Archive for December, 2014

The Evil Of Deviation

Posted in biolar disorder with tags , , on December 31, 2014 by morgueticiaatoms

I am perpetually amazed by how easily I am set off kilter.
I went to do something on line, got an error message, and that simple deviation set me on edge. Panic rising, anxiety bubbling.
If anything, I’d have thought the trip out into the petri dish, complete with 13 stops, kid in tow, in 12 degree weather with a car that keeps dying would have done me in.
Nope.
I survived that relatively sane.
But a simple deviation with the internet…That’s cause for alarm.
The panic may be a byproduct of the outing, for all I know. I can’t figure out the anxiety stuff out. I can make sense of bipolar, because the patterns and cycles are fairly static. It’s always changing with cyclothymia, but even in that inconsistency there is a certain reason and rhyme.
The anxiety disorder…There’s rarely a common trigger. Crowds, sure. Loud noises, ok. But most of the time, it just hits me from out of nowhere over the stupidest things. Ringing phone, knock on the door, music pounding next door, barking dogs, the sound of playing kids..Stupid stuff.

So…Xanax time. I try not to take it until I have to. I think that’s a good thing. One old doctor told me I still had anxiety because I wasn’t taking it regularly. For me, it’s like Tyelonol. I don’t take that if I don’t have pain. If my anxiety is manageable, even if uncomfortable, I don’t take xanax. I TRY to deal on my own. But sometimes the panic becomes so all consuming…It’s nice to know return to sanity sits a few inches away. It’s less a crutch and more a last ditch effort. But when the anxiety reaches fever pitch and you’re trembling, jumping at every tiny sound, and the paranoia kicks in making you suspect even the cats are plotting against you…
Yeah, Xanax time.

But alas…All is done. Bills are paid, car has a sticker for another year. We have food, cats have supplies, and I have my New Year’s party favor, ie: whiskey. It’s probably the only day of the year aside from St. Patrick’s where you’re expected to have a drink so I don’t have to feel guity. Yay.

Booze is bad for me?
I did not know that, I suck.
Meh.
Gonna kiss sucky 2014 goodbye with flourish.
I’d say it can’t get worse but oh it can and usually does.
But it can also get better.
I could also find a million dollar winning lottery ticket on the ground or get hit by a bus.
Maybe that’s why the whole life thing keeps me going.
It could go either way, but you hang on for the possibility it will go well.

And say thanks to whatever pharma company created Xanax.

Happy New Year everyone.

Stress mess

Posted in biolar disorder, mental health with tags , , on December 29, 2014 by morgueticiaatoms

I get so wrapped up in my own mind, sometimes things slip. Like basic hygiene. I haven’t showered since Saturday. That’s not like me. I’m actually pretty big on showers. But when I start to slip into the abyss of anxiety, stress, and depression…Things like furry legs and moss on my teeth become lost in the mix.
Disgusting?
It’s been much, much worse in the past, as embarrassing as that is to admit.
Mental illness does that to you. And sometimes, you’re frozen like a deer in headlights and it isn’t until you hit that rock bottom where things have gotten so bad you’re filled with shame and self loathing…that you’re jarred out of psychological paralysis.
I’m nowhere near that particular abyss at this time, but I can feel it bubbling beneath the surface.
I have to stay on top of it to avoid going under. This has given me an image of being a militant control freak and people around me get caught in the web. They think I want to control them with an iron fist. I am just trying to control my own orbit. If I let up for a minute, the descent begins and by the time I realize it…I’m down the rabbit hole.
Time and time again I have let people I am with convince me to “lighten up, relax.” Next thing I know…I’m six feet under the depression grave.
So I fight, and the only way I know how to fight, is to be in absolute control of my own little world. I can’t control my mind and or moods. I can only control how I handle them. If militant control freak-ism gets the job done, I’m fine with it.
It’s a slippery slope, though. Letting things slide a day or two…doesn’t seem world ending. But a day or two can so quickly become months with depression. It’s a tightrope act and I have poor balance so it never becomes less daunting.

