helpful in a pinch. (It should be noted that this class of drugs is not for everyone and is no cure for anxiety. It’s a quick fix. A short-term solution.)

The more open and honest I am with myself – the less I am invested in being something I am not – the less anxiety I have.

Plain and simple. So the perfectionism – the anxiety – is not running me anymore.

And I am not running away.

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You can read more of Dr. Margaret @ http://drmargaretrutherford.com! Or email her with question and comments at askdrmargaret@drmargaretrutherford.com. And please, it you are experiencing symptoms of panic or anxiety, either reach out for the help of a therapist or take steps to address them yourself. You can feel better!

Dr. Margaret Rutherford is a clinical psychologist who has been practicing in Fayetteville, Arkansas for over 20 years. She began blogging in 2012, coining the term “NestAche” for her empty nest experiences. She launched Dr.MargaretRutherford.com in 2014 and now can be read on the Huffington Post, Boomeon, BetterAfter50, Midlife Boulevard, BlogHer, WeWantMoreNow and other online magazines.

Stigma Fighters: Erica R.

I was at work when I found out Jason had died. Everything else in the world went blurry.

Jason is dead.
Shit.

I looked around my little window-less office,

“I think I think I have to go home now.”

Fuzzy thoughts wondered if I needed special permission to go home early from work. He wasn’t my husband or even my boyfriend. How would they code this? Is there a policy for when the father of your children kills himself? Policy #42.2.1.

I paced my kitchen until my parents arrived and then we sat in the living room and stared at each other.

Should I go get the kids now or do I wait until the end of the day? I dreaded telling them as much as I desperately wanted to get it over with. What should I do? Where is that policy & procedure manual now?

It just felt like they should know now. Shouldn’t they be here in our staring circle?

On the other hand, why waste a perfectly oblivious school day? Once I pick them up, their lives will be forever divided into: Before Daddy Died (BDD) and After Daddy Died (ADD).

I compromised and picked them up an hour before school ended.

My feet dragged as theirs skipped through the park to our home.

“Let’s sit on the couch; I have something to tell you.”

Four sparkling blue eyes looked up expecting me to announce one of my infamous surprise adventures. Instead they got,

“Your Dad died last night.”

And for the second time that day my world increased in blurriness. I think I had to repeat myself. I know we all hugged. There were tears. Blurrrrr……

“But..how?”

They had just seen him 2 days ago. People don’t just die without reason. They knew that.

I fought my desire to say car accident, or heart attack, or alien invasion. You know, anything easier to explain than suicide.

I am so thankful I had been able to call my friend who is a social worker and was as prepared for this question as possible.

“Some people are really sick and you can see it on the outside. Your Dad was sick on the inside where you couldn’t see it. He was sick in his heart and his mind and his soul. And he made a decision to stop his body from working.”

“He must have really been hurting.” Moxie

“Yes, he really was hurting.”

Blurrr…

“Hey, look at that squirrel out the window. He’s so funny.” Moxie

“Can we go out for dinner?” Rain

Okay so I guess we’re done talking about this.

Now what?

Well first, the kids needed dress clothes. The next day my friend brought over a selection from her own kids’ wardrobes and we chose outfits. Now we only needed to buy shoes. Funeral shoes.

We went to Walmart. The adjoining McDonald’s seemed appropriate for dinner. The kids laughed and played as they tried on shoes. Funeral shoes. I was buying shoes for my kids to wear to their Dad’s funeral. Jesus. It was all just so stereotypically surreal. The check-out girl smiled at us as she put the funeral shoes into the plastic bag. I was glad I hadn’t remembered my reusable bags from the car. Funeral shoes belong in plastic Walmart bags.

“We’re buying shoes for their Dad’s funeral”

I wanted to yell it so loud the whole store could hear me. I wanted the check out girl to announce it on the intercom. I was at Walmart, buying funeral shoes for Rain and Moxie because their Dad killed himself.

But instead I smiled back as she wished us a pleasant evening. We put the plastic bag of funeral shoes in the trunk and drove home.

Since then there have been a multitude of ups and downs – Wonderland could only be so lucky to have rights to this shit.

