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To Write Love on Her Arms is a “non-profit movement dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury and suicide.”  They exist “to encourage, inform, inspire and also to invest directly into treatment and recovery.”  What’s funny is that I’m just now finding out about them, despite the fact that I’ve been in and out of therapy for depression for about a decade now.

I appreciate their general message, which is, “You were created to love and be loved.  You were meant to live life in relationship with other people, to know and be known. You need to know that your story is important and that you’re part of a bigger story.  You need to know that your life matters.”  That’s great.  I’d love to hear that coming from an actual person who cared about me.  But how do they go about facilitating and spreading this message (assuming that they do at all, considering that I never heard a thing about it)?

Well, I know they sell merchandise, so you can buy a shirt that says, “I care about your depression,” basically.  In fact, this is how the organization began, with a group of kids selling shirts to raise money to get therapy for a friend who was struggling with some mental issues.  I think that’s awesome, too.

I’m not too pleased with what I see on their website, though, and what I know about their organization.  I don’t like this trend of commercializing issues, like pink bracelets, shoes, blenders, shirts, dishes, cheese graters, socks, etc., for breast cancer.  It’s great that you want to give to an organization, it really is.  But must you get something in return?  Why can’t we just give to do something nice, to support a cause we supposedly care about?  We don’t need to receive a shirt or a bracelet in return so that we can wear it around and say, “I care that some women get breast cancer,” or “I care that some kids get depressed.”  Where’s the humility in all that? Read the rest of this entry »

I really can’t do this school thing anymore.  It’s beyond senioritis and into some serious ADD/don’t give a crap territory.  I feel paralyzed and I can’t make any progress on anything.  I’m going to have to turn in a major paper very late because I practically had a nervous breakdown while writing it.  I don’t know what’s wrong.  I’ve always been a procrastinator, but at least I got things done.  Now I can’t even do that.  So I put the paper off and moved on to something else – doing critiques for a workshop in my creative nonfiction writing class – something I usually like and can do fairly well.  But I can’t do it.  I can’t think of anything to say.  There’s nothing that can motivate me.  This is the unsung hell of anxiety disorders.  You let the anxiety keep you from doing things, because they’re too scary to deal with, and that only causes the pile of things you need to do to grow larger and larger.  Eventually, it’s an insurmountable obstacle.  Usually, I could use my hope for the future to motivate me, but I realized that this is in short supply lately.  I don’t think my academic record in college is good enough to get me a job, and I’m just deluding myself if I think I’ll ever be able to move away (because I can’t do that without a job).  I’m going to end up working at the mall or a coffee shop, because that’s what an undergraduate English degree gets you.  So go to grad school, I always thought.  But again, my academic record isn’t good enough to get into a good grad school, probably.  I could rely on the strength of my writing to perhaps get me into an MFA program, but I’m probably not that good.  It seems as if everyone else in the creative writing program here is doing readings and getting published, and when they read their writing, it’s so much better than mine.  Besides, I don’t want to think about grad school when it’s clearly going to take a miracle for me to graduate with my B.A. in May.  The idea of more school after that makes me want to munch on the business end of a gun right now.

There’s also the added bonus that even if I do move away, I probably won’t last.  I’ll probably be back home, checked into some mental institution after three whole months.  College is supposed to be the easiest time to make friends.  If I counted all the friends I’ve made at college (friends, not friendly classroom acquaintances), I wouldn’t even use up all the fingers on one of my hands.  So if I can’t make friends now, how am I ever going to do it when I don’t have the built-in social infrastructure that college provides?  Answer:  I’m not, because dogs don’t count as friends.  Not legit friends, anyway.  Can’t take my dog to the movies or shopping.  Can’t talk to him and have him talk back.

I want to just quit school, but if my future’s that bleak WITH my degree, how bad is it going to be without?  I wish that I could make a job out of surfing the Internet and watching TV, because that’s all my lazy fat butt enjoys doing nowadays.  They’re the only two things that keep up with my mind going 80 miles per hour, the only things that are just the perfect balance of boring and stimulating.  That and sleep.  I love getting some sleep.  Lately it’s been a big issue, though, because I can’t stay awake long enough to get assignments done, and I keep sleeping through important meetings and classes.  I enjoy it at the time, but hate myself entirely when I wake up.  I simply cannot stay awake.  The past two nights, I’ve fallen asleep while doing homework, with my lights on, makeup on, haven’t brushed my teeth or taken my medicine, haven’t set my alarm clock.  Then I wake up at 5 or 6 a.m. completely unrested and have to either try and squeeze in a few good hours of sleep or stay awake and finish the homework I was working on when I dozed off.  I just don’t know how to control it.  And I know that I’ve basically just described something that sounds like “laziness syndrome.”  Oh, I can’t do my homework.  Oh, I sleep too much.  I watch too much TV.  But really, I cannot help it.  Being confronted with anything besides sleep and television sends me into panic mode.  Panic mode wears me out, so I just want to sleep more.  Nothing gets done.  Nothing, that is, except the further destruction of my academic career.  That one I’m accomplishing with ease.