Yesterday was a vegetative day. But towards evening…I just bottomed out, the mood went into DOA mode. I curled up in bed at 7:30 after my kid went to sleep and just tossed, turned, and tried not to let the boiling emotions overwhelm me. It’s not as easy as you might think. There are times the thoughts in my head feel like a fever, boiling,broiling, threatening to splash over the surface and erupt like a volcano.
I suppose I have too much time to think. The rest of the world keeps so busy there is no time fore reflection or deep thought.
I can’t keep that pace, god knows, I have tried. And it didn’t change anything, it just ensured I bottled it all up and when it did froth up…It was explosive.
The ONLY thing I miss about lithium is the novacaine affect it has on the feverish emotions. It really numbs you to emotion. Which gets old after awhile because life without feeling anything is just as empty as feeling too much. Least the lamictal levels me out without total apathy. Sad things should make you cry, not sit there stone faced and feel nothing.
But sometimes, just sometimes…emotional novacaine wouldn’t be bad.

I am babbling because it’s what I do when I am worried and nervous. My mom had her biopsy today and official results won’t be in for 2-4 days but they are fairly certain it is cancer. That she should at the very least be prepared for a lumpectomy. That in itself is worrisome because my mom has had such bad reactions to the anaestetic (I can never spell that fucking word right, it’s annoying). That, combined with her age and health problems…It freaks me out. She can be evil as hell but she’s my mom and I love her. I have to think positively, but…fear is natural and logical. Perhaps why I rambled on about me, me, me in this post. Because there is nothing I can do to help her. Nothing.
Maybe I can help myself by returning to my former control freak self so I don’t go down the rabbit hole and can at least be in good enough shape to be supportive for her.
Because while I feel shitty for being self absorbed…The fact is, if I don’t take care of myself, no one else will. So self absorption is just a necessary evil. I feel helpless, and for the most part, you are helpless when someone you love is sick. The best you can do is make sure you’re in good enough shape to be a form of strength and support for them.
I hope they are wrong and it’s benign.

For now, we wait. I will attempt to swing back into militant gear, bathe, clean, pretend to feel the functional thing. I know from experience this is seasonal affect. By the time it warms up, I will likely be manic.
But knowing five months of the year your will to live is pretty much nil…It’s a bitter pill to swallow.
Me, me, me.
I’d love to write about something else.
But they say stick to what you know and the only thing I know with any certainty is…
Me.

The Anti Textbook Case

Posted in mental health, mental illness with tags , , , , , , on December 28, 2014 by morgueticiaatoms

I suppose I have known from a very early age I was…different. I marched to my own drummer even at age 5. Acknowledging my own perception of myself as being different has often lead to mental health professionals wanting to slap “schizotypal” labels on my file.
The ones that don’t want to do that want to label it “paranoid personality” disorder because I was bullied in school and began to believe I was “weird” or “outcast.” And because I have intense emotional swings, well, that’s borderline personality disorder.

What is with this disorder fetish the mental health care people have latched onto? They’d label an hour old infant with some sort of disorder these days. About the only way to not have a disorder is to never come out of the womb.
I own cyclothymic bipolar disorder, panic disorder, generalized anxiety, seasonal affact…I own those.
But all this psychology bullshit that’s been thrust on me the last few years has left me pretty salty.
For fifteen years I was in counseling. I was “personality disorder not otherwise specified.” Because to qualify, you have to have a certain number of traits for a disorder.
I could never make the grade, so to speak. I’d have a trait or two from this disorder, one from that disorder, a couple from another…FIVE counselors all came to this same conclusion. Not otherwise specified.
Then suddenly social tides and the diagnostic manual changes…And everything is a personality disorder. Borderline seems to be society’s favorite.
And not even the so called professionals seem able to differentiate borderline from bipolar with any certainty.

I miss the days when you could just say, “Okay, I keep doing X and it keeps resulting in Y..So I need to change that behavior.”
NOOOO. Let’s not pinpoint one, let’s hand down a label for an entire disorder with multiple traits so you feel even more defective.
And if you don’t agree with the way that have diagnosed you usually based on ninety minutes of intake forms and banal questions…Well, it’s proof you have the disorder. Only someone with a personality flaw would dare question that someone with a degree or two knows more about them than they do themselves

The borderline thing, since the shrink tossed it out, has been driving me nuts. Because while the similarities are there, personality doesn’t change with hormones, mood cycles, manic episodes. Who I am varies from each cycle and what frame of mind I am in. That’s pure bipolar.
My rebellious streak…that’s pure personality because it doesn’t change no matter the worst depression or highest manic episode.
Most of my mood swings have no outside trigger.
And while relationships do make my emotions metastasize into monstrous things I have trouble containing…If anything, my biggest sin in relationships is that I like being alone. Being with someone makes me feel bound, tied down, hindered and oppressed. It’s never been a conscious thing, but subconsciously, I think I repeat the same behaviors in every relationship because after awhile…I want out and it’s just easier to drive people away by being a jerk.
A hallmark of borderline is a desperate need to hold onto people and not be abandoned.
But I set myself up to be abandoned because I like being alone.
How does the shrink even think that makes sense?