I continue to replay my last conversations with Jason over and over. I knew he was struggling. I didn’t know how much. I can still see his face from the rearview mirror as he buckled up the kids and kissed them good-bye. He seemed happy. Calm. The following night he killed himself. I agonize over wondering if I could have said something to stop him.

“It’s not too late. Please let us help you. Let your friends help you. Let your family help you. You are not alone.”

But instead we said good-bye and drove away.

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Bio:
I am Erica Richmond. I love words, adventures and Canadian Indie music. I am a single parent to Rain (10) and Moxie (8). We call ourselves Team Adventurers because we make an adventure out of every day. Their dad killed himself in May 2014 and since then we have been on a journey of grief, healing and love. We celebrate their dad’s life each and every day. I would never have asked to be a survivor of suicide. But here we are. I am sharing our story to encourage support for people with mental illness and reduce the stigma that will prevent some from seeking help. You are not alone. We can fight this together.
Blog: www.teamadventurers.wordpress.com
Blog (yes, blogs are my addiction): http://love4wor-l-ds.tumblr.com/
Twitter: @pixiepaperdoll7

 

Stigma Fighters: Allie Burke

Everything was different.

I’d been sitting in the same cubicle in the same office I had worked at for 5 years, but nothing was right. As right my life had been up to that point. I couldn’t count on twenty-six hands how many times I’d looked behind my shoulder that day; how many open bottles of water I’d thrown out from my car that week because I was convinced someone had poisoned me. I knew my train of thought was illogical, but I didn’t care. I called it being careful. Safe. I didn’t want to die. Not yet.

I was twenty-five years old, hearing things that no one heard, just for them to go away later that day, and come back early that night. The doctor told me I was schizophrenic and handed me a bag of pills. They worked when I took them, but of course working meant sleeping, and nothing else. When I was on them I couldn’t focus; I had trouble breathing; I couldn’t see. I just wanted to sleep. The fact that I hadn’t written a word on page in a book in months was of no consequence to me; I just wanted to sleep. But sleeping led to more sleeping, and it was never enough. It would never be enough.

I stopped taking the pills.

Two months later I found myself in a mental institution on a Friday afternoon, sitting across from a nurse speaking the words that didn’t even make sense to me. I just wanted to feel better. There was something wrong with me, they’d been telling me, and I wanted there to not be something wrong with me anymore.

“She can’t keep those. They have strings on them. Clothing with strings—” he glanced at me—“she can’t keep those.”

My husband was sobbing. He was a man’s man, brought up by a sailor. I had been with him ten years. I didn’t know he knew how to cry.

I snapped. I walked up to the nurse’s station and knocked on the glass and told them to give me my stuff. It was like a movie; I can’t believe they bought my imaginary stroke of genius and let me leave. But they did. I walked right out of there hours after I walked myself in.

All of this is in the book. Paper Souls.

Except, unlike Emily, I did go back. I was back in one white-walled  sanitarium or the other at least three more times.

My husband didn’t believe me. I told him I wasn’t crazy but he didn’t listen; he begged me to take my medication. The more we insist we are not crazy, the crazier we are, right? But I wasn’t. I just didn’t feel well; I thought too much and not on the right waves. I told him this. He begged me to take my medication. I told him to go screw himself, in the nicest words I could think of. I told him I didn’t love him. I told him to leave.

He left. Thank god. I’d be dead if he didn’t.

And so began the longest, hardest, most painful time of my life. Not because of divorce or loneliness or a dead-end job. I thought too much. My mind was a whirling twister of worries that would eat me from the inside out. It would destroy me if I didn’t stop.

I didn’t know how to stop. I didn’t know how to turn it off, other than to take the medication that numbed my existence. That wasn’t an option, obviously.

I’ve been raped. Beaten. Poisoned, ironically (or not). Left in an alley to die. I’d take it all again. I’d take it all again to not have to be a paranoid schizophrenic for those three years. I’d die. I wanted to die. I wished I had.

But I never took the medication again. Or saw any real doctors.

All of this is in the book. Also in the book is the time that Emily Colt killed someone. And then killed a second someone. But Emily Colt’s name isn’t Schizophrenia Girl. Emily Colt’s name is Emily Colt. She has a name just like all the murderers in the world who are murderers because they made the decision to kill someone, not because they are mentally ill.

