I Support Mental Illness Awareness Week

In 1990 U.S. Congress established the first week of October as Mental Illness Awareness Week (MIAW) in recognition of the National Alliance on Mental Illness’ efforts to raise awareness for mental illness. This year between October 2^nd through the 8^th, people from all over will stand together to bring a collective consciousness to this issue that is often misunderstood.

MIAW is especially important this year as severe budget cuts threaten mental health services in many communities around the country. People who do not receive treatment often end up in hospitals, shelters, in jail, or even dead. Most importantly, this is a week where we fight stigma for serious mental illnesses such as major depression, bipolar disorder and schizophrenia.

This is a cause that is very close to my heart because I have been diagnosed and living with bipolar disorder for nearly thirteen years. Everyone experiences their mental illness in a different way, and mine has had its bumpy moments, peppered by even harsher moments, and then thankfully capped by growth. I do know that I am among the lucky ones who have an incredible support system. I have always had ample health insurance and the financial means to pay those premiums. I have a loving family with endless patience in helping me heal when things take their down turns, and I am blessed with friends who have made me a part of their lives even when I am a less than desirable companion. I understand that not everyone is fortunate enough to have this kind of endless support. This is my opportunity to stand up and remind people that everyone deserves the kind of backing I have had in my life.

I read somewhere today that the only reason that people like me support Mental Illness Awareness Week is to drum up sympathy for myself, since I am clearly one part of the 25% of people who have a diagnosable mental disorder who are considered the “worried-well.” This phrase displeases me in the worst way. Anyone who has ever experienced a bout of depression so awful that they contemplate no longer living at all understands all too well the “worry.” Those of us who manage to come out of it a little better and tell our story are not any more “well.” To undermine the cycle of pain and recovery by using the demeaning moniker is a disservice to everyone. We are not the “worried-well.” We are the survivors. We have seen hell and have returned to life. We know pain yet live with the faith that things will get better, and I am living proof.

I am proof that treatment works. Drug therapies work, and talk therapy works. Together, they have saved my life. The thought that there are people out there who do not have access to these necessities is deplorable to me. The idea that communities are cutting the necessary funding to maintain basic mental health care is unacceptable.

I have been unfortunate enough to experience the ultimate price of mental illness, and that is the loss of life by suicide. I lost my younger brother at the age of eighteen when he took his own life. I will spend the rest of my life fighting for the opportunity to stop just one person from ever leaving the world in that way again; to stop just one family from feeling the pain of loss that we felt when we lost my brother.

Am I attempting to drum up sympathy for myself?  Not at all. I don’t want your sympathy. I want your support. I want you to stand beside me and say enough is enough. Do the thousands of seriously mentally ill people locked up in jail or in a psychiatric ward of a hospital deserve our utmost support? Yes they do, but so do the so-called “worried-well” who very well could be two moments away from being there themselves. If you know anything about mental illness at all, you know that things can change in an instant.

So, take my hand and stand up with me this week in supporting Mental Health Awareness Week. Visit the National Alliance on Mental Illness (http://www.nami.org/) to see how you can help. Together we will make it better. Lives depend on it.

Suicide Prevention Week-My Story

To kick off Suicide Prevention Week (September 4-10, 2011) and continue my mission to share the aftermath of a loved one’s suicide in hopes of preventing another one, I am sharing an excerpt from an autobiographical essay that I wrote in 2003. The essay, titled A Brief Eternity is an account of my initial diagnosis of bipolar disorder and the few years that followed. It was within that time in October of 1998 that we found out my younger brother Kevin had taken his own life at the age of eighteen.

 I am honored that the essay itself won first prize in the Arizona Authors Association 2003 Literary Contest, but today I share this passage with you to give a factual illustration of how a loved one’s decision to take their life affects a family. It is my hope to touch the life of someone who may be considering suicide as an option, as well as to soothe those who may have lost someone in this tragic manner. Whichever end you are on, please know that you are not alone, and there are many places that you may go to seek guidance and support.

 All I had left to move out of my tiny apartment was the furniture and I was waiting impatiently for my younger brother to bring his truck by to pick it up. He and my father had gone to Rocky Point, Mexico for a family vacation. He was due back that afternoon and never arrived. I waited and waited and waited. I eventually ended up at my mom’s house, where we waited some more. Late that evening we reported him missing with the Chandler Police Department.