Oh, right, those seven minute drive through appointments in front of a tv screen make her an utmost authority on my personality.

Actually, the only person qualified to judge my personality is me because I live with it. I don’t need a disorder label to tell me I have bad traits that I need to work on.
The one good thing all the therapy has given me is a great self awareness.
Enough of it to question the so called professionals.
Because it was one of them who misdiagnosed me and gave me the wrong meds for ten years which made my condition worse rather than better.
Question authority. Question everything.
Once I was diagnosed bipolar, then the doctors were on the fence because my mood swings didn’t follow the textbook guidelines for depressive episodes or manic episodes.
Guess what?
I’m a person, not a case study in a text book.
Oddly, it took one of the worst shrinks I ever had to conclude I have cyclothymia, which is a branch off of bipolar two. All it means is that you cycle so rapidly, you’re going off script with the common bipolar symptoms.

People are not textbooks.
Mental illness does not fit into a neat little box where everyone has the exact same symptoms of the exact same duration.
And when someone spent ten of their formative years being bullied, insulted, and terrorized…Labeling them as a paranoid and calling it a disorder is akin to telling a war vet their post traumatic stress is a personality flaw.
We all have baggage and skeletons but so often it’s not considered when they slap that “mentally ill’ label on us.
Someone who got bitten by a dog as a kid will naturally fear it happening again. It doesn’t make them phobic or dysfunctional.

Society’s need to classify personality as a disorder pisses me off. Because I never fit into the box even before all the psychological scars. I don’t stand a damn chance here. The only reason I even keep dealing with the mental health “professionals” is because I’ve gone off the mood stabilizers enough times to know it’s a serious mistake and I will end up doing things I regret that I normally wouldn’t do. I need medicated. It corrects whatever is wrong in my brain wiring.

But the rest of this crap…
Is my love for coffin and skull decor really a disorder? Is it a sign of sickness that I like watching crime and forensic programs? Am I out of touch with reality because I love reading vampire novels? And my 99% black wardrobe, is that a sign of depression or could it just be that I like black because it’s slimming and I don’t have to worry about stains?
And yeah, these are things I’ve discussed in counseling that have ended up with a little * next to them in my file along with a new personality disorder label.
It’s beyond asinine.

I have mental issues.
But I am an anti textbook case.
Because I am an individual, not a number in some survey so society can have their precious labels for anyone who strays outside the sheeple herd.
It’s okay to be self aware. It’s okay to analyze yourself and recognize patterns of behavior your repeat that end negatively for you. It’s okay to want to be a better version of yourself.
I don’t think it’s okay to view your entire existence as a disorder just because it makes society and the doctors more comfortable.
Think outside the box.
Color outside the lines.
Different is not bad. Different is pretty awesome.
Don’t ever let quirks be labeled as disorders.
That will suck the life out of you more than any psych med ever could.

Into the abyss and back again

Posted in biolar disorder, mental health with tags , , , , on December 27, 2014 by morgueticiaatoms

I’m back to functional today, albeit in a low way.
Yesterday, though…I hung tough for a long time but then…Wham. The mood didn’t just tank, it died. I was in a dark space, pounding on the walls of my own mind, screaming LET ME OUT!
Didn’t work.
I was stuck there, wanting only to sleep, do a brain reboot. I got so sleepy at 6:30 I couldn’t keep my eyes open. My daughter showed no signs of winding down so I forced myself to binge eat to stay awake. Beef jerky and sour cream and onion chips bring the child to a quiet jabber rather than rapid uzi fire.

By the time she actually went to sleep…My sleepiness was gone. I just lay in bed, tossing and turning, half watching, half listening to a Deadly Women playlist. My mind went round and round. Obsessing on every slight committed against me by people who claim to care.
Then the guilt for feeling betrayed because…
Well, because I’ve been programmed to feel guilty for having feelings that get hurt when apparently the rest of the world does not.
I don’t consider myself all that sensitive outside of shark week prelude. I’ve been called fat ass, bitch- whatever. I laugh it off or snark it away.
But betrayal…I don’t shake that off easily.
I want to.
I just can’t.
Because while others may see shaking it off as forgiving…I view it as a weakness for the people who hurt me to further exploit. “Look, I fucked her over once and she’s too nice to realize what a manipulative asshole I am…I’m gonna keep doing it and dumb bunny she is, she will let me.”
Having kindness mistaken for weakness pisses me off.
I’d rather be seen as an angry grudge holding bitchbeast than weak.