Because schizophrenics don’t kill people. People kill people.

And that is the point, isn’t it? That that twenty-one-year-old girl dishonorably discharged from the Army shot up that mall not because the voices told her to, but because her own country refused to help her after they threw her in the dirt with nothing more than an automatic weapon and a canteen. She killed those twenty-something people because the military purposely took away her humanity, and didn’t feel the need or desire or care to give it back.

Because schizophrenics don’t kill people. People kill people.

We are not crazy because we are mentally ill; we are crazy because we are people. Because things happen to us, or because they don’t. Because we are not perfect. I said that I had been raped. Beaten. Poisoned. Left to die. This is all true. I have Paranoid Schizophrenia, but I do not choose to be alone because of it. I choose to be alone because I do not fear spending more time with myself than I do others. I am comfortable with my body, with my mind. I love myself. I have Paranoid Schizophrenia. I see things. Hear them. This is not because I have been treated badly. It’s because my great-grandmother had Paranoid Schizophrenia, and so does my uncle. Our brains work differently, and they have from the start. It has nothing to do with the way you treat us. You treat us badly because you are ignorant, not because we are bad people. It’s why I don’t trust you. If I say I trust you, I’m probably lying to make you feel better about yourself. I am a good liar. Not because I’m schizophrenic, but because my mother was a good liar. These are my choices, not my illness. I am no more dangerous than any other with an IQ as high as mine or the wits about them to use it. I am one of the most well-adjusted people on the planet. That is because, though I wanted to, I never did quit life. I still haven’t. I worked hard at fixing myself; I taught myself to get over things. That anxiety is a thing your mind makes up. I taught myself that just because I see it and you don’t, doesn’t mean it’s not there. It means that I see this thing, and you don’t. That doesn’t make me any crazier or any less normal than it does you.

I am proud of what I have accomplished and the person that I am. Every day that I get through with a smile on my face makes me happy. Empathize, but do not coddle me; do not pity me. I work as hard as you. If you judge me based upon what you think you know: that is your choice, not mine.

“Please hear this: There are not ‘schizophrenics.’ There are people with schizophrenia.” –Elyn Saks

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An American novelist, book critic, and magazine editor from Burbank, California, Allie Burke writes books she can’t find in the bookstore. Having been recognized as writing a “kickass book that defies the genre it’s in”, Allie writes with a prose that has been labeled poetic and ethereal.

Her life is a beautiful disaster, flowered with the harrowing existence of inherited eccentricity, a murderous family history, a faithful literature addiction, and the intricate darkness of true love. These are the enchanting experiences that inspire Allie’s fairytales.

From some coffee shop in Los Angeles, she is working on her next novel.
Visit Allie at http://wordsbyallieburke.com or on Twitter at http://twitter.com/allieburkebooks

Picking a Wound

My flesh is raw, open, sore, red. It hurts. I want the pain to stop, but it’s new. I can feel the place where it struck me…

HARD.

FAST.

The words

they burn

my

skin.

I want to turn away. I want to let it heal. I want it to all be over and done with and gone. Instead I stare into the raw open wound. It’s surging with pain.

I can’t stop it I can’t stop it I can’t s    t    o p  it   s   t  o p  t   h  e    pain.

Your words are burned into my skin.

Your words sting.

They hurt.

They burn.

They burn.

Stop.

Don’t.

Let me heal.

I want to heal.

I want to be new again.

I don’t want to feel anymore.

You know me.

You said you loved me.

You said you would be there.

And now you’re going away.

Gone

Hurt

Gone

Sting

Gone

Surging

Pain

Will you ever come back?

Will you ever bandage the words/wound?

Heal.

Time.

Heal.

Loss.

Heal.

Pain.

Heal.

Growth.

Pain.

Love.

Words.

Words.

Words.

Wounded.

Words.

Stigma Fighters: Beka L.

I don’t really remember a time when I wasn’t experiencing some type of turmoil in my life, however small. I grew up with 4 older brothers and an older sister. They all took their fair share of recreational drugs or drank alcohol. They caused my parents many sleepless nights. Unfortunately, at an early age I began to experience the anxiety that would also cause me to lose sleep. I don’t think I had a fair shot at a healthy existence. Not for lack of trying.

