Ordinarily I like to keep my blog posts light - make people who read them laugh - and just talk about everyday things. But there's something that I need to talk about and share.
Yesterday, when I heard Robin Williams committed suicide, it was right after my Pure Barre class. My husband texted me to let me know. I felt like someone punched me in the stomach. Of course, I'm one of the many who loved and adored him - who didn't? - but there was something else about him that I connected with. He lived with depression, and so do I. When I hear about someone losing his or her battle with depression, it strikes a chord because I know how that feels because I've been there. I know what it feels like to want it all to go away and feeling the only choice is death. Feeling like everything and everyone would be better without me because I just get in the way. Yesterday, I sat in my car and actually cried. I don't usually cry over celebrity deaths, but like I said, this one was different.
Here's what bothers me: Williams had a well-known, documented struggle with sobriety. Some knew about his depression, but there was more talk about rehab and his substance abuse. For some reason, talking about getting shitty on drugs and having to do some time in a facility for it is much more acceptable than talking about battling depression. I mean, come on....everyone gets depressed, right? You forgot to DVR your favorite show. It's raining out and you were hoping to go to the beach. Those cute jeans just don't zip anymore. That's being depressed, right? Nothing a little retail therapy or time with friends can't solve, right? Just snap out of it! You're bringing down the whole room. Cheer up! Stop thinking about it. Don't be such a drama queen - you don't need medication. That's for other people, not you. Until people start to take mental health seriously, there will be more people for whom drugs and suicide are the answer.
Let me try and shed some light on what it's really like to have a mental illness like depression....
The alarm goes off in the morning telling you it's time to get up and go to work. You don't want to get out of bed. Not because you're still tired and your bed is super comfy. You don't want to get up because that means you have to face other people and life. The idea of getting dressed in clothes other than what you're already wearing is exhausting. You should probably take a shower, but even that is too much of an effort. You get up anyway because you have a spouse and a child who both count on you. You manage to get to work, where it's all you can do to just get through the basics. You interact with people, but all you really would like to do is find a cozy corner and cry. There's nothing specific that makes you want to cry, it's just there. You have to pick up your child after work and instead of receiving joy from them, you are irritated by every single thing they say and do. Even the way they want to hug you is annoying. You yell at just about every driver you pass because everyone is a fucking idiot. After you walk through the door, you immediately put on your pjs and find a spot on the couch where you close your eyes because that's the most movement you can handle right now. Of course your child wants to play, but you just can't. You hand them the iPad or put on Disney Jr. just so they have something to do other than needing something from you. Your spouse gets home from work and the first thought you think isn't "I'm so excited to see you" it's more like "Thank God, now I can go lie down in my room alone." When you're alone in your room, you start to think about how useless you are. Why couldn't you be a better parent, a better spouse? Why couldn't you just put a little more effort in - is it really that hard? You start to think it would be so much easier and helpful for you and everyone else if you just weren't around anymore. You wouldn't be a burden on so many people, an irritation. You start to wish that you get into a fatal accident or anything that will allow you to make it all stop. And what really sucks is you have to get up tomorrow and do it all over again.
That was me before I went into the behavioral health unit of my hospital for almost a week to get some help. Depression is something I have been living with since my early 20s....possibly even earlier. My official diagnosis is Major Depressive Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and Panic. Yeah, when I'm not wanting to cry, I'm worrying about something. You know that feeling you get in your chest right before you barely miss hitting the car in front of you because they stopped short and you had to slam on your breaks? Or if you 're a parent, that tightness in your chest you get as you watch your child do something that could cause them to get seriously hurt? Now imagine having that feeling last longer than a few seconds....more like a few hours or a few days or a few weeks. I remember being addicted to WebMD and looking up all these symptoms I thought I had trying to figure out what disease I had - because I had something. I thought I had cancer, I thought I had AIDS, I thought I had a new disease they hadn't even named yet. The advice I heard at the time from people? You need to do something to get your mind off of this....you're spending too much time thinking about it. Oh, I'm doing it on purpose? I can control my thoughts? Really? Thank you for telling me to do something I've already tried to do and can't. I remember my first panic attack - I was waiting for a friend to pick me up when, out of the blue, my heart started racing. I got tunnel vision, I was dizzy, my palms were sweaty and clammy. I thought I was having a heart attack and my friend was going to get to my house and find me on the floor. Like it was yesterday, I will never forget sitting in the back seat of my parents' car thinking to myself "If this is how my life is going to be like, I don't want to live it anymore."