I rant, therefore I am.
Point being, biting my tongue is what probably lead to last night’s crash into the abyss. If I can’t rant it out and confront those who hurt me…I bottle it up and it eats me alive. I want to tie all the negative stuff to a balloon and watch it drift off into the sky…
But I am not there yet. I may never be.
So I continue walking on egg shells, trying to use people as they use me, but I’m the only one who wastes even a fraction of a second feeling bad for doing it.
I could be the bigger person.
Not there yet, either.

I’ve got enough dealing with my moods and anxieties, I don’t need betrayals and guilt on top of it. That’s why I’ve gotten to the point of “Fuck it, I have enough friends. The voices in my head keep me company.”
But I think the bottom line, under all the hurt feelings, is the fact that I’ve just outgrown some of the people around me. They never change, they never grow or evolve. They are like smelly stagnant water and it’s time to dump out the bucket.
(Ever have a leak under the sink and have to put a bucket there? Yeah, that stench.)

The car is running like shit again.
I had to return two of my Christmas gifts that didn’t work.
I called my dad and he screamed at me because apparently my brother is being a douche so taking it out on me makes perfect sense.
I asked to speak to stepmonster.
I feel restless. I can’t get interested in shows, books, nothing holds my interest.
I am trying to write and I have done about a hundred pages but…my attention wanders and I can’t stay on track so it’s going in a direction I don’t much like. I’m not in that “pocket” where the real world is a peripheral and the fictional world is the pocket to slip into. That’s what writing is for me, anyway.
Getting into that pocket. Life goes on around you, but there’s that other world to escape into.
Outside the pocket, it just feels like work. Like trying to hard and failing.
It’s a bummer.

Okay, mental purge complete.
Just in time for reality to binge me on more garbage I will need to purge later on.
Rinse, lather, repeat, such is life.

On the less sucky side, there are three adorable kittens outside. They are feral but I feed them same as the other strays. Kittens are like a drug for me. You could show me a disemboweled corpse but if a kitten was beside it, I would see only the kitty.
Cats are just children wearing fur coats.
Without the channeling satan tantrums.

Helliday Hangover

Posted in biolar disorder with tags , , , on December 26, 2014 by morgueticiaatoms

I’d like to say I sprang out of bed in a stellar mood ready to face the world now that the worst of the holiday stress is over.
It would be a lie.
I didn’t want to get up.
I still feel drained. Depressed, even.

And my charming father just had to call and inform me they saw the Donor passing out Christmas gifts, driving his shiny car, yesterday.
Um…Yeah, I get it, my baby daddy is beneath pond scum, not a shocker. He hasn’t so much as sent his own daughter a card for Christmas in three years. I know the slimeball well.
I’ve asked dad numerous times to just not tell me when he sees the donor around town.
My life is much happier if I just pretend he’s dead. He doesn’t want to take care of his daughter or do the right thing yet still believes he is a good man. He may as well be dead.
For whatever reason, Dad feels the need to tell me every time he sees the douche. Oh, he’s got a good job. Oh, he’s got a shiny car better than yours…
Big fuckin’ deal.
It’s like he’s telling me my daughter would be better off with the donor because he has better stuff.
I know it’s not meant that way, he’s outraged (and he should be because he thought the donor walked on water). It’s just…I know what the donor is.
I don’t need to hear about it all the time.
He’s abandoned three kids. It’s who he is and it has nothing to do with us.
So shut the fuck up, dad.
I’ll take my less than shiny car and not being able to shower others with gifts because at least I am genuine. My kid comes first.

Needless to say, that took a low mood into the fury filled gutter. People really are like poison to me. No one wants to give positive news. No, let’s just shove all the negative at her then wonder why she’s a depressed pessimist.
R sent a text inquiring about my Christmas. I am ignoring it. Because I sent him a text the other day touching base and he ignored me. Quid pro fucking quo. I have really outgrown that whole acquaintanceship. I’ve grown as a person. He’s the same asshole he always was.
I can’t continue to grow if I am bogged down by people who won’t stop holding my past against me to cover up the fact they haven’t changed a bit.