As the years went on, I knew something was a little off with me too. Being overweight and made fun of a lot in middle school didn’t help. High school went a little better. I suppose I could have been considered popular. I certainly wasn’t an outcast. Yet, by the age of 19, my suspicion that I wasn’t wired quite right became a fact. I was depressed, and there wasn’t a thing I could do to fix it.

I started seeing my first psychiatrist then. I remember the first medication I was ever prescribed was Prozac. I honestly don’t recall if it helped or for how long. It was just the beginning of an arduous journey through the county health system. At the time, I didn’t have mental health coverage, so I had to take what I could get. It worked out alright for several years. They really didn’t give a damn about you, but you didn’t have to pay for your medications. I always lived by the motto, “Beggars can’t be choosers”.

With the depression came horrible anxiety. Borderline Personality Disorder would soon follow, along with PTSD. The older I got, the worse I got. There came a time when I was on 7 medications at once. I found myself drifting in a sea of worthless relationships with men that made me feel like a freak. In 1998, I was in a long distance relationship that began online. He asked me to marry him. Before that could happen, but after the deposits had been put down, he dumped me. Apparently a psychotic episode and a psychiatric hospitalization make you less appealing to the opposite sex.

With his hasty exit from my life weighing heavily on my shoulders, I taught myself self-injury. I didn’t know that’s what it was at the time. I didn’t know anyone else knew what it was either. Ironically, I discovered it when I was rejected by another male acquaintance, and I had it in my head that life wasn’t worth living. It was an accident really. A failure of sorts that became a coping mechanism when things were too much for me to handle.

I realize as I look back on the past that it most certainly appears that I just didn’t experience a single happy moment in my entire life. That isn’t true. I found happiness quite frequently. I held some gratifying positions with successful companies. I was often promoted and thought of to be a problem solver. I partied on the weekends, I met famous people, I went to concerts and sporting events. I had a best friend that I met in 5th grade that was a constant in my life. We were never apart for long, no matter what path we chose for ourselves.

I made new friends and met a lot of people online. You know, in the 90’s when it wasn’t quite as terrifying as it is now. Back then, not once did I think I was talking to a pedophile or a stalker. I was lucky that everyone I met was who they said they were.
The problem with my life was that as happy as it could be, the misery was a thousand times worse. I didn’t ever put two and two together. It never occurred to me that I couldn’t just take a bunch of medication and go on about my business and I would be all better. I didn’t understand that I had to do the work too.

Once I made that realization, I started to make better choices. I stopped meeting multiple people online. I buckled down and worked really hard. I met someone that although at first we didn’t seem compatible, we eventually discovered that we missed each other once we were apart. In 2001, we were married. Thirteen years later, he still knows how to make me laugh. We are happy, even though I still have my highs and my lows. I would be lost without him. My calming force in a sea of chaos.

Although I have spent over 20 years dealing with bipolar disorder, anxiety, PTSD, ADHD, panic disorder, borderline personality disorder, and self-injury; I am ALIVE. I consider myself a survivor. A warrior to say the least. Every day I wake up and hope that it will be a good day. Unfortunately, not every day can be. Thankfully, I am learning to process the guilt a bad day brings. I am learning that I didn’t ask for this, and I certainly wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. But, I can do this. If only people could understand how much energy goes into fighting this fight.

In the last 20 years, I’ve experienced more pain than anyone should ever have to bear. The death of my mother brought me to my knees. The more recent death of my brother, on my birthday no less, sent me on a tailspin. Yet, despite the outside influences that could have and should have broken me, I still fight on. I see the doctor, I take my medication. I give my feelings a voice no matter how hard it is, and I keep waking up every day with just a tiny glimmer of hope.

There may be days when I look in the mirror and feel like a failure. Sometimes, I want to give up. Then, I remember the strength it took to get me to this point in my life.

I remember I AM ENOUGH.

