Living in Faith While Living in Fear

There are a lot of deeply touched folk in the Bible.  People are seeing visions, people are hearing voices, people are being driven mad, and people are cured of madness.

What I never saw was a terrified hero.  Sure, there are people who feel awe in the presence of God. That’s probably healthy.  But for the most part, fear is an obstacle to be overcome by faith – Moses and Jonah and Jesus and Judith all had to overcome their fear to do what needed to be done.  I never identified with that struggle because none of these people were fearful by nature. Not like me, at least.

Faith, I had been taught, is diametrically opposed to fear.  If you’re faithful enough, the logic goes, you won’t be afraid.   The scripture backs it up. Matthew 6:34 drops this wisdom on the faithful: “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”  I’m not sure anyone has ever stopped worrying because someone told them to stop worrying.  I don’t know. Maybe the 1st-century Judaean audience was less stressed out than we are – though I doubt it, given the dubious comforts of Roman occupation.

 Another oft-quoted verse comes from Psalm 27:1 – “The LORD is my light and my salvation— whom shall I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life— of whom shall I be afraid?”  

Um, how about everything?  I shall be afraid of everything because that’s who I am.

Psalm 34:4 goes even further: “I sought the LORD, and he answered me; he delivered me from all my fears.”

I don’t know about you, but I’ve been seeking my whole life. If I had to describe my faith in a single word…well, it would be “prickly.” But, if they gave me a second word, I’d say “seeking.”  I have been seeking and searching and trying to hear the still, small voice in the darkness and for the life of me, I have not been delivered from my fears.  In therapy, I’ve learned to accept my fears.  I have clinical anxiety. I will likely always struggle with intrusive thoughts, high levels of stress, and obsessive-compulsive tendencies. From a purely secular standpoint, I have come to accept that this is the chemical makeup of my brain and that I can’t simply wish it away.  It’s science!  I can use chemistry and therapy and exercise and diet to manage my symptoms and to live a full life – but it’s not so easy to reconcile this progress to my faith journey. Sometimes, it honestly feels that if you can’t “give it all up to God,” then you’re not doing a very good job at being a Christian – and if you have a mental illness, you can’t simply give up your problems, your symptoms and your triggers.

How do you grow in faith if you’re unable to shake your fear?  In fact, how can you be a person of faith if your brain’s default setting is stuck somewhere between “Mild Unease” and “DEFCON 1”?  How do you navigate the eternal if your perspective is shaped by mental illness?  What is the relationship between the state of your mind and the state of your soul?

There’s this pervasive mindset that to be a good Christian means being happy all the time about God.  I wouldn’t describe my faith as an unequivocally happy experience – I’ve never been able to raise my hands during a hymn.  I can’t get into Christian rock.  I’m uneasy with the phrase “a personal relationship with Jesus” and I’ve never felt remotely touched during an altar call.  There isn’t anything wrong with any of those things – they just don’t feel authentic for me because I can’t give it all up to God and that’s embarrassing.  I’ve prayed until I was blue in the face to feel more like a “Happy Christian,” somebody who was “too blessed to be stressed.” God didn’t come and fix my brain.  God didn’t come and take my stress away.  God didn’t stop me from scratching my skin raw or checking my temperature twelve times a day. God didn’t give me a shield against my fears.  That’s made me angry at times – false advertising, Mr. Psalms Writer – and it’s certainly driven me away from Church communities where I felt like a wet blanket for being something other than constantly ecstatic.

That’s not to say that I haven’t found a faith community, albeit a rather informal one; it simply took longer to find the right fit and was a painful process.  In fact, we had to make one, but that’s a story for another time and place.  And that’s not to say that I don’t have faith, or that I have never sensed the presence of Divinity in the stillness.  It has happened, purely and powerfully, but it hasn’t cured my mental illness. When I wake up in the morning, I’m still a Christian with a mental illness.  You can’t pray depression away, or anxiety or bipolar disorder or OCD or BPD or any mental illness. What your brothers and sisters in Christ who suffer mental illness need is not your admonition to pray more, but your love and your respect.  We want to have uncomfortable discussions about what faith looks like to us and we need your willingness to be uncomfortable. We need your support and we need your understanding.  I will never have a fearless, unshakeable faith and that’s okay.  The faith I have – prickly though it may be – is none the weaker for the brain it’s attached to.

 

In prickliness,

kr

To listen

I haven’t had words for the past 24 hours.  For me, that’s almost unhealthy – I always have words.

The horrific murder of 50 people and the wounding of 50 more in Orlando has the entire world speechless, but we cannot remain that way.  We cannot remain speechless.

But we can listen.

We must listen.

My heart is breaking, but what I must remember – and what we all must remember, if we would be good allies – is that we need to listen when the LGBT community speaks.  When they tell us what they need, we need to hear them over the tumult in our own hearts, because as horrific as this has been for all of us, it has been so much worse for our LGBT brothers and sisters.

If they tell us that good thoughts and prayers simply aren’t enough, then we need to ask them, “What do you need?”

If they are angry, we need to let them be angry.

If they are in need of shelter, of blood, of protection, then we must offer it.

Most importantly, though, we need to do everything we can to avoid making it about us.  This was an attack on a sanctuary for LGBT people.  This was an attack on people whose only crime was to seek out a place to celebrate themselves.  This was homophobia at its worst.

It’s not about us.  So we need to listen.

A Guide to the Proper Care and Feeding of Your Person

Since I’ve started writing about mental health issues and my experiences, the question I get most often is, “How is your hair so shiny all the time?”*

The question I get second-most-often is, “My daughter/son/mother/person is going through depression/anxiety right now, and I feel so helpless. How can I help them?”

Never fear, gentle readers!  I’ve got you covered.

If you’re just joining us, I’m a college faculty member, tutor and general rabblerouser.  I am in a very happy, stable relationship and I have a great life.  I have also suffered from clinical anxiety for my entire life.  It hasn’t been easy, but I manage my symptoms – through therapy, lifestyle choices, and most importantly, medication – and am able to live a full life.  For all the parents out there, this should be reassuring. My parents weren’t certain I’d ever get there, but I did.

There is always hope.

In addition to hope, though, there’s you.  You love Your Person, whether that person is a girlfriend, boyfriend, child, spouse, parent, or friend.  You hate that Your Person has to go through the trauma of mental illness. You want to help, but you don’t know how. That’s perfectly logical: if Your Person had a broken leg, you’d know to move the ladders and not drug them and put them in your car trunk for funsies.  If Your Person had diabetes, you’d know not to forcefeed them Ding-Dongs while singing Fiona Apple’s Greatest Hits.  These are logical actions to take.

But mental illness isn’t clear-cut, easy, or logical.  If you’ve never experienced mental illness, it may seem like there’s nothing you can do to help.  It may seem like the person you used to know and love isn’t there anymore, or that you don’t know how to talk to this “new” person.  But that’s not true at all.

The person you love, Your Person, is struggling to process information and emotions in a way that may be new and frightening for them.  There are ways you can help.


Find out about Your Person’s condition – do some Googling!

Let me be clear: everyone’s experience with mental illness is unique. The brain is so complex and neural pathways are so particular that there’s no “One Size Fits All” to depression, anxiety, OCD or any other condition.  That being said, there are certain common symptoms that characterize one condition or another.  The first thing that you can do if you love someone with a mental illness is to educate yourself about that particular illness.