Ironically, it was my gynecologist at my annual who identified my symptoms and gave me my first prescription. I started to feel better. I was seeing a therapist. Eventually, I stopped both because I was feeling so well. I ended up needing both therapy and medication again when the symptoms returned. Rinse and repeat that cycle. It wasn't until I was in the ER after a breakdown at my job that I demanded someone take me seriously, give me an examination and an official diagnosis. I was sensing the doctor on call in the ER was getting ready to simply give me a new scrip and send me on my way. I said to him "Listen, I think it's ridiculous that unless I say I'm going to use that light cord to hang myself from the ceiling or that my dog talks to me and tells me he's Jesus, no one will help me." Shortly after that declaration, I was taken to the Behavioral Health Unit. It's not like Girl Interrupted. There is no secret society. No Whoopi Goldberg nurse or Angelina Jolie badass ringleader. There's no sneaking out to a secret location to secretly smoke cigarettes and drink. There is someone going through all of your belonging and taking away any strings, cords, or sharp objects. I had to take the shoelaces out of my sneakers and even the drawstring out of my pj pants. The bathroom door is padded and closes with velcro and is reminiscent of a bathroom stall - space above the door and below. It's to prevent someone from committing suicide or hiding in the bathroom. There are meetings with your psychiatrist and group therapy sessions. You're not allowed electronics of any kind, unless approved by your doctor, and most definitely nothing that has a camera or connects to wifi. If you want to call someone, you have to have someone dial for you. If someone wants to call you, they need to have a special code. There are two visiting times a day, one on weekends, and only for 2 hours at a time. The board games that are available have pieces missing, are a million years old, or just dumb. You're around other people who are like you: sick and wanting help. It's comforting to see you are not alone. There are other people who are normal and suffer in silence until it becomes too much. You learn more about yourself and your illness and how you can monitor it. You can't make it go away, you have to learn how to live with it in order to prevent relapse. Because it's not a matter of if you'll relapse, but when it'll happen. You learn how to ask for help from those around you in your support group and ways to keep yourself safe. You learn how to advocate for yourself. You learn that you will need to take medication and see a therapist for the rest of your life - even when you feel "fine" - because that's part of your management.
I'm angry that it took the passing of someone like Robin Williams for people to start mentioning mental illness. I say mention because no one is ready to really talk about it. I'm angry because when someone is acting a little strange, they are "bipolar" or "schizo". Mental heath wards are "looney bins". I'm angry that if I want to be open about my mental illness, I'm worried that I'll get the "look" or the sympathetic head tilt and eyes filled with concern. Do people do that for someone who has diabetes? Why is there a push for people to get annual physicals, but not annual check ups with a psychiatrist?
I live with mental illness. It doesn't mean I'm crazy or psycho or nuts. It doesn't mean you can't trust me. It doesn't mean I'm unreliable. If you know me but at all, you know that is not the case. I am not going to be ashamed to talk about my diagnosis because if I can make someone else feel comfortable enough to reach out for help instead of going through it alone, then it was worth it. If you start to look at me differently, then fuck you. I'm still the same person. Here's what I ask: do your research. Talk to experts. Talk to me. Talk about mental health the same way you talk about breast screenings and second-hand smoke. The next time you want to call someone bipolar or mental because they are being weird, stop and think about what stereotype you are perpetuating.
I will miss Robin Williams, and his death makes me scared. Scared that one day, I will relapse to the point where it's all just too much. I have an excellent support system in place, but I know that's not the case for everyone. I ask on behalf of all my friends and loved ones who also live with mental illness that you do something small to help make a difference and make mental health awareness important. We need to end the stigma so those who need help don't feel they need to hide.