I realize that I’ve been absent from the blogosphere for about six weeks now, but I have a good reason, and I’m ready to talk about it.  Or maybe not ready, but I’m feeling emotional enough to talk about it right now.  It’s not something that I’ve never talked about.  I may have mentioned it on here before, and lately I’ve been writing a bit about it for a creative nonfiction writing class I’m taking.

But I’m addressing it here and now for a few reasons.  One, I just realized how long it’s been since my last post, and maybe I have a few readers who would like to know what the deal is.  Two, the recent spate of bullying and suicides has made me think about the importance of stories, just stories, that people can relate to.  I don’t have a “I was bullied as a gay kid in high school” story; that’s not my past and that’s not my story.  But I do know what it’s like to be a kid and to be bullied, to be depressed, and to be suicidal.  Three, I have something of an impulse to write my story, or to tell it, because I am good with words and because I feel that my experience is unique to me, but also universal in its themes, and I don’t feel like it gets told enough.

So here it is, if I haven’t given it away already.  I suffer from mental illness.  Depression and anxiety, for sure, although bipolar disorder has not been ruled out.  I have been in therapy since the age of 10 or 11.  I wasn’t diagnosed with depression at that age.  I was just a sad, lonely, guilt-ridden kid whose parents had split up.  It wasn’t until middle school, when I couldn’t get on the bus in the morning because I’d start crying, fit to puke, every time it rolled around the corner, that I was diagnosed.  School sucked then, and it took an emotional toll on me.  I slept all the time, cried at school, had no friends in my classes, never talked, and was teased a lot.  Freshman and sophomore years of high school were better, but not much.  Slowly, though, with the help of counseling and anti-depressants, I came out of my fog.  School got better; I found things I was good at:  singing, acting, writing, making people laugh.  Then my home life started to get tough.  I won’t go through the details, because I get sick of talking about it, but my parents (who separated when I was 10 but then got back together) got a divorce, and lots of things changed.  I quickly had a new stepdad, we were going to sell my childhood home, and I even had to get rid of my dog for a while.  Things were odd, and to top it all off, I was having that mini-existential crisis that every senior in high school has.  My depression was back.  My family problems didn’t get much better, and neither did my emotions.  Going away to college helped a lot, but I could almost always count on another depressive funk every winter.

Last year, my junior year in college, I started to struggle with sleep.  I wouldn’t sleep until 3 or 4, sometimes 5 o’clock in the morning, and I’d still have to wake up around 9 or 10.  So I was living on about five or six hours of sleep a night.  It caught up to me after a while, I guess, but I couldn’t fix it.  To top it all off, I was irritable, couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t quiet my mind, had racing thoughts and just a general sense of anxiety.  I didn’t go to class as much as I should have, and I couldn’t keep up with the reading I had to do.  So, this summer, I set out to find a fix for this.  However, the first medication the doctors put me on made me insane.  It made all of my symptoms 100 times worse, amplified my restlessness and made me snippy.  I won’t mention the name of it because I know it works for a lot of people, but I personally couldn’t get past my fourth day on the medication.  This was about two weeks before I had to move back to school.  There wasn’t enough time to see a psychiatrist, so my family physician gave me some new meds to try.

It’s not gotten much better here at school, although I have evened out some.  I still feel restless, anxious, angry, depressed, listless, irritable, and a whole litany of emotions.  I can’t concentrate.  I’m suffering in all of my classes because it takes a miracle for me to accomplish my reading assignments.  Also, I’ve had a handful of panic attacks in class, and so on my bad days, I can’t bring myself to even attend, for fear that I’ll break down and make a fool of myself during the lesson.  I don’t have many friends and I don’t get out much.  I’ve honestly considered dropping out more than once, and I probably would have if I were not on my last year of school.  I can’t fathom that I might have wasted the last three years, and the money it cost me to be here, and that’s one of the few things that keeps me trying at school (although not trying as much as I should, sad to say).