Blind Googling can be dangerous, of course.  Stay away from Reddit – though that’s more of a general word of advice than anything else – and trust reputable sources.  MentalHealth.gov is a great place to start.  So is MedlinePlus, which is run by the National Library of Medicine.  The One Source to Rule Them All, though, is the National Institute for Mental Health’s website.  There’s a lot of really great information out there that can help you get a feel for what Your Person is going through.  If you do your own research and gather some information, it doesn’t put the burden of explanation on someone who might not even understand what is happening to them, let alone how to explain it to someone else.

It’s important to talk to Your Person about their illness, the same way you’d talk about a broken leg or abdominal pain.  Help them to break the silence by asking about what you’ve read.  “I read that anxiety sometimes makes you feel _________. Is that what happens to you?”


Say the word out loud.  Say it.

Not “vampire.” Please don’t say that one.  If you say that one three times in a mirror, Robert Pattinson shows up and puts your name in the Goblet of Fire.

Depression. Anxiety. Bipolar disorder. Schizophrenia. Borderline personality.

Don’t call Your Person’s condition “the stuff you’re going through right now.”  Don’t call it “your issues.”  Don’t call it “your emotional problems.”

Use the correct terminology and don’t make a big deal out of it!  Could you imagine getting a diabetes diagnosis and hearing your mother refer to it as “your sugar problems”?  It’s diabetes, Mom. I’m not having a gang dance-off with a packet of American Crystals.

Saying the words out loud is important.  In some cases, just saying the word in casual conversation does more than an emotional heart to heart.  Your Person is going through an incredibly difficult fight right now, and one of the worst things you could do is refuse to call it by its proper name.  Calling it by its proper, medical name reminds everyone that mental illness is just that: an illness affecting the mind.  It’s biological, and it’s nobody’s fault.


Don’t tiptoe around Your Person.

Mental illness affects how Your Person’s brain processes sensory information. It affects their emotions and their thoughts.  It can make them frightened or sad or angry, but it doesn’t mean they get to treat you badly.  It doesn’t turn them into a raging dickwad.  That’s just called “being a raging dickwad.”

If Your Person demeans or belittles you, that’s not okay. Our illnesses are not carte blanche to mistreat others.  Coddling us because we have mental illnesses just reinforces the idea that we are irreparably broken.  I’ll be the first one to admit that I don’t always treat people the way they deserve to be treated.  It’s not because I have anxiety. It’s because I have a human brain and a human soul. We’re rude sometimes.

My loved ones and I fight – that’s normal.  But I don’t get a free pass because I have a mental illness.


Remind Your Person that what they’re going through is real.

I guarantee you that Your Person will be punishing himself or herself for this illness.  Your Person will second-guess every decision, play every moment over and over again, and feel guilty for being “weak.” Their mind is failing them, and they are internalizing that failure.

When I was at my lowest, and anxiety was running my life, I punished myself constantly. I felt weak because nobody else I knew got physically ill every morning.  Nobody else I knew was too afraid to drive a car. Nobody else I knew had panic attacks every night.  I remember turning to my dad at one point, in tears, and apologizing to him.  “I know it’s not real,” I said. “I know it’s just in my head.  But I’m so scared all the time.”

What he said to me changed my entire perspective on my illness.  He looked at me and he said, “Sure, it’s in your head.  But like Dumbledore said, that doesn’t make it any less real.”

My dad is a colossal nerd.

It was what I needed to hear, and it’s what Your Person needs to hear. Yes, mental illness is “all in your head.”  By definition, it affects your mind.  That doesn’t make it any less real than a disease of the stomach or the lungs. It’s real, and it’s happening to Your Person. It’s impossible to fight an illness without first acknowledging it.  


Encourage Your Person to take advantage of treatment, but don’t push “cures” on them.

It will take Your Person a while to develop the coping mechanisms and treatments that they need to function.  One antidepressant might be a bad fit for them, and that might send them right back to Square One.  One therapist might not be helping, so it’s time to find another.  Perhaps cardio isn’t as good a fit as yoga, and maybe cutting out alcohol is the ticket.

This is a lifestyle shift for them – moving from illness to wellness.  There isn’t a magical cure, but there are a host of options out there to help.  It usually takes a combination of medication, talk therapy, lifestyle changes like exercise and diet, and meditation to train the brain out of depressive or anxious pathways.  Encourage Your Person to try a variety of treatments to see what works best.  Above all, encourage them to do what feels right to them – not to their mother or their friend or some idiot on Fox News.

It makes me furious to see people suffer because they’ve bought into a stigma surrounding psychiatric medications.  Our culture tells us that people who take medication for mental illnesses are dangerous and uncontrollable, even though statistics show that one in eleven Americans takes antidepressants. Now, not every medication is going to work for every brain, and Your Person may find that other methods are more effective.  As someone who loves them, your role is to encourage them to do whatever it takes to get well – and to avoid pushing one “cure” on them.  So essential oils really help you feel less stressed? Fantastic.  That doesn’t mean they’ll “fix” your depressed child.  Don’t swallow the snake oil, ladies and gentlemen, and don’t buy into conspiracy theories about “Big Pharma” and neurotrackers in Prozac.

Understand the sensory aspects of mental illness.

Anxiety doesn’t just mean feeling frightened or stressed. Depression doesn’t just mean feeling sad.  Mental illness affects Your Person’s perception of the world, and many people with mental illness struggle to process sensory information the way a neurotypical person would.

I can’t handle tags in clothing. Many children can’t, but I never outgrew that particular quirk, and if they’re left in, I can’t focus on anything else.  Please bear in mind that I’m a functioning adult who holds down a job and meaningful relationships.  I had a 4.0 in college – I have my act together.  Want to see me throw a temper tantrum?  Leave the tags in. They make my skin crawl.

Loud noises, busy streets, parties – these are all places where our senses can become overwhelmed by a mixture of sound, sights and smells.  If Your Person shuts down and stops responding to you, they’re probably having a panic attack as their brain tries to sift through all of this material.  Be patient.  If you feel like building them a blanket fort, I can guarantee you they’ll appreciate it.  If they don’t, then you should reconsider your relationship with this fool who can’t appreciate a blanket fort.


Take “No” for an answer – and reassure Your Person that you still love them.

Spontaneity is terrifying, guys.  It’s like finding a walnut in brownie not labeled as a “Nutty Piece of Shit.” That’s the moment you realize that life is all a giant lie and that the universe is moving slowly towards entropy.  All of a sudden, there are terrifying new social obligations to consider and choices to make.

At my very worst, I couldn’t even consider parties.  It took all the piss and vinegar I had to force myself out the door every morning for classes and work.  All I wanted was to stay at home where it was safe, and there were few things more terrifying than a room full of people.  Clearly that wasn’t the healthiest mentality, but even though I’m in a better place now, I still have to pace myself. I’m a work in progress: I go to parties now – but I usually turn down any invitation I get the day of.  I just don’t have enough time to psych myself up for an evening of peopling.  As rewarding as socializing is, it takes a great deal of effort.

Your Person will likely turn down a lot of your invitations and suggestions.  It’s not because they don’t care about you; it’s just that when you have mental illness, everything seems insurmountable. I used to panic after refusing an invitation because even though I didn’t want to go to the party, I didn’t want people to forget about me.  I was convinced that eventually, I’d have missed my chance to matter to people.

Reassure Your Person that it’s okay if they don’t feel up to a kegger.  Tell them that you’re not going anywhere and that you love them even if they never touch a beer funnel again.


Remind Your Person of what they’ve accomplished.

When I’m feeling particularly terrified of the world outside, my darling boyfriend always reminds me that I’m not literal garbage.  Yes, I drive right past the Publix to go to Kroger because Kroger has auto-checkout and you don’t have to talk to a cashier; yes, I refuse to watch documentaries about disasters or tragedies because I won’t sleep afterwards; yes, I think that day trips were invented to punish introverts by giving them no place to take their pants off and not talk to people.  There are many things that remain terrifying to me.