Yesterday, when I heard Robin Williams committed suicide, it was right after my Pure Barre class. My husband texted me to let me know. I felt like someone punched me in the stomach. Of course, I'm one of the many who loved and adored him - who didn't? - but there was something else about him that I connected with. He lived with depression, and so do I. When I hear about someone losing his or her battle with depression, it strikes a chord because I know how that feels because I've been there. I know what it feels like to want it all to go away and feeling the only choice is death. Feeling like everything and everyone would be better without me because I just get in the way. Yesterday, I sat in my car and actually cried. I don't usually cry over celebrity deaths, but like I said, this one was different.
Here's what bothers me: Williams had a well-known, documented struggle with sobriety. Some knew about his depression, but there was more talk about rehab and his substance abuse. For some reason, talking about getting shitty on drugs and having to do some time in a facility for it is much more acceptable than talking about battling depression. I mean, come on....everyone gets depressed, right? You forgot to DVR your favorite show. It's raining out and you were hoping to go to the beach. Those cute jeans just don't zip anymore. That's being depressed, right? Nothing a little retail therapy or time with friends can't solve, right? Just snap out of it! You're bringing down the whole room. Cheer up! Stop thinking about it. Don't be such a drama queen - you don't need medication. That's for other people, not you. Until people start to take mental health seriously, there will be more people for whom drugs and suicide are the answer.
Let me try and shed some light on what it's really like to have a mental illness like depression....
The alarm goes off in the morning telling you it's time to get up and go to work. You don't want to get out of bed. Not because you're still tired and your bed is super comfy. You don't want to get up because that means you have to face other people and life. The idea of getting dressed in clothes other than what you're already wearing is exhausting. You should probably take a shower, but even that is too much of an effort. You get up anyway because you have a spouse and a child who both count on you. You manage to get to work, where it's all you can do to just get through the basics. You interact with people, but all you really would like to do is find a cozy corner and cry. There's nothing specific that makes you want to cry, it's just there. You have to pick up your child after work and instead of receiving joy from them, you are irritated by every single thing they say and do. Even the way they want to hug you is annoying. You yell at just about every driver you pass because everyone is a fucking idiot. After you walk through the door, you immediately put on your pjs and find a spot on the couch where you close your eyes because that's the most movement you can handle right now. Of course your child wants to play, but you just can't. You hand them the iPad or put on Disney Jr. just so they have something to do other than needing something from you. Your spouse gets home from work and the first thought you think isn't "I'm so excited to see you" it's more like "Thank God, now I can go lie down in my room alone." When you're alone in your room, you start to think about how useless you are. Why couldn't you be a better parent, a better spouse? Why couldn't you just put a little more effort in - is it really that hard? You start to think it would be so much easier and helpful for you and everyone else if you just weren't around anymore. You wouldn't be a burden on so many people, an irritation. You start to wish that you get into a fatal accident or anything that will allow you to make it all stop. And what really sucks is you have to get up tomorrow and do it all over again.
That was me before I went into the behavioral health unit of my hospital for almost a week to get some help. Depression is something I have been living with since my early 20s....possibly even earlier. My official diagnosis is Major Depressive Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and Panic. Yeah, when I'm not wanting to cry, I'm worrying about something. You know that feeling you get in your chest right before you barely miss hitting the car in front of you because they stopped short and you had to slam on your breaks? Or if you 're a parent, that tightness in your chest you get as you watch your child do something that could cause them to get seriously hurt? Now imagine having that feeling last longer than a few seconds....more like a few hours or a few days or a few weeks. I remember being addicted to WebMD and looking up all these symptoms I thought I had trying to figure out what disease I had - because I had something. I thought I had cancer, I thought I had AIDS, I thought I had a new disease they hadn't even named yet. The advice I heard at the time from people? You need to do something to get your mind off of this....you're spending too much time thinking about it. Oh, I'm doing it on purpose? I can control my thoughts? Really? Thank you for telling me to do something I've already tried to do and can't. I remember my first panic attack - I was waiting for a friend to pick me up when, out of the blue, my heart started racing. I got tunnel vision, I was dizzy, my palms were sweaty and clammy. I thought I was having a heart attack and my friend was going to get to my house and find me on the floor. Like it was yesterday, I will never forget sitting in the back seat of my parents' car thinking to myself "If this is how my life is going to be like, I don't want to live it anymore."