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Rebecca Lombardo began writing as a child. In third grade, she told everyone that her dream was to be a writer. At the age of 19, she was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder, but continued to write poetry into her 20’s, until her illness consumed so much of her time and energy, that she just lost the will to write.
She never gave up her dream to be a writer, but the despair she felt over not being able to find the words anymore was just too much for her to take, so she gave up writing for many, many years. Sporadically, she would begin a journal, blog, or even write a poem for her beloved husband, but it was never the same again.
In the summer of 2013, Rebecca faced one of the biggest struggles of her life. After losing both her mom to lung cancer in 2008, and her brother to an accident (on her birthday) in 2011, she felt as if she was drowning. Her physical health continued to deteriorate, and the migraines that were once just a nuisance became a constant, and would sometimes last 6-7 days at a time, and were cause for countless trips to the emergency room.
After trying to pick up the pieces of her life after her mother’s death, she moved forward with running her own pet sitting business, and attempting an online multi-level marketing business. Yet, she fell apart, and there was no way she was going to come back on her own this time. She attempted to take her own life, and was hospitalized against her will in a horrible, horrible place.
When she came out, in roughly July, her PTSD, anxiety, depression, and grief were overwhelming, and she decided to begin writing again. When the words began to flow easier and easier, she decided that she would be willing to turn it into a blog so that others could see her struggle and know that it’s a vicious cycle but it can be overcome. She hoped that in addition, it would help her get past all of these horrible experiences. As her writing went on, she would receive more and more feedback from total strangers, sometimes in other countries, that would thank her for telling her story. They were grateful that because of her, they were now able to get help.
At 41 years of age and happily married for 13 years, Rebecca can finally say that she is on her way to reaching her dream. Not only does she hope to help people that are struggling with depression, she hopes to help them realize that you are never too old to find your voice, and make your dream happen. Rebecca lives in a suburb in Michigan with her husband, Joseph and 5 cats. 4 of which were rescued. Her father lives a short distance away and is going to be turning 85 this year. She has 3 brothers and 1 sister as well as several nieces and nephews.
She continues to work on her pet sitting business and hopes to continue to find the words to keep writing her blog so that she can help as many people as possible.

Stigma Fighters: Kurt C.

I am a Survivor of Suicide
By Kurt Cunningham

I tried to end my life one night after having a wonderful fun-filled evening with friends. It was in November 2012 — I had a plan in place for months. Not one person had any idea what I was planning to do.

After a series of life-changing events that began in 2009 and included the closing my once- successful business of nine years, and culminated with the death of my mother in August 2012 life just seemed unbearable to me. My finances were a mess. My health wasn’t great. And I couldn’t make a romantic relationship last more than a few months.

Life just sucked! So I thought about every option I could end my life and finally decided on a plan that I could carry through with that wasn’t violent, or that wouldn’t bring harm to innocent bystanders. I remember coming home and getting everything in place to follow through with my plan. I’m sure you’re wondering what my plan was, but I would never want to put any ideas in someone’s head that was considering harming themselves. Once I was finished, I remember taking out the trash, grabbing my cat, and laying on my couch with the cat on my chest, unable to stop crying until I fell asleep.

Of course with the recent suicide of Robin Williams, countless articles have been written, news stories have flooded television for days, and now the news media are onto the next sensationalistic story. So I wanted to share my experience and acknowledge that I am a survivor of suicide. That sounds…I don’t know…kind of dramatic.

But there is something about creating a plan, going through with it, and the result not being what’s anticipated that is very dramatic. How are you supposed to feel when you wake up from a medically induced coma to see your friends and family at your bedside waiting for you to wake up?

My first thought was not “DAMN it didn’t work!” I can’t even remember what my first thoughts were. I know I was pretty delirious for a while because I thought I was at some lady’s home, and she was taking care of me while she decorated a Christmas tree. That lady was a nurse in my private ICU hospital room. The “tree” she was decorating was my IV drip rack. There were so many bags on that thing that they looked like ornaments. It was if strands of tinsel were flowing into my arms. I’ve done a fair share of drugs in my life but I’ve never mainlined Christmas. I had contracted pneumonia; there was a fear of liver and kidney failure. To say I was in bad shape would be an understatement.

It was a lengthy hospital stay. I was under 24-hour watch, which meant a nurse sat next to my bed every hour, every day. After about a week I was transferred to the “West Wing,” and believe me it was nothing as plush as the West Wing of the White House. The West Wing of UCSD Hillcrest is the psychiatric ward of the hospital. It’s like taking a step back in time. I believe it was a portion of the original space of the hospital when it was first built. It was very stark, sterile with plastic furniture and doors that locked us in. It felt like a prison and I was on permanent lockdown, there was nothing I could do about it. You don’t get to sign yourself out of a psychiatric ward like you can after a typical stay in a regular hospital – you are there until some stranger says you are back to normal…whatever the hell that is.