And yet I cope. I survive every day in a world full of things that scare the everloving shit out of me.

Your Person feels like literal garbage right now.  They look at themselves and all they see are the ways in which their mind has betrayed them.  They need to hear you tell them they are brave and good and strong.


The path to wellness isn’t a straightforward one. It’s a rollercoaster of backsliding and breakthroughs, of tears and laughter, of chemical imbalances and spiritual awakenings.

And there are things you can do to help.

*Genetics and the Grace of God.

World Suicide Prevention Day 2015: Stop Saying, “I Don’t Understand.”

September 10th is World Suicide Prevention Day.

Whenever someone commits suicide, whenever the news gets wind of it or it goes viral on Facebook, the first thing people say is,

“I can’t understand why someone would want to do that.”

“I can’t understand why someone would do that to their family.”

“I can’t understand.”

“I don’t understand.”

On behalf of mental illness sufferers everywhere, I’d like to say:

Stop.

Enough.

Don’t.

It doesn’t help.

We get it.  You don’t understand.  It’s unfathomable to you that someone would take their own life.  But when your response to illness is simply “I don’t understand,” you stigmatize us all.

People with mental illness have a condition.  When someone dies of cancer, it’s obvious what killed them.  No one says that they don’t understand why someone would let their cancer cells grow like that.  It would be like saying, “I can’t understand why your blood sugar is so low,” or “I don’t understand why anyone would want to have a ruptured appendix.”

Mental illness is not a choice.

When you say, “He should have fought harder for his family,” you’re showing that you don’t understand the fight against mental illness.  It’s not the final knockout match between Rocky and Apollo Creed, where everyone’s itching for a fight.  It’s not a boss battle, when you’ve practiced and leveled-up until your guns shoot atomic sparkles and you fart fire.  It’s not even the Death Star run, although the odds are definitely not stacked in your favor.

No, mental illness is not a battle we walk into because we want to, sixshooters blazing.  Mental illness isn’t even a battle, per se, because battles have beginnings and endings and monuments in city parks.  It’s a creeping war of attrition against the demon riding shotgun.  You’re not entirely sure when he jumped on, until you look in your rearview mirror and there he is, smiling like rot in your backseat, and before you know it, he’s next to you, messing with the stereo with his cold hand on the nape of your neck.  You don’t ever toss him all the way off – not really.  The most you can do is to keep him – it – at bay, nipping at your heels instead of looped around your throat.

That’s what kind of a fight mental illness is.  

I’ve been fighting to shake that demon off my entire life.  That’s 27 years of war.  That’s basically Vietnam.  You give up some territory because you just can’t keep it, win it back later when you’re feeling stronger and you want to go to that party or get that drivers’ license. Some days you get out of bed, and some days you don’t.  It’s a back-and-forth struggle with no demilitarized zone and no United Nations intervention.  Sometimes you survive that war with your body and soul intact.

And sometimes you don’t. 

I have never felt the need to harm myself.  It’s one of the few blessings of my condition – I’ve always been too terrified of death to even think about it in the abstract, let alone the specific. I turn off documentaries about cancer and avoid clickbaity titles about terminal illness and tragedy because the feeling of my own mortality is just too much most days.  But I have been afraid of wanting to hurt myself.   I have woken up in the middle of the night, terrified that one day I might just step off the curb and wouldn’t that be terrible? 

You might be thinking, “That sounds insane.  How can you be afraid of thinking something?”  

That’s what mental illness is, kids.  That’s what it does.  Diabetes robs your body of the ability to regulate its blood sugar. Cancer robs your body of the ability to regulate cell growth.  Mental illness robs your mind of the ability to regulate its thoughts – to push them aside in order to go about living.  When I first told my therapist that I had thoughts – powerful, frightening and compelling thoughts, thoughts so intense that they made me physically ill – she called them “intrusive thoughts.”  Everyone gets signals from their brain. They tell us not to touch a hot stove or that puppies make us feel happy.  They can keep us safe and healthy…when they’re working right.  When you have mental illness, your brain is wired in a way that it sends you mixed-up signals. Can you imagine trying to fight your perceptions, your emotions, your sensations for years on end?  Decades?

When I don’t take my medication, it takes me all the energy I have to filter through the sensory information coming in to my brain.  Every single touch, taste, smell and sight spikes another anxiety flare.  That’s what mental illness is.  Mental illness is not just “sadness” or “stress,” any more than diabetes is just “indigestion.”  I can eat a cake and feel a little sick in the morning.  My diabetic friends can’t shake that off.

So don’t say, “I don’t understand.”  Suicide happens because of mental illness.  When someone commits suicide, they have died because mental illness took their life.  And if you want to help, if you really want to help, then you need to acknowledge that suicide is not “a coward’s way out.”  You need to acknowledge that mental illness is a disease.  You need to stop saying, “I don’t understand,” and start saying, “What can I do?”  You need to vote for candidates who will expand, not cut, mental health resources in the United States. You need to talk to your kids about mental illness – take the stigma away so that they can talk to you if they feel their mind is out of control.  You need to support teachers and counselors because they are the front line of defense for our kids’ mental health.  You need to support men, and tear down the outdated notion that men who struggle with their emotional health are weak.  You need to support women, whose bodies and minds are under legislation. You need to support your LGBTQA* brothers and sisters, who are at a higher risk for mental illness and who often lack the resources they need.

You need to be aware.

You need to understand.

What Teenagers Need to Hear

Right now, you’re starting another year of school. You might be excited. You might be bored already.  You might be both.

You are at a point in your life where you are constantly being told things by Grown People.  You’re sitting in classrooms, going over syllabi and textbooks, getting parking passes and bus assignments, and being Told Things.  Grown People love telling teenagers things.  It’s up there with avocado and taking walks.

I pay taxes now. I own a car. I pay bills and have to serve on juries and have a permanent address now.  From what I’ve been told, this means I am a Grown Person.  As a Grown Person, it is possible that I have Words of Wisdom for the Young Folk.  However, I have also been assured that I am still, how shall we say, hip and with-it.  I know what’s on fleek.

Actually, I don’t. I know what’s on leek*, and that’s almost the same thing, right?

In all of the things that Grown People Tell You, there are a few things missing.  There are a few words that I worry no one is telling you, a few things that you need to hear.   

You matter.  Your thoughts, your feelings, and your opinions matter.  

If you speak your mind, I promise you that at least one person will tell you that you are “too young” to have an opinion. They will tell you that you’ll change your mind once you’ve seen more of the world.  They will do everything they can to belittle you and make you feel like you can’t have an opinion.

Don’t listen to them.

Every time I speak my mind, there’s at least one person who, instead of merely disagreeing with my position, tells me I’m not allowed to have a position. That I’m too young, too female, too liberal.  That I’ll change my mind “once I’ve seen more of life.”

It just makes me louder.

If someone uses your age, your gender, your sexuality, or your experiences to silence you, it means that they’re afraid of what might happen if you were allowed to speak.  Speak anyway.

You won’t always be right, and you won’t always be as eloquent as you’d like to be, but no one ever is.  If you are happy, sing and dance. If you are sad, cry.  If you are angry, scream.  You matter.

When you see injustice, you have the power and the responsibility to fight it.  

Racism. Sexism. Homophobia.  Economic inequality.  It may feel like you can’t make a difference. After all, you can’t vote yet.  You may not have the money or the access to participate in rallies or parades.  Heck, you may not even be able to write to your congressperson.