It was the longest few days of my life. Everywhere I went I thought I saw him. His cowboy hat; the smell of his Stetson cologne; his smile. Every white Chevrolet truck was his. Every phone call was him. Nobody slept. We all just sat around and waited for something to happen.  Did he go back to Mexico for some more fun? Was he in an accident somewhere? What was going on and why wasn’t he home yet? My dad and my uncle went back to Mexico to look for him. The evening they left we would know.

My mother and I were sitting in the living room watching the movie Opposite of Sex, with Christina Ricci. I’ll never forget that night. It was late, probably around eleven when there was a knock at the door that sent my heart straight to the pit of my stomach. All of the blood in my body ran cold as I walked downstairs to answer the door. Standing there under our dim yellow porch light was a uniformed policeman and a detective in plain clothes. They introduced themselves and asked for my mother. I walked them upstairs where she was standing.

I don’t remember what that detective said, or how he said it, but I know that I went numb. He told my mother that my eighteen-year-old brother’s body had been found in the desert in Tonopah, Arizona. He’d been shot. He was dead. It was a suicide. I’ll never forget the sound that came from my mother’s mouth that night. It was a sort of strangled half scream, half cry. The two men stood there as my mom sank down in a chair. She was sobbing. I was staring at the two men. I couldn’t cry. I tried, but there were no tears. I felt nauseated.

I know that questions were asked and calls were made. I called my dad, who was en route back home from Mexico with my uncle. The cellular phone made a dull thud when he dropped it. I called my grandparents and I was surprised at how strong and composed they were when they arrived at our house. I was so spaced-out and emotionally numb that I felt nothing.

 Please feel free to share this story with those people you know may be helped by it. I hope that you are never impacted by the loss of a loved one by suicide, but unfortunately to a certain degree we are all impacted by the loss of celebrities and sports stars who take their lives. Their often too public lives cannot escape the drama that will follow them long after their decision to leave this world at their own hand. Please find it in your heart to show compassion for those people and their families, who did not ask to be thrust into the spotlight in this heart-rending way.

If you are feeling hopeless and unsure for yourself or someone who you care about, please do not hesitate to contact the National Suicide Prevention Hotline at 1-800-273-TALK. Their services are completely free of charge, confidential, and they are available for you 24 hours per day, 7 days per week. If you don’t feel comfortable speaking to a stranger, please reach out to a friend, school guidance counselor, favorite teacher, church resource, or family member. You are too valuable to lose, and we are here to help you.

 Thank you for your ongoing support of my blog and of each other.

QUACK! QUACK!

QUACK, QUACK, QUACK!

 

I heard a phrase the other day that piqued my interest, and it has become my personal motto of late. The phrase is “like water off of a duck’s back.” UrbanDictionary.com defines the common phrase as “an insult that rolls off you like water off a duck’s back is one that is ignored.” I have found this phrase to be helpful not only in deflecting wayward verbal insults, but insults on my piece of mind and spirit as well.

 

The boss snapped at me this morning? “Like water off of a duck’s back” for me. The large red SUV in the slow lane cut me off? “Like water off of a duck’s back” for me as well. I’m sure you see the pattern here. All day long I let the little irritations of my life go softly, all the while imagining a little yellow duck happily swimming along with all of the cares of the world rolling down his back like drops of water.

 

I know that this approach sounds too simple to possibly work, but that is the true beauty of the process. Something so simple is foolproof for me. There’s no long drawn-out procedure or time-consuming plan to it. I simply acknowledge the insult and let it go.

 

Now, I’ll be honest with you. I am a constant work-in-progress, and my mood and ability to put the plan of the duck in action are often compromised.I am, however, becoming better every day. The more people who I share my duck’s philosophy with, the more people remind me to “quack” when I’m stressed or hurt by an outside source. I need that motivation.

 

So the next time you’re feeling put down upon or insulted, try to be like that adorable care-free duck, and let the stressors roll of your back and on its way.

 

QUACK, QUACK!

The “New Normal?”