I was told by staff members that I would have a particularly difficult time there because I was the only “highly functional” patient in the ward.

They weren’t kidding. This was no resort-type facility that we often hear about celebrities going to because of “exhaustion,” but this support was an important part of the journey to recovery. I needed to be safe.

I sat alone. I tried to read. I would sometimes talk with the nurses when they weren’t busy.

“I don’t belong here. I’m nothing like these people! Don’t you know who I am? Get my friend who is also my City Councilman on the phone. Call my friends who are City Commissioners. Placing me here is obviously a mistake!”

I was coming unglued. The lunatics had taken over the asylum, and I was going down with them.

I begged to be let out. At one point a doctor gave me some false hope that I might be released over the weekend. Unfortunately, it was a Thanksgiving holiday weekend and the ward was being run by the “B list” doctors. Their idea of therapy included coloring in coloring books and making flowers out of colored paper. Finally, the following Monday the “A list” doctors came back on duty and saw that my mood was deteriorating because of my surroundings. I have a wonderful group of close friends who were visiting the hospital every day, bringing me some of my favorite food, keeping me focused on what my plans were for when I got out of the hospital. The nurses and the doctors were very impressed by the amount of people that would come visit me. I think I broke the record for the amount of visitors in one day. Hell, I even had a drag queen in full gown & crown visit me on Thanksgiving Day. It was like a dadgum parade in there. But it also showed the doctors I had a great support team waiting for me when I was released. The ongoing visits reminded me that I had a team of support, that I was not alone in the world.

Luckily that support system was willing to do anything they could to help me get reacquainted with life and back on my feet.

So let me fast forward a bit to my recovery. Follow-up appointments with all the doctors, weekly “talk” therapy, and new medications helped me with my recovery. Staying close to home but getting out of the house for a bit was important to me, but being seen wasn’t. I guess in a way I was embarrassed and ashamed of what I had done. Good thing I didn’t leave a “fuck you and fuck you too” letter for anyone to find, because then I would have to face those people again.

Looking back, I realize that shame and embarrassment was something that was a way of feeling that was imbedded in my mind. A learned behavior. YES, trying to end your life is an awful thing. I do not recommend it to anyone. But the stigma that was put on me like a scarlet letter made it very difficult to move forward in certain situations. That stigma was one of the many obstacles I have overcome. Friendships were the #1 thing that had changed in my life.

People’s attitudes about depression and suicide, just mental illness in general, often come with a stigma. Even when people try to have conversations about depression, their competency or understanding about the issue is archaic or maybe they’re just repeating things heard somewhere that they take as fact.

So, class is now in session.

Lesson 1: Depression is real.

Depression, clinical, diagnosed depression is not the same thing as having a bad day because your car got scratched, or you lost your lucky pair of underwear. The word “depressed” is used in a very loose and at times offensive manner. It trivializes what a truly depressed person is dealing with in their life.

It’s hard to blame the people that aren’t familiar with depression or other mental health issues. Our culture has taught us to dismiss these people as being victims and weak. I tend to be a little passive-aggressive when I see someone post on social media “I’m so depressed.” My response is always the same. “Oh, I’m sorry, how long have you been suffering from depression?” No one has ever answered that question when I ask.

Lesson 2: Suicide is a lot of things, but selfish isn’t one of them.

Suicide is a decision made out of desperation, hopelessness, isolation and loneliness. The black hole that is clinical depression is all-consuming.

People who say that suicide is selfish always reference the survivors. They say it’s selfish to leave friends and family and loved ones behind. What they don’t know is that those loved ones are the reason many people hang on for just one more day. They do think about the survivors, probably up until the very last moment in many cases. But the dark cloud of depression that follows you everywhere leaves you feeling like there is no alternative, that the only way to get out of the crappy situation you think you are in is to end it all. That is a devastating thought to endure.