Advice columnist Dan Savage and his partner recently started an Internet campaign to let gay youth know that “It Gets Better.”  More power to them, because the suicide rate for gay teens is insanely high, and the amount of bullying and pressure directed at them is absurd.  I could barely manage to be a teen, period, so I can scarcely imagine.  However, I’m not solely addressing gay youth here.  It’s hard to be a teenager nowadays, no matter your sexual orientation.  It’s hard (perhaps harder) to be a college student.  The stigma surrounding mental illnesses and those who suffer from them is huge, and thriving.  I feel a bit anxious just writing this, having heard horror stories of people losing jobs over their depression/anxiety/bipolar disorder/etc.  I know the Internet never forgets.  But this is an important part of who I am, and if it helps just one person, it’s worth it.

To any kid suffering from a mental illness, I’d like to say that I’m not sure if it gets better.  I’m still trying to figure that out myself, every day.  There are days when you think that it is so much better.  There are days when you think that it couldn’t get worse.  I feel like I’m not yet at that point where I can say that it got better.  But I hope it’s in my future.  You should know that there are people out there who care, people who don’t want to see you die, who want to see you live until the day where you figure out whether or not it got better.  Even if you have to pay someone to listen to your problems, I can promise you that there is someone out there who genuinely cares that you have them.  I’ll listen to you if you want to talk.  Never let anyone tell you your problems don’t matter enough.  Never let anyone make you feel like less of a person because you have to take Prozac or Cymbalta or Lexapro or Wellbutrin or Abilify or Zoloft every morning.  You should feel proud that you had the will to get help.

My best advice is to take little moments of happiness and make them your everything.  If someone smiled at you in the hall and that’s the best thing that happened to you all day, then tell yourself you had a good day because someone cared enough to notice you.  I’m not one to say, “Just stop being depressed; think positive.”  I know all too well that it’s nearly impossible to do that when you’re truly depressed.  But that shouldn’t stop you from recognizing the good moments that do come your way, and I firmly believe that, if you can learn to appreciate the tiniest of moments, then you will learn to get at least a bit of goodness out of every day.  I have my days where it’s hard just to walk to class.  But then I have days where I hang out with a friend or my sister, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

So I won’t tell you it gets better.  I hope it does, but I don’t know.  But until I do know, I’m going to make it my reason for living to find out whether or not life does get better.  It’s not necessarily a light at the end of the tunnel, but a big question mark at the end of the tunnel.  Still, it’s better than darkness.  Sometimes a question mark just has to be enough.

ETA: I don’t want to make it seem like I’m one of those people saying, “There are all kinds of depressed kids out there who are bullied, not just gay kids.  Why not pay attention to them and not give gay kids special treatment?”  I’ve heard that a lot lately, but I do not agree.  I’m not sure of the exact statistic, but I’m pretty certain that homosexual teens are way more likely to be bullied and to suffer from depression and to commit suicide than heterosexual teens.  I think it’s a specific issue that deserves a lot of specific attention.  Would I like for there to be more positive awareness of depression and suicide in general?  That’s a big resounding “YES.”  But even I, a person who has been out there on the ledge as well, think that in this instance, gay teens (particularly those recent bullied suicide victims) deserve the attention.  In fact, I wish we could give them more attention than a day of purple shirts.

Also, I found this quote from “Infinite Jest” by David Foster Wallace (who was, sadly, also a victim of suicide), and I had to share it because it’s so on-the-nose.

“The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.”
I agree.  I think only those who have truly been in the same place can understand the pure agony that sparks suicidal thoughts.  Everyone should be there to help, and everyone should be understanding, but there comes a point when you just don’t get it unless you’ve been there as well.  But if you haven’t, that quote sums it up pretty well – you don’t necessarily want to die, but you’re in a place where it seems the lesser of two evils.  Die by fire or jump from the window.
This is why I want to speak out for depression and suicide.  I know all too well what it’s like, and I feel like being in that situation as a teen, and now, and I’m sure in the future, has made me equipped to help, and I want to help, badly.
If you or someone you know is thinking about suicide:
The Suicide Hotline: 1-800-SUICIDE

The Veteran’s Suicide Hotline: 1-800-273-TALK

The Trevor Project (Suicide Hotline for LGBT Youth): 1-866-4-U-TREVOR


Picture credit goes to my sister.


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