But you know what you can fight?  You can fight stupid, backwards, harmful ways of thinking.  You can object to racist remarks – it doesn’t matter if the person making them is another student, a teacher, or a family member.  You can object to homophobic remarks.  You can befriend the girl who’s being ostracized because she wasn’t born in the body that matches who she is inside.  You can offer compassion where the world would offer judgment.  Most importantly, you can question.  Instead of simply giving to the homeless, give to the homeless and then ask, “Why are there so many homeless people in our country?”  Befriend the boy in your class who’s just come out and then ask, “Why is this such a big deal?”  Object to the racism you hear every day – because you’ll hear it every day – and then ask, “Why are we still clinging to a history of brutal oppression?”  

It may not seem like much, but here’s what you have to understand: injustice thrives only so long as no one questions its validity.  You are the future!  You can help us to build a better world by actively challenging injustice.  If you’re still doubting the power of questioning, think about this: this year, the highest court in the land ruled to legalize same-sex marriage. Fifty years ago, nobody was even asking why marriage was limited to a man and a woman.  Nobody asked because they accepted that certain kinds of people were less worthy under the law.

And look at us now.

Who you are is never a phase.

When I was 15, I went through a phase in which I dressed like Avril Lavigne.  Upon reflection, it wasn’t the most flattering aesthetic for me, but it was 2003 and that was in vogue, so to speak.  Straightening your hair and wearing four pounds of red eyeshadow because the salesperson at Hot Topic said it was a good idea is a phase.  Exploring who you are – your gender, your sexuality, your spirituality – is not.

You’re not too young to know who you are.  You also don’t have to know exactly who you are right now.  In fact, you might never fit into a box – and that’s okay.  If you want to date a girl, date a girl.  If you want to be a girl, be a girl.  You are a human being, with unlimited potential, and you have every right to develop that potential.  Figure out who you are. Figure out who you love.  Figure out what you believe about your place in the universe.  The world is too full of unhappy people who never looked within themselves because they were frightened of change.  

You are not a “late bloomer.” That’s crap.  

People used to tell me I was a textbook “late bloomer.”  I didn’t get my driver’s license until I was 22. I didn’t buy a car until I was 24.  I didn’t date until I was 25.  I never enjoyed parties, didn’t think of myself as a pretty girl, and spent a lot of time pining over boys who never felt the same way.

From time to time, well-meaning adults would see that I was unhappy about these perceived failings and would tell me that “my time would come.”  I spent a lot of time waiting for “my time” to come, and as a result, I never learned to love myself the way I was.  When I became an adult, I realized that “your time will come” is something that adults say when they don’t know how to deal with a teenager’s unhappiness.  They always mean to be reassuring, but it comes across as patronizing.  Life’s a party, and your invitation’s still in the mail. Once you become somebody else, life will be better. 

Let me tell you one thing: you’re not a late bloomer.  A “late bloomer” is just someone whose life doesn’t look like the All-American All-Star stereotype.  You are you. Your life might not look like your parents’ lives did when they were your age.  That doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you, or that your life isn’t worth anything until you “bloom.”  Human beings are in a constant state of flux – you’ll never be finished growing or evolving.  But I promise you that you’ll be the same person when you get older.  A little less spotty, maybe, and you might weigh more, but you won’t lose your sense of humor, your geeky interests, or your shyness.  You shouldn’t have to.

My life is different now than it was.  I have a car and a job and a boyfriend.  That being said, I’m still the same person I always have been, and my life is neither easier nor harder than it was when I was a teenager. I’m still geeky. I still spend a lot of time on Tumblr.  I still hate parties.  The only difference is that I’m no longer apologizing for the person I’m not.

Abusive relationships are real – and they’re not always romantic.

Adults spend a lot of time telling teenagers that their romances and friendships are just temporary.  The phrase “you’ll get over it” gets used a lot.  But your relationships mean as much to you all as they do to adults, and you deserve to be treated well in both sexual and platonic relationships.

If you have a boyfriend, girlfriend, or friend-friend who uses you, that’s a problem.  If they try to manipulate you using money, sex, or threat of violence, that’s a problem.  If they try to control who you see, what you read, where you go, or what you do, that’s a problem.  If they make you feel guilty on purpose, pick fights with you, belittle you, or call you names, that’s a problem.  If they know your insecurities and hit below the belt, that’s a problem.  If they tell you that you’re making it all up, that’s a problem.  If you ever feel that you’re “not allowed” to be sad, angry, or happy, that’s a problem.

It’s not just boyfriends and girlfriends who can abuse you.  You should never feel afraid or miserable when you’re in the presence of a friend.  If you feel this way, talk to someone.  If your parents don’t listen, find a teacher.  If you can’t find a teacher, find a counselor.  Find a pastor.

We’re all terrified of “being alone.”  I promise you that it’s better to be by yourself than with an abusive person.

Your teachers, parents, coaches – they’re all people too.  

I’ve got two big points here – prepare to have your mind blown.  First of all: people are often wrong.  Parents, teachers, coaches, presidents, popes – nobody is perfect.  You make mistakes.  They make mistakes.  You don’t have to accept their authority without caveat.  Be uppity, be passionate, and be idealistic.

That doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t listen to your elders.  They’ve got a lot to offer, and yeah, you do need to listen to them and respect them.  That’s the key term there: respect.  There’s a huge difference between blind obedience and respect.  Blind obedience is suffocating, but fragile, and it rarely builds strong relationships.  Respect your parents and respect your teachers and respect your coaches, but don’t be shattered when you find out that they fart, and lie, and pick their noses, and forward stupid email chains.  You do the same things now. You’ll do the same things when you’re older.

My second point: be kind to them.  They’re people.  You might think that because you’re young, what you say has no effect on the people in power.  You might think that when you get mad, it doesn’t matter what you do.  That’s not true.  Your words can hurt as much as they can help.  Yes, your math teacher might not be able to explain things in a way that you understand.  Yes, she might be snappish. Sure, you wouldn’t hang out with her if you had the choice. But she’s also a human being with feelings.  So don’t be a jerk.

You deserve to be healthy.

I write about mental health issues because I know what it’s like to be your age and mentally ill. Young people are particularly susceptible to mental illness.  Your brains are growing, you’ve got new hormones coming in and messing everything up, you’re under stress, and you’re expected to accomplish incredible feats in four years.

Many of you are struggling to live with depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, or other mental illnesses.  I know what you are going through, because I was there.  Every morning was a fight against the panic and the fear that lived in my gut, and just the act of going to school was a triumph.  Some days, I didn’t have the energy for that fight.  You need to know that what you’re going through is real.  It is real, and it is in your body, and it’s happening to you.  You didn’t make it happen. It’s not your fault.  And you are a champion.

You deserve to be healthy – to be mentally whole.  Being mentally whole doesn’t mean you’re happy all the time, but it means you feel real.  You feel in control of your mind and body. It means that you have access to the help that you need to heal.  If you feel that your emotions are out of control, find someone to talk to. If you feel disconnected from yourself, or if you feel like you’re in a fishtank, find someone to talk to. If you struggle to wade through sensory stimuli (people talking, bright lights, the chaos of school), find someone to talk to.  School counselors are great resources if you can’t talk to your parents.

The last thing I think you need to hear is that you are brave, and you are bright, and you are bold.  You’re not always going to be right, and you’re not always going to be good, and you’re not always going to be the kind of person you need to be.  But you have more power to do good than you realize.  Have a good year, everybody. 

*Garlic butter and a nice lemon zest.