Until you’ve stared down that level of depression, until you’ve lost your body, heart, mind and soul to a sea of emptiness and darkness…you don’t get to make those judgments. You might not understand it, and you are certainly entitled to your opinion, but making those judgments and spreading that kind of negativity won’t help the next person. In fact, it will only hurt them – and others – deeper.

Lesson 3: Once a nutcase, always a nutcase is a myth.

You have to look at depression for exactly what it is, an illness. Let’s compare it to diabetes. There is no cure for diabetes, but it is a manageable illness. There are many ways people with mental illness can live regular lives just like everyone else. Of course, there are different levels of the illness and it might take a lot of work for one person versus very little for another.

For me, the best plan has been medication and “talk” therapy. Medication isn’t a magic pill that works the first time you take it. You may have to try different pills or different combinations, and it takes a short time for those meds to kick in. You would be surprised at how many people you know or are familiar with that live with mental illness. Remember approximately 1 in 4 people suffers from a diagnosable mental disorder. Take a look around, it could be you, your best friend, your partner, your parent. Don’t be so quick to judge, but do ask questions. Approach them in a caring, concerned and loving manner.

Lesson 4: No blame, no shame, just be kind.

The worst things to say to someone with a mental illness:

• Snap out of it
• There are a lot of people worse off than you
• You have so many things to be thankful for, how can you be depressed?
• You’d feel better if you got off all those pills
• What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger
• Go out and have some fun
• I know how you feel
• So you’re depressed. Aren’t you always?
• This too shall pass
• You make the choice to have a bad day, just decide to have a good day.

Think about it. If you changed the words up a little bit, you would never even think to say things like:

• Hey, diabetic, snap out of it.
• Hey, epileptic, I know how you feel.
• Hey, paraplegic, so you can’t use your legs, isn’t that always the case?

You get the idea. No one would think those things are okay to say, and just because you can’t “see” my illness doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.

By saying these things, the mentally ill person in front of you is already probably feeling very bad about themselves, and you have chosen to go and make it worse.

Instead of those ugly things listed above, try saying things like this:

• I love you
• What can I do to help?
• This must be very hard for you
• I am there for you, and I will always be there for you
• You are amazing and strong, and you can get through this
• Have you seen your doctor/therapist?
• You never have to apologize for feeling this way
• I’m not scared of you

It has taken me a lot of work to get to where I am now. I have also discovered a new found passion for working in the mental health field. On July 24 of this year, I completed a course and am now certified in Mental Health First Aid. No, I am not a doctor, but I now have the tools and resources to help someone through a crisis to the next step and help stabilize a dangerous situation. I am learning more about the field through volunteering, organizing suicide prevention classes, and attending any and every class or lecture I possibly can.

I recently applied for a job in the mental health field and I’m waiting to hear back from the organization. If I don’t get hired for this job, I won’t let it get me down. I’ll keep pushing on. There are too many people out there in life-challenging situations that are being ignored by society. I can no longer stand by and let them suffer.

To go from a place of wanting to end my life to now being considered for a job helping others is a testament to every single person suffering from mental illness. Suicide is not the answer. There is hope! You can overcome your situation, you are important and what you have to offer can help someone at a time when they really need someone who understands.

Love yourself enough to ignore what others may think of you seeking professional help. You will be amazed at how much just talking to someone about your problems can help. Don’t keep your emotions bottled up inside until the bottle bursts. As the late, great Whitney Houston said in the movie Sparkle, “was my life not enough of a cautionary tale for you?”

If You Think You Need Help,
Please contact a medical or mental health professional as soon as possible. If professional help is not readily available, there are crisis lines and countless other resources that can assist.

National Suicide Prevention Hotline
(800) 237-TALK
The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline provides free and confidential emotional support to people in suicidal crisis or emotional distress 24 hours a day, seven days a week.
San Diego LGBT Community Center
3909 Centre Street (Hillcrest)
San Diego, CA 92103
Behavioral Health Services: (619) 692-2077 x208 (on-duty counselor, business hours)
Heidorn Lifeline: (858) 212-LIFE (after-hours or emergency crisis intervention & suicide prevention)
Web: www.thecentersd.org
San Diego County Access and Crisis Line
(800) 479-3339 or (888) 724-7240
The County of San Diego’s 24-hour prevention/intervention hotline
Web: www.sdcounty.ca.gov/hhsa/programs/bhs/
Trevor Project Lifeline
(866) 488-7386
The Trevor Project provides a 24-hour hotline that provides crisis intervention and suicide prevention services to lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and questioning young people (LGBTQ) ages 13-24.
Trevor Text: Text the word “Trevor” to (202) 304-1200. Standard text messaging rates apply.
Web: www.thetrevorproject.org