God, it sucks, to go from nice and mellow to being all bent and hostile. If my dad had just kept his mouth shut, I’d have ignored R and felt entitled to return what he gives. But noo, now I am feeling all inferior because I don’t have a shiny car and a bunch of friends who buy my lies so I can shower them with gifts.
Because I am too busy supporting a child and taking what we can get to stay afloat.
Life doesn’t suck until I feel the pressure from the outside world to be something I’m not.
Even if I had money, I wouldn’t be the shiny car buying people off to be my friend type.
His fakeness was what had fueled my disdain for him. He was Spook’s sperm donor even when he was here and too tired from work to be bothered with her beyond a hello.

I have to shake it off. Things aren’t that bad. I am just having a bad reaction to people who have the sensitivity of belly button lint.
Not to mention the emotional intelligence of a squid.

So the mood swims in the gutter and the anxiety rolls off me in waves. What’s new.

I just wish I knew a way to “shake it off.”
They say exercise.
Ha.
That just makes me feel things more intensely.

If Satan, er Santa (damn dyslexia) really loved me, he’d have brought me a keg. No beer, though. Nasty.
Cake vodka…That should totally come in a keg.

Grinchmas

Posted in biolar disorder with tags , , , , , on December 25, 2014 by morgueticiaatoms

This is ME.

Minus the alcohol because yeah, I’m broke. Hellidays. No wonder the suicide rate goes up every year at this time. Family or no family, it’s just a really depressing time of year for some of us. Less loneliness and more about stress and the futility of it all.
Oh, yes, I am my bright ray of sunshine self today.
Black sunshine. With stabby sharp spokes.

In all fairness, I have much to be grateful for. It wasn’t a bad Christmas. We had good good, there were gifts, no family drama.
But like last year on Christmas Eve, I got my drama, anxiety, and frustration in one fell swoop. Car trouble. Simple four mile trip to take my mom out for a sonogram. Bam. Started goes out. Cold rainy day. I wore my thinnest clothes, no gloves or hat. And had to call my dad for help, which is as much fun as a root canal stone cold unmedicated.
This on top of my mom telling me she has to have a biopsy because there is concern about the lump.
Merry fuckin’ Christmas. Five hours freezing in a parking lot getting snarked at by my dad sweating getting everything done in time for the shindig.
My dad was rocking the asshole thing more than usual.
At one point, stepmonster screamed at him, ‘Would you get off her ass, you’re like a diaper!”
Good to have an ally. I mean, she was the one on the cold wet ground banging her knuckles working on the car not bitching a bit…and he was being a douche.
Family. One of those loaded words that can be good or bad.

Needless to say…all got done. No more drama. Car running again. Happy toy laden child. I even got some goodies. Which is mind blowing because my mom spends all the money on my sister’s bum friends and one meal and never listens to what I want.
Miracles do happen.

Unfortunately…it left me tapped out. Like being overdrawn on a bank account. I’ve got no balance. I am actually in the negatives. I went to sleep early. I eventually snapped awake long enough at 5 a.m. to play Lazy Santa. (recycled giftbags as opposed to wrapping it all.) By the time she got up and was running riot on her loot…I could barely lift my head off the pillow. And my sister got me this super soft (if obnoxiously bright pink leopard print blanket) that I didn’t want to leave. But I was awake, just unnmoving. “Oh, look what Santa brought you, how cool is that..Here, bring it to mom, I’ll rip it open…”

Tapped. Out.