Planned Parenthood and the Privilege of Moral Outrage

And for my next trick – a discussion of lady parts!

Deal with it.

There’s been a lot of recent controversy regarding Planned Parenthood – namely, that carefully-edited video that paints the organization as some kind of Bond Villain whose end goal is to blow up the Moon. Today, Republicans in Congress failed to push forward a bill that would effectively end all Title X funding of Planned Parenthood.  I’d be celebrating more if they weren’t counting on a government shut-down to push their agenda forward anyway.  Never mind the fact that federal money cannot be used to fund any abortion procedure – PP gets 1/3rd of its funding from federal sources, and pretty much all of that goes to providing birth control.  Planned Parenthood does not now, nor has it ever, used federal funding to cover the cost of abortion services.  Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, let’s talk about the real issue here: the attempts at morally justifying an attack on health services for women – overwhelmingly women of color and low-income women.

If you oppose abortion, you should be happy right now! Abortion rates are lower than they have ever been since Roe v. Wade. This trend didn’t start with 2014’s rash of anti-abortion measures, so the Republican leadership cannot claim that particular Merit Badge (it’s shaped like a uterus with a big X over it). Please look at the graphs. It’s been a gradual downward movement as birth control becomes more available.  With the rise of IUD use in America, I imagine that trend will start to veer ever-more-sharply downward in the coming years.

Here’s a little Truth Crouton for you all: women don’t want to have abortions. They don’t.  No woman thinks to herself, “Hey! A free Saturday – let’s squeeze in an abortion between yoga and brunch with the girls!”  It happens because – for one reason or another – a pregnancy is unsustainable.  And if there’s a surefire way to prevent abortions, it’s making sure that unsustainable pregnancies don’t happen.

I talk a lot about privilege, and in this case, I think it’s important that we recognize our own. I am a woman, which means my body is apparently the battlefield upon which the Hunger Games Tributes Republican Presidential hopefuls plan to win their battle. But let’s not kid ourselves here: women like me are more privileged than not. I’m white. I went to college. I have a professional job – and I have insurance. I get my choice of birth control at a very small cost to me. I never have to worry about my safety or my reputation because I live in an affluent suburban area where I have access to safe contraception. You know what else I can get? Pap smears. Gynecological exams. Vaccinations that keep my risk of cervical cancer at an all-time low. I have an OB-GYN, guys. More than that, if an unexpected pregnancy were to happen, it wouldn’t be the end of the world for me. I would not be forced to choose between my livelihood and parenthood.

That’s privilege, everyone. Privilege is not having to worry about issues because they do not directly affect you. Too many women in this country lack what I consider to be basic rights: access to quality health care and reproductive health resources.  Do you know how expensive insurance is? I can tell you that the days of company-sponsored healthcare for workers and their families are fading into the dust of time. I pay for my plan out of pocket; I know that more women in my generation do than don’t, and a terrifyingly large percentage of women have no insurance at all.  How on Earth can women be held solely responsible for birth control and family planning when the odds are so incredibly stacked against them? Planned Parenthood steps in to help.  The program provides screenings, birth control, and, yes, abortions – I’m not going to lie to you and pretend that PP doesn’t. But here’s the thing: Planned Parenthood takes care of a large population in this country that nobody else is willing to take care of.  I don’t see anybody else going to bat for women the way that they do.  And they’re more effective than an entire Quarter Quell of Republican cannon-fodder nominees.  You want to see abortion rates go down? Really go down?  Make them unnecessary. Give women the knowledge and the resources to take care of themselves, and you’ll see healthier families.

And don’t be a dick, please: stop shouting at women who are already making the most difficult decision of their lives. They’re not doing it lightly.   When you condemn a woman for making this decision, when you shout and curse and spit, you are saying, “I cannot imagine what you are going through, but because I am not strong enough to offer empathy, I will take the coward’s road and pile on condemnation.”  Moral outrage is a privilege reserved for those who will never be forced to choose between survival and scruples.  If you want to actually make a difference, then stand with Planned Parenthood and help bring family planning to every woman in America.  If you want to do nothing and then gripe and moan about the “lack of family values” like a colossal pissbaby, then by all means, support the decision to defund.

Go for it.

Forgiving Ourselves, Snarls and All

I’m backsliding this weekend.

Backstepping, falling off, backsliding, riding the Struggle Bus – however you’d like to put it, I am sitting a few steps back on my journey this weekend.  I can see the footprints in front of me, marking how far I was a few weeks ago, when I decided to pursue my passions and leave a steady job because I could.  Last week, I submitted a piece of fiction to an online publication – my first attempt at publication, I’ll have you know.  That’s probably a few steps ahead of where I’m sitting, plopped down on the road and rocking back and forth.  It’s a comfort thing.  Don’t worry.  I’ve had three panic attacks in two days, and right now there feels like there’s a river of clamor running just under my skin.  Everything feels noisy. I’ve changed my shirt three times today because everything itches.  I’ve been letting the noise leech out of my skin slowly: yoga and classical music helps tremendously.  I’m beginning to feel a little bit more like myself as I write this, exhausted and finally sedate.

My wonderful boyfriend picked up on it before I did, and it took him suggesting a walk for me to realize that I’d been grinding my teeth for the last half-hour while trying to read.  I’ve always found physical activity the most effective treatment for my episodes, and if I’m lucky, they happen on a Sunday, so I can dedicate two hours of yoga to resetting my brain.

I’m not always sure why these episodes happen.  Sometimes, I can pinpoint an obvious trigger – hunger, impending sickness, poor sleep, or stress.  It’s easier to forgive myself when I can detect the cause of the panic.   Isn’t that the case for all of us, though?  Isn’t it easier to forgive behavior when there are mitigating circumstances?

I’m beginning to realize, though, that looking for an excuse – a mitigating circumstance, a trigger – to explain and justify my panic just encourages me to keep blaming myself.  Yes, it’s important to understand our triggers, so that we can understand our reactions to them, but we don’t need to understand our triggers to forgive ourselves. When we make reasonable cause a prerequisite for forgiveness, we punish ourselves more harshly when we feel ways we don’t understand. That way of thinking makes a panic attack more acceptable in certain circumstances than in others. It validates people who ask us, “What have you got to be depressed about?”

The unfair truth is sometimes we don’t have anything to be depressed about, or afraid of, or anxious about.  We just are.

It’s that knowledge – that my brain is often setting off smokebombs and flares in response to no threat – that makes me feel prickly.  It makes me feel tired.  More than anything, though, it makes me feel guilty.  I feel guilty because I worry obsessively about showing that side of me to the outside world – letting the snarls and thorns grow on the outside and prick the people I love.  I can’t count the number of times I’ve apologized to my sweet, understanding boyfriend for the way I am this weekend.  Of course, it was always unnecessary and he always made sure I knew that, but I wasn’t really apologizing for his sake.  I was apologizing for me, to soothe myself, to reassure myself that I was controlling whatever damage my snarls were wreaking on the world around me.  I wasn’t sure what justified my episode this weekend – I’m still not entirely sure – and so it seemed to me that I didn’t deserve to be afraid. I was mad at myself for messing up the progress I thought I’d made. I couldn’t forgive myself for feeling this way and let myself ride it out.

But here’s the thing: it’s never about whether you deserve to feel sad or anxious or mad or terrified.  The feelings exist because they exist.  You didn’t cause them, and it’s not your fault.  