Ironically, it was my gynecologist at my annual who identified my symptoms and gave me my first prescription. I started to feel better. I was seeing a therapist. Eventually, I stopped both because I was feeling so well. I ended up needing both therapy and medication again when the symptoms returned. Rinse and repeat that cycle. It wasn't until I was in the ER after a breakdown at my job that I demanded someone take me seriously, give me an examination and an official diagnosis. I was sensing the doctor on call in the ER was getting ready to simply give me a new scrip and send me on my way. I said to him "Listen, I think it's ridiculous that unless I say I'm going to use that light cord to hang myself from the ceiling or that my dog talks to me and tells me he's Jesus, no one will help me." Shortly after that declaration, I was taken to the Behavioral Health Unit. It's not like Girl Interrupted. There is no secret society. No Whoopi Goldberg nurse or Angelina Jolie badass ringleader. There's no sneaking out to a secret location to secretly smoke cigarettes and drink. There is someone going through all of your belonging and taking away any strings, cords, or sharp objects. I had to take the shoelaces out of my sneakers and even the drawstring out of my pj pants. The bathroom door is padded and closes with velcro and is reminiscent of a bathroom stall - space above the door and below. It's to prevent someone from committing suicide or hiding in the bathroom. There are meetings with your psychiatrist and group therapy sessions. You're not allowed electronics of any kind, unless approved by your doctor, and most definitely nothing that has a camera or connects to wifi. If you want to call someone, you have to have someone dial for you. If someone wants to call you, they need to have a special code. There are two visiting times a day, one on weekends, and only for 2 hours at a time. The board games that are available have pieces missing, are a million years old, or just dumb. You're around other people who are like you: sick and wanting help. It's comforting to see you are not alone. There are other people who are normal and suffer in silence until it becomes too much. You learn more about yourself and your illness and how you can monitor it. You can't make it go away, you have to learn how to live with it in order to prevent relapse. Because it's not a matter of if you'll relapse, but when it'll happen. You learn how to ask for help from those around you in your support group and ways to keep yourself safe. You learn how to advocate for yourself. You learn that you will need to take medication and see a therapist for the rest of your life - even when you feel "fine" - because that's part of your management.
I'm angry that it took the passing of someone like Robin Williams for people to start mentioning mental illness. I say mention because no one is ready to really talk about it. I'm angry because when someone is acting a little strange, they are "bipolar" or "schizo". Mental heath wards are "looney bins". I'm angry that if I want to be open about my mental illness, I'm worried that I'll get the "look" or the sympathetic head tilt and eyes filled with concern. Do people do that for someone who has diabetes? Why is there a push for people to get annual physicals, but not annual check ups with a psychiatrist?
I live with mental illness. It doesn't mean I'm crazy or psycho or nuts. It doesn't mean you can't trust me. It doesn't mean I'm unreliable. If you know me but at all, you know that is not the case. I am not going to be ashamed to talk about my diagnosis because if I can make someone else feel comfortable enough to reach out for help instead of going through it alone, then it was worth it. If you start to look at me differently, then fuck you. I'm still the same person. Here's what I ask: do your research. Talk to experts. Talk to me. Talk about mental health the same way you talk about breast screenings and second-hand smoke. The next time you want to call someone bipolar or mental because they are being weird, stop and think about what stereotype you are perpetuating.
I will miss Robin Williams, and his death makes me scared. Scared that one day, I will relapse to the point where it's all just too much. I have an excellent support system in place, but I know that's not the case for everyone. I ask on behalf of all my friends and loved ones who also live with mental illness that you do something small to help make a difference and make mental health awareness important. We need to end the stigma so those who need help don't feel they need to hide.