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My name is Kurt Cunningham, I was born into a mostly happy upper middle class family in Orange County, CA. Had a great relationship with my family, got on good a school seemed to have it all. Then my dad accidently shot himself. My life changed forever. In my early twenties I moved to San Diego. Thankfully my mom and friends were still in my corner. I’d be come a well-known activist and performer, a well-liked business owner, but I’d still had not recovered from my fathers death. I’d hide the depression with alcohol drugs, Then the economy crashed, I lost my business, my mom got cancer and died and since I’d never had a long-term relationship I thought I had nothing to live for. I attempted to end my life two years ago and through dumb luck and a built up tolerance level to drugs and alcohol, I lived. Once I realized I was faced with starting to live life all over again. I “regrouped” and found my passion for helping others that maybe facing a similar situation that I had. I spend my days volunteering and searching for that perfect job in the Mental Health field.

Stigma Fighters: Dani Smith

I was born in 1980 into a family that had a long history of mental illness and disability, most notably severe Bi-Polar Disorders, clinical depression, and GAD. Two relatives committed suicide in the last 80 years, one to a self-inflicted gunshot wound, the other by throwing himself under a train (my grandmother has been in and out of psychiatric wards for much of her life). I have suffered from anxiety since young childhood, even to the point of producing psychosomatic symptoms (fevers, stomach ailments, heart palpitations, etc.). Ended up in the doctor’s office more than once fearing for my heart.

At age 13 I sank into severe depression and attempted suicide, and yet again at 16. I would go for days without speaking, or with extremely delayed speech and thought processes. I would bite myself in self-hatred, and sink into violent crying jags. Through intense and caring one-on-one talk therapy, I coped and made it through my teens. I lived with my longtime partner/husband for 15 years. The year we married I developed a debilitating anxiety disorder triggered by a traumatic experience, and as a result was put on psychotropic drugs for the first time. I remain on these drugs to this day, now in larger doses.

During a divorce in 2013 I relied heavily on cigarettes, painkillers, and anti-depressants to get through the emotional minefield I was swamped in. I was prescribed Ativan for panic attacks. Around this same time I began experiencing severe reproductive problems, including debilitating pelvic pain and hormonal imbalances. Surgery for this condition was performed in August 2014, removing several of my reproductive organs and leaving me infertile. The subsequent hormone crash that resulted sent me into a downward spiral of panic attacks, severe depression, and suicidal tendencies. Through the help of medication and my family, I got through the worst part of it.

I am a professional comic book artist with several bestselling fantasy/paranormal projects under my belt. I have a healthy fan base worldwide that continues to grow, and a recent film option for one of my comics series. I absolutely love my job. But I still struggle daily with debilitating mental illness, and it impacts my work, my art, my part as a mother, and being a member of a family on a regular basis. I have no interest in hiding what makes me ME…and part of that is dealing with mental illness every day. It shatters me to see others with my condition stigmatized within society, and I refuse to let it happen to me. I want to see mental illness viewed with the same seriousness as cancer, heart disease, and diabetes. It is no less valid. It is no less real.

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DANI SMITH is a bestselling “indie” comic book artist/creator, paranormal/horror storyteller, and character designer/illustrator running her own one-woman show through Quick Draw Studios. Art and writing are in her blood; creativity is her addiction, with no hope of rehabilitation. She is a tattooed tomboy who loves the occasional corset, is proudly bisexual, and is a strong supporter of women who don’t “fit the norm” and who are still discovering who they are. She adores old cemeteries, roses, tattoos, motorcycles and muscle cars, abandoned places/ghost towns, handmade bar soap, and combat boots. She is the mother of a beautiful little son, Ryker, who has inspired her to be fearless, both for him and for herself. You can find Dani online at: https://www.facebook.com/danismithcomicscreator and on Twitter @DaniQuickDraw