I’m slowly learning to trust the people I love to tell me if I hurt them, instead of assuming that my anxiety will seep out of my skin and infect them.  They are strong, and they are capable of taking care of themselves.  They love me, and they realize that my mind sometimes goes too fast, like a broken carnival ride.  Sometimes I have to write those things down, so that when my mind’s a maelstrom of white noise and I feel like if I open my mouth I’ll just scream, I can look and remember that I’m loved.   People with mental illness aren’t stupid, but sometimes when our minds short-circuit, we need reminding.

I’m also learning that recovery isn’t a road.  I’ve always liked checklists and recipes, because if you follow the directions exactly, nothing bad can happen to you.  People with anxiety try to make their lives into checklists, and in true fashion, I’m guilty of doing that to the recovery process.  I find myself assuming that if I do everything I’m supposed to do (medication, exercise, diet, meditation) that I’ll just keep getting better and better and someday I won’t have any problems anymore.

The truth – as always – is more complicated than that.  Living with anxiety means living with it.  There’s no cure for mental illness, only treatments.  I’m never going to not be prone to anxiety, and some days I’ll have episodes.  Some days, I’ll have episodes for no reason other than the way my brain is wired.  The measure of my recovery won’t be the total absence of symptoms, but the fullness of life I’m able to achieve given the brain I have.  In that respect, I’m doing fabulously.  I’ve done brave things not without fear, but in spite of it. I have built relationships, full knowing that they will cause me emotional stress.  I’m slowly learning to let go.

And I’m slowly – oh so slowly – learning how to forgive myself, regardless of the reason for my fear.  It’s a difficult process, but a necessary one, if I’m ever going to love myself the way I need to – snarls and all.

Snarls and all.

Why I Love My Pills

I love my pills, yes I do…I love my pills, so why can’t youuuuu?

Anyway. Serious writing time.  Let me put on my Serious Writing Hat.

Upon occasion, I’ll share bits of my journey with people I know. I’ll tell them that I live with anxiety, and they’ll get stars in their eyes and tell me how incredible I am, and how they couldn’t possibly do what I’ve done, and how strong I must be to manage this…without medicating myself into a stupor.

Huh.

I suppose I should start leading with, “So, I take fantastic pills every day that keep me from getting too crazy all up in here.  How about you?”

Apparently the fact that I’m not a drooling, spaced-out wreck popping pills every five minutes means that I can’t possibly be one of those people.  You know, those people who take dangerous chemicals that mess with their brains until they stop being people and start craving human flesh.

First of all, that’s offensive to Undead Americans everywhere.  Also, that’s not how antidepressants work.  We have a dangerously inaccurate popular understanding of this kind of medication and of the people who take them, and it has grown tiresome.  I’ve got enough in life that causes me anxiety; I don’t feel like dealing with people who think I’m taking “the easy way out.”

According to this article in the Scientific American, more Americans are taking prescription antidepressants than ever before. The estimate is somewhere in the realm of 8-10% of adults.  This rise was characterized by an editorial in the New York Times as – wait for it – “a glut of antidepressants.”

If you’re like me, you’re now imagining Jabba the Hutt sitting on his throne on Tattooine, surrounded by piles of pills.  “Eee choota, Solo!  Conda Wookiee chibiti ootaskoota Proooozac!  HO HO HO HOOO!”

If one were to believe the opinions expressed by the popular media, antidepressants are dangerous, mind-numbing chemicals handed out like Halloween candy to criminals and psychopaths by shady, uncaring doctors in Big Pharma’s pocket.  It’s the last line before the first-quarter commercial break in an episode of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit.  The hardworking but oh-so-broken detectives find an unlikely suspect for a rash of human dismemberments, only to discover, to their horror, that the all-star college valedictorian has an open prescription for Prozac!  He must have a lair filled with human toes.

That doesn’t even touch on the world of internet comment boards and opinion pieces.  You shouldn’t touch on it, either.  It’s a dangerous place, and you’ll need to take a shower and cuddle a puppy right afterwards.  Because I care for each and every one of you, my lovely readers, I’ve already taken a long, sewage-y swim in its waters, and collected some of the choicest bits of poo just for you!

“Anti-depressants are pushed as a ‘magic pill’ by Big Pharma to make money off of you.”

“The side-effects are enough to make anyone depressed!”

“Doctors and Big Pharma are over-medicating the population. It’s a conspiracy to keep us in their pockets!”

“It’s just a placebo effect.”

“The real danger is in the side effects – it’s dangerous to just put chemicals in your brain!  A natural life is the only way to live!”

According to the internet, antidepressants are either the biggest joke being played on us by Big Pharma, or they’re going to give you radioactive super-powers and sparkly farts.

Where does that leave us?  It leaves us squarely in the middle of a culture in which one out of ten people take medicine meant to make them feel better, all the while being vilified for deciding to feel better.

If you’ll allow me to roll up my sleeves, I’m going to lay down some Truth.

Ready?

1. Psychiatrists don’t just “hand out” drugs as a whole.  Yes, there are bad apples in every profession, but most psychiatrists – and doctors – want their patients to feel better.  Dr. Evil is the exception, as is Dr. Strangelove. Just use your judgment! If your doctor doesn’t seem to listen to you, find one who does.  Feeling better is good, and trained psychiatrists will not simply stuff pills down your throat like you’re a reverse Pez-dispenser.  When I first started seeing a psychiatrist for my anxiety at age 24, she required that I make lifestyle changes to alleviate my anxiety and continue seeing the counselor at the Student Center who had referred me to her in the first place.  She also prescribed me medication.  I needed every aspect of my treatment.  I made huge dietary changes and began working out every single day.  I haven’t kept up the every-day exercise to the rigor that I initially did, but I remain active.  I continued talk therapy.  But you know what?  The medication made it possible for me to do all of those things.

Let me explain.  As soon as I began taking Zoloft, I saw results.  Not in my anxiety and intrusive thoughts – those took weeks of retraining to reduce – but in other, purely physical symptoms of anxiety.  My insomnia lessened, so I could get sleep and have the energy to leave the apartment in the morning, to go to the gym, to walk across campus to go to counseling.  My constant nausea – what I’d always thought of as my ‘fussy tummy’ was gone. I was hungry, for possibly the first time in my life.  I gained weight. This may not seem like a positive – we live in a world where thinner is better – but I’d spent years as a 115-pound, 5 ft. 10 beanpole. I used to get sick constantly.  I was frail, y’all.

The best part of getting the right medication was that it got rid of symptoms that I didn’t realize weren’t normal.  People with anxiety often suffer from something called depersonalization: the feeling that your body doesn’t belong to you. You feel like your face is made out of rubber, and when you do move, it feels like you’re starting out of a dream.  It’s irritating.  And I thought everyone had to deal with it.

Yes, therapy is vital.  Yes, reworking the mental pathways that allow anxious thoughts to spiral is important.  Exercise and diet and forming positive relationships are all integral parts of living with mental illness.  Medication can be life-changing as a part of that process.

2. Big Pharma is real, but it’s not a reason to deny yourself or anyone else the care they need. Yeah, the pharmaceutical industry is full of all kinds of nastiness.  And yeah, its goal is to make money.  These are reasons for reform, not rejection of all medications.  The oil industry is one of the dirtiest in the world (in more ways than one).  Are we rejecting automobiles?  No.  No we are not.  Automobiles make our lives easier and better.  What we are doing is breaking the monopoly through alternate-fuel and electric cars.  We have to reform the pharmaceutical industry, but that’s not the point here.  They may be the Evil Empire, but you’ve got to occasionally admit that they make really quality stuff.

Most doctors, as a matter of fact, will do whatever they can to keep their patients from being under the thumb of insurance companies and the pharmaceutical industry. This includes using samples to try different kinds of medications and making the referral process as easy as possible.