The house is disgusting. Though the biggest issue is three vacuums, all with busted belts, so vacuuming hasn’t happened in two weeks and cat hair and tinsel are everywhere. The rest, I don’t care about. The floor…is actually disturbing me.
My horrorscope said it’s a day for rest and play, not work.
Good.
I don’t have the energy to do either. Thus far I’ve spent the morning watching crime documentaries, noshing on leftovers, and trying to get some motivation to function minimally. Shower, cat boxes, take out all the wrapping and packaging.
It’s not happening.
And I doubt the world will implode if I procrastinate further and just have a vegetable day.
On the plus side, I have a break as dad took my kid down to his family faction. I don’t attend anymore. Grandma has Alzheimers, my uncle’s new wife is an elitist snob, his autistic son gets violent…Two hours down there and I’d be home drinking bleach. And to my chagrin, it’s less about that whole mess than it is returning to the scene of the crime. That place where I grew up and went to school and was terrorized so mercilessly. I’m no longer the scared girl they terrorized, we’ve all grown up, moved on.
It’s an imprint on my psyche and soul, though, and given the chance to opt out…I take it. Just thinking about it is literally making me break out in itchy hives.
I’ve often wondered why post traumatic stress syndrome is relegate exclusively for war and sexual abuse survivors. Pain is pain, and being scarred by that pain is the same.
That whole period of my life where I was ostracized, tormented, and made to believe I am ugly, weird, and unworthy of drawing breath…
That was traumatic. The fact thinking about it can make me break out in hives is proof.
Does it make me weak?
I don’t think so. I survived it, I moved on.
But much like a leg injury that heals and yet still aches during certain seasons…Psychological pain isn’t any different.

Moving on…

I’m so worn down I haven’t even had the strength to open up my gifts. You open the fifteenth gift for a kid, you don’t want to face more packaging.
And I know I sound like a whiner.
But this is where my biggest struggles have always been. I can function semi normally when forced to…But the very things that energize others, socializing, activities, etc…Those are the things that deplete me and leave me needing recharged.
The battery’s drained, it’s gonna take some time to charge back up.

For now…I will just be grateful the stress is over, all worked out well, and 2015 is around the corner. Anything is possible. My mom’s biopsy may turn out to be nothing. Getting my home back all to myself (and my kid and cats) will be freeing. Saying goodbye to people I’ve outgrown for whatever reason, moving on with what I know is right for me without regard to social pressures to do the opposite…
Clean slate. Scary but also, a welcome change.
It’s been a tough year.

Not without highlights but tough nonetheless.

I am proud of myself. I do have my grinch on literally, my grinch t-shirt, and I feel a little surly…But in light of all that was handed to me at a time when I am usually falling apart…I could have disintegrated.
I didn’t.
I have persevered.
So in true Morgueticia fashion, I bid you…

Scary Cryptmas to all, and to all a good fright.

The Anatomy Of Anxiety

Posted in anxiety disorders, biolar disorder with tags , , , , on December 24, 2014 by morgueticiaatoms

Christmas Eve 9:53 a.m.

I’m dressed, the spawn is dressed. We have to take my mom out to the hospital for a test. It might be nothing, might be cancer. And she has a history of it. Of ten children in her family, eight have died of cancer.
And still…
Me, me, I, me.
Because there is much to be done today, in addition to this, and my little brain can’t handle the pressure. So rather than focusing on my mom’s issue, I am selfishly worried about my own ability to get through this long day and night without completely coming undone.
Mental illness makes you incredibly self absorbed.
But the fact is, everything in your life is tied to your mental disorders and it’s a valid concern even in light of the problems of others.
It doesn’t make you feel any less evil for indulging your own neuroses.
It does explain it.

Anxiety is treated like little more than a personality quirk or drug seeking behavior. There is even more of a “snap out it” mentality when it comes to anxiety than it does to mood disorders.
I don’t like my anxiety. I’ve tried everything but shock treatment and exorcism for it.
So for it to be bastardized with condesending “suck it up” mentality is offensive.
There’s not one person out there who’d expect you to run a marathon if you had a broken leg. They’d have empathy and compassion for that.
It’s not your fault, after all. It’s a legitimate issue.
But mental stuff…
Oh, suck it up, get over it, snap out of it…
Which makes the anxiety even worse, not that those ignorant creatures can grasp that.

So here I sit, breaking out in hives, my heart slam dancing in my chest and my kid is making noise with a toy computer and my anxiety is creeping over the horizon…
And in addition to worrying about my mother, Christmas…
I’ve got this little war going on in my mind, feeling shitty because I have anxiety and I am not tough enough to conquer it.

It’s this that leads people to physically injure themselves. No one believes mental illness is as bad as it is. There is little compassion or empathy. But if you fall down a staircase and break a leg or cut your arm open on a piece of glass…
OMG, you poor thing, you’re injured, let me help you out, you should rest and not push yourself…
How is physical injury more legit than mental injury? Because it’s visible?

And this just keeps feeding the anxiety and making you feel lazy and weak so you’re more anxious. You beat yourself up for not being tough enough to snap out of it.
Rinse, lather, repeat.
Vicious cycle.
The anatomy of anxiety.
The futility of mental illness.