 

Please tell me this isn’t the “new normal.” It was one of those days where getting out of bed was a challenge of the utmost difficulty, and even a warm shower didn’t remove the grimy film of crankiness from my body. Everything around me screamed annoyance. The cats crying for food grated on my nerves; the too-tight jeans cutting into my tummy were saddening my resolve; the sprinklers watering the concrete sidewalks on my way into work made everything a slippery mess, and of course my gate-access card would not let me into the garage, so I had to “tailgate” another car to park. All of that and it wasn’t even 8:00 a.m. yet!

Unfortunately, this has been my experience for the past few weeks. Everything seems to go wrong, and nothing seems to line up for me. Although I hate to say it out loud, I’m unfortunately feeling a bout of depression. I know it happens, but this time of year with all of its new beginnings and fresh starts sometimes overwhelms me more than the past holiday season ever did. I’m feeling all of these expectations to be new and better, but don’t have the will to make it so.

Two posts ago I was all happiness and joy about a new start and my “goals” for the New Year. Now simply reading that post makes me very, very tired.  And overwhelmed. Not to mention feeling very foolish as well. I know better than to lay out an outline of that magnitude so early on in the year in a rush of optimism. It’s usually far better for me to set goals one at a time, very simply, and without fanfare. I know that it is usually better to share goals with someone else so that you feel more accountable, but sharing them with the world was a little too much accountability for me.

Please don’t get me wrong; life as I know it is going remarkably well. I still have gainful employment and a steady income, my family, my boyfriend, and my physical health. It’s just that the heart lens through which I see all of that is distorted. Somehow it has become a kaleidoscope that has fragmented all of the perfect wholes and made them into mixed up pieces that don’t seem to add up.

I know from experience that this is not a forever-state. This feeling of gloom and being out-of-place in life is temporary. I might even read a kind word or see an uplifting image in mere moments that breaks the kaleidoscope’s hold and returns my heart lens to complete. Or a good night’s sleep will restore my faith in myself and the world around me.

Thankfully I know that this too shall pass. This is not the “new normal.”

Confessions of a Nice Girl

My name is Riki and I have a secret. Well, it’s sort of a secret and sort of a condition. I guess you could say it’s a conditional secret. Conditional on how you know me. Are you my boss? Yes? Then you don’t know. Are you my lover? Yes? Then you may or may not know. Are you my family? Yes? Then how close we are determines how much you know. Are you my friend? Yes? Then  you ought to know.

 

 

It’s funny, because if this condition were a physical ailment, people would understand. When you break your leg or get cancer, people are sympathetic and helpful. The well-wishes are straightforward and heartfelt. Even if someone has never had your particular ailment, they have a built-in compassion for your predicament. Becaue this condition is mental, there is no straightforward sympathy. There is only doubt and contempt toward something so minsunderstood.

 

 I’m not sure exactly when it all began, but I know that it started slowly and then took up speed and eventually drove me crazy, and then back again. The story I have to tell doesn’t always make sense. I can’t even make sense of it sometimes, so I know it won’t make complete sense to you. It won’t always follow a proper chronological order either. I don’t remember exactly when things happened sometimes. It’s not your typical story of glamour, or of true love, or a great mystery, although I’ve found a little of each of these along the way.

 

It’s funny looking back on it how high things looked for a while and how low they really got. Even knowing what that hell looks like I wouldn’t take my experience back. In some twisted way I needed everything that happened to me. It all had to happen for me to be where I am today. Everything happens for a reason. Fate. Kismet. Whatever.

 

At first I thought I was just moody. Being female makes it so easy to blame yesterday’s bad algebra exam and today’s fight with my boyfriend on PMS. Heck, now they even have an extreme form of PMS called PMDD for those of us who go truly mad during our periods. It’s documented female craziness. Check it out, really. The farther along I got the more I realized that I was not a case of PMS gone mad. There was no way to blame my moods and my behavior on wayward hormones. We had a much bigger problem on our hands.

 

 So I’d like to share the experiences and the moments that have shaped my life so far as a young woman with Bipolar Disorder. I’d also like to take you along on my journey of everyday discovery as I learn to navigate the rise and fall that has become my life. I hope that they entertain someone, educate someone, and uplift someone.

This is a new year, and after twelve years I am ready to share this secret. It is a time for new beginnings and new revelations. It is a time for growth and renewal. It is my time.