3. Side effects are nothing to sneeze at. They’re real, and they can be scary.  However, every drug is different, and it takes time to find the right one for your brain.

When I first started taking SSRIs, my psychiatrist prescribed Prozac.  It was the most commonly-prescribed SSRI, and it had shown success in helping some people with anxiety.  She told me that I was to keep in contact with the Health Center and to call the 24-hour emergency line if I had any side effects that alarmed me.

I did end up calling the emergency line, at 2:00 in the morning, when it felt like bugs were crawling all over my skin.  I couldn’t sleep.  My panic had gone through the roof.  If my brain had been the Oval Office, the inside would have looked very much like that scene in Independence Day after Jeff Goldblum showed President Bill Pullman that the aliens were using our satellites against us.  My sense of self-preservation was on the first Air Force One ride out of that mother. Somewhere in the midst of DEFCON 3, I was able to dial the emergency line. After the on-call psychiatrist calmed me down, I made an appointment online for the very next morning.  I told the psychiatrist about the side effects and said, “I know that there are adjustment periods for medicines – I get that.  I just don’t think I can make it through this one.”

She listened to me.

She listened to me and prescribed me a different drug.  Prozac just wasn’t a good fit for me, she explained.  Everyone’s brain works differently, but the goal is to make me feel like I can function.  Zoloft might be a better choice for me, and just to be on the safe side, she put me on Valium temporarily.  SSRIs change one’s brain chemistry, so sometimes you have to grease the wheels with a mild sedative.  She also gave me the choice: I could try another SSRI, or we could keep working without medication.

I’ll admit it: the side effects of Prozac had been so horrific that I was hesitant to try something else. It was like I’d taken an acid trip with Lord Sauron.  I wanted to get better so badly, though, that I went for it.  It was the best decision I have ever made.

4. Yes, drugs are chemicals that you’re putting in your bodies.  You know what else is a chemical? Absolutely everything.

I hate to break it to you, but you’re made of chemicals.  So am I.  So is the Pope.  So is Beyonce.  We are all made of chemicals. Even Moby is made of chemicals, because we are all made of stars…which are all made of chemicals.

Every single thing you put in your body, from water to potato chips to plutonium to the fresh blood of your enemies, is a chemical.  Some chemicals are good – like water.  Some chemicals are bad – like heroin.  The “naturallness” of a substance is no measure of its goodness, by the way.  I’m all in favor of making natural food, like vegetables and fruits, available as a healthy alternative to chips for people who are not me.  However, let’s not pretend that Nature hasn’t been doing her damndest to kill us over the last few million years.   Hemlock is totally organic and it will totally kill you. Yes, I choose to put a chemical in my brain because that chemical makes my life better.

I know that there are people who manage their mood disorders without medication. They use exercise, diet, neurotherapy, and essential oils.  For them, I have nothing but love.  Respect.  But what I don’t have is admiration because I don’t consider them to be any stronger than someone like me, who uses medication as a part of my treatment.  If you’re healthy, then that’s fantastic, and it doesn’t matter to me how you got there.  What I do object to, however, is the “helpful” advice on how to “kick” my “chemical habit.”  These well-meaning people only contribute to the stigma surrounding antidepressants that causes people to quit their regimens without consulting their doctors.

The fact remains that many people who take prescription medication to help them with depression, anxiety, schizophrenia, or any other mental illness feel like they have to hide that fact from others – even the people they love the most.  How many people feel like they have to lie about their Lipitor?  How many people feel that they have to hide their Prednisone in their sock drawer? Would you ever tell someone that they didn’t “need” their chemo?

I remember having to take a deep breath before telling my boyfriend about my nervous breakdown two years ago and the resulting regimen of diet, exercise, and, yes, Zoloft that keeps me healthy in mind and body.  I trusted him – of course I did – but I’ve spent a quarter of a century in this culture.  He didn’t bat an eye, of course, because he’s sensible and compassionate, but my own internalization of our cultural norms did surprise me.

So here I am.  I take pills.  They keep me sane.

It’s awesome.

The Riotous Courage of Being: Bravery and Mental Illness

I have never understood people who sleep easy. For as long as I can remember, I have struggled with falling asleep. Don’t get me wrong: I adore dreamland, once I’m there. The passage over, however, tends to be rough. I have the most difficult time turning off my mind. As an example: I’m writing my first draft of this piece at approximately 12:34 AM on my iPhone, after several solid attempts at slumber. Insomnia hasn’t been as bad of an issue lately, but my old friend visits from time to time. When I was a child, though, it was unbearable. I spent the first 45 minutes to two hours every night trying to stop the day from wheeling about in my head.  It was in those moments that my constant companion, Fear, would crawl into bed next to me like the worst housecat ever.  Every shadow was a monster, and even the air was suffocating and foreign, as if my lungs belonged to someone else.

When I got older, those first few hours would play like a blooper reel of my most embarrassing moments from the day, paired with contingency plans for every horrible event that could possibly happen.  What would happen if my parents suddenly vanished?  Who would take care of us? These questions were punctuated by mental calculations: if it was 1:03 right now, and I have to wake up at 5:15 to catch the bus at 6:00, how much sleep can I get tonight? And what if I don’t get enough sleep and something terrible happens?

My mind is a busy place.

And so I developed a method for helping myself to sleep, which worked about half of the time.  I would make up stories.  If I didn’t think about my own life, I could usually lull myself to sleep.  I usually made up stories about my favorite cartoon characters and put myself into them.  That’s right: I was writing fanfiction before I could actually write. If I’m being honest, I made some vast improvements to the canon of The Cowboys of Moo Mesa.

I still put that technique to work when I can’t sleep.  Some of my best stories have come from those pre-slumber moments. When I was trying my hardest to fall asleep, I used to tell myself stories about bravery.  When I was a child, I knew what bravery looked like. Bravery meant women warriors in fantasy lands, starship captains, queens and princesses and sacrifice. I knew that I wanted very much to be brave. I used to imagine what would happen if an adventure were to appear at my window. I used to dream that I would be brave enough to take it, but as I couldn’t recall reading about any heroes who had to sleep in their own bed with exactly three pillows and a stuffed animal on each side for symmetry, I felt that I would be ill suited for bravery. I didn’t think that brave people spent most of their time being wary of the toaster or checking the under-the-bed every half-hour or telling themselves stories so they could get to sleep every night. Brave people, I reasoned, could do things I couldn’t.

Later in my life, bravery came to mean different things. Bravery meant going on dates with boys, driving on the highway, and studying abroad in France.  Bravery meant throwing parties, going to parties, and deciding to road-trip at the last minute.

I did none of those things.

Because I had such conscripted ideas of what courage was, I felt as if I were a coward. A coward with an advanced degree and a stellar work history, but a coward nonetheless.  I felt that I spent so much time managing my anxiety that it took me twice the effort to maintain what other people thought was a “normal” life.  Constant policing of my mind left no chance for valor. I was afraid of spontaneity because I thought it would break the brittle ice standing between my outside composure and the maelstrom of tics, compulsions and noise that threatened to spill out of my mind. I saw other people my age dropping everything to travel abroad, to pursue a calling in New York or Los Angeles, to fall topsy-turvy in love and embark on a romance for the ages.  I didn’t understand how I was supposed to go out and chase my dreams when it took all I had to hold myself together, and I was ashamed of my fear.

I’ve learned, however, to both forgive myself for my perceived shortcomings and to redefine courage in the face of all I have undergone.  I’ve learned to weather life in a world that I find often overwhelming and frightening.  I’ve overcome the clamor in my head and the roaring in my ears enough to engage with the life all around me.  I’ve moved through the panic to form attachments – which, if we are honest, are messy, entropic things by their very nature.  Love is complex, intuitive, and absolutely terrifying. People are unpredictable. If courage is defined as moving outside of one’s comfort zone, then I may be the bravest of people.  Do I take medicine to help me do this?  Yes. Yes, I do.  But the fact that I take medicine to keep myself healthy in mind doesn’t undermine the strength I have at my very core.  The courage.

Mental illness has a pronounced, devastating effect on one’s sense of self.  I don’t mean “self-esteem” in the fabricated, superficial way we so often encounter.  I mean, rather, the connection between our minds and our inner selves – our personality, if you will. As a person of faith, I think of that transcendent part of myself as my soul. Mental illness kills your ability to recognize the value of your own soul, because your perception of reality is skewed and sick.  I know that from first-hand experience, and having people pat you on the back and tell you “You’re all right,” does very little good.  It feels like charity.  And you know for a fact that it’s a lie. You’re not “all right.”  I certainly wasn’t.

Instead, let me reassure everyone who suffers from mental illness that you may not be “all right,” but you are brave.  When you feel as if every breath will collapse your lungs, breathing is brave. When you are frightened of the Outside World, going to work is brave. Holding conversations is brave when you feel yourself drifting away inside yourself whenever you start to speak. You may never travel abroad. You may never “find your calling.” For some of us, life itself will be the greatest battle.

Simply being is act of riotous courage.

Yes, mental illness is “all in your head.” By it’s very definition, it is in your mind.  But that doesn’t make it any less real.  This is something that is happening to you, and it is real, and you are brave – however you choose to weather this storm.  And once I realized that – once I realized that forgiving yourself is wonderful, but not as wonderful as not punishing yourself to begin with – I started living my life, not in spite of my anxiety, but with it.

I decided what I wanted and threw out the list of “Things You Have to Do Before You Die,” because life cannot be a checklist governed by the fear of Death. I accepted that my fear will always be with me, but that I am powerful because I stand in the face of Fear and know it by its name.

I did drive on the highway – at age 24, on my own terms.  I never lived abroad – but I learned to treasure the close relationship I gained with my parents in its place.  I did quit a job to pursue my passions – though I still have to manage the panic caused by jumping out without a safety net.

I’ve even fallen in love.

All of that seems pretty courageous to me.

We Didn’t Start the Fire: “Just Get Over It” Has Never Been Sufficient

“Everyone ‘these days’ has got depression.”

“We used to just call it being sad – I didn’t need to pop pills after [insert traumatic event].”

“People in America only think they’re depressed. Try being in a third-world country. I went to Africa on a mission trip and everyone was so much happier. Maybe it’s because everything is simpler there, or people are more grateful.”

“Americans eat too much fast-food and spend all their time on their phones. Want to be happy? Go outside and get some exercise!”

“People would rather take medicine than deal with their problems, and that’s really sad.”

Have you ever heard any of these lines?

Have you ever said any of these lines?

The number of people being treated for mental illness is on the rise.  Now, science tells us that we can’t confuse incidence with diagnosis: just because a disease is being diagnosed more, it doesn’t mean it is actually happening more.  We might just be more aware of it than we were.  Our standard of living is better than it has been, and maybe we’re just less willing to put up with debilitating fear and depression than our forefathers were.

But if you read the comments on any article about anxiety, depression, or any other mental disorder, you get the sense that there’s a large group of people who just want you to get over it.  They think that depression and anxiety and schizophrenia are modern conditions, caused by a society of smart-phones and easy answers and divorced parents and gay marriages. They think that doctors give out drugs like candy and that there is a cabal of psychiatrists and psychologists who profit from this new “American hypochondria.”  They will tell you that people weren’t depressed during the Great Depression, that no one had anxiety during Vietnam, and that the cure for all ills is taking walks in the sunshine, turning your phone off, and being grateful for what you have. People who are not doctors will tell you that you don’t need medication.  People who are not psychiatrists or psychologists will tell you that you don’t need therapy.  In short, if you can’t manage your life, then it is your fault, and America is riddled by people who can’t manage their lives.

Let’s get one thing straight: mental illness is not new.

The Ancient Greek physician Hippocrates hypothesized that mental illness was a biological, not spiritual, condition in 400 BC.  If the name Hippocrates sounds familiar to you, it’s because doctors to this day take the Hippocratic Oath.  Hippocrates is possibly the most influential figure in Western medicine.

Anyone versed in medieval literature is familiar with the humors.  I don’t mean Eddie Izzard. For those of you who aren’t gigantic nerds, the humors are bodily fluids that ancient and medieval doctors and scientists theorized were responsible for various aspects of personality.  The big four are black bile, yellow bile, phlegm, and blood – they represent the four major temperaments, or moods.  If a person is healthy, then Hippocrates theorized that all four humors are balanced. An imbalance in the humors caused any number of personality issues – what we now think of as mental disorders.

Melancholy or melancholia was one such condition.  A person suffering from melancholia (comparable, though not completely, with modern-day depression) was thought to have an excess of black bile. They were often despondent and prone to uncontrollable mood swings.  Now, modern medicine has punctured the theory that the body is made up of four fluids.  We also no longer believe that blood causes anger or phlegm causes apathy. I think the hypothesized cause of mental illness is a lot less important than the fact that doctors were asking questions in the first place.

What does this mean? It means that even though ancient and medieval doctors weren’t able to see inside the body and the brain – like we can now – they accepted that there is a distinct link between our mental health and our physical one.  The ancient Greeks also tried to treat mental illness using herbs and therapeutic activities.

The smartest people in the world have been treating mental illness as a biological condition for thousands of years.

Let that sink in.

Not only did ancient and medieval doctors try to treat mental illness, but authors also featured people with mental illness in some of the most famous works in the Western canon.  You can’t read Hamlet without thinking the Prince of Denmark’s life would be better if Elsinore had a grief counselor on hand. Poets like Goethe explored the “melancholic” temperament that led young men to commit suicide for love or grief.  People with mental illness are everywhere in literature and history.  Abraham Lincoln wrote often of his depression and suicidal thoughts.  Winston Churchill called his recurring depression his “Black Dog.” Leo Tolstoy suffered from “hypochondriasis,” a constant fear of illness.  And there are more.

We live in a linked-up society, in which we know far more people than ever before. Our social networks are a web that stretches wider than the village or city block of our grandparent’s day. Of course we’re going to know more people who suffer from mental illness.  Not only that, but we are privy to a host of information – constantly streaming – that makes it seem like we’re in the endtimes when it comes to mental health.  But it’s simply not so.  Go through any Southern family album with a grandparent. Do it. I dare you.  You’ll hear all about Cousin Louis, the recluse (agoraphobia or social anxiety); Grandpappy Turner, who burned hot and cold all his life (bipolar disorder); Aunt Millie, the hypochondriac (acute anxiety). We have always been here.

And there have always been names for our diseases.  In the 19th century, a person suffering from what we now call clinical anxiety would be called a “neurotic.”  A person suffering from depression might be called “melancholic” or “depressive.” “Nervous illnesses” were considered to be a phenomenon of wealthy women, but now we know that biological factors – particularly childbirth – wreaked havoc on the physical and psychological wellbeing of women, particularly those without proper support.  “Rest cures” were prescribed for the wealthy, but if you were of the working class, you were out of luck.  We don’t know how many people in the pre-NIH era suffered from these ailments because people didn’t talk about them.

Well, now we do.

We talk about our breakthroughs and our breakdowns, but we didn’t invent them.

We’re just unwilling to simply live with them.