Confessions Of A Mental Health Blog Snob and Why I Avoid The Beautiful People

So let’s just say growing up as bullied kid for a plethora of reasons that made me stand out in my rural population 144 town, such as too tall. grew boobs too soon, didn’t like country music, didn’t wear denim, liked spray in hair dye, wore lots of make up and jewelry, refused to cave in to conformity no matter how much they tortured me…

I will admit to my bias again those I consider ‘the beautiful people’.

For me, this isn’t merely about looks or wealth or success.

True confession- I check out every blogger who clicks like on my posts or follows me. Sometimes, their writing resonates and I instantly want to read more. And sometimes…I see people with dozens of likes and a hundred comments and honestly didn’t find their writing to be my cut of tea…so I move along, guilt free. The beautiful people don’t need lil ole me to join their fan club. But if you are one of those popular bloggers and I follow you and chime in occasionally…it means your writing is damned good and that’s an uber compliment from me.

I suppose I should feel shitty for such ‘elitist’ bullshit, allowing my old baggage to impact my adult life but ya know what? I just don’t.

I am the same with bands, comedy videos, tv shows, movies, fashions. If I don’t personally find it to resonate through a stack of amps…I move along. And people with that many likes and comments aren’t going to miss me so there’s nothoing to really feel bad about. Something speaks to your soul or it doesn’t. At least I give people the benefit of the doubt before the opt out due to overpopularity.

That will never be an issue with my blog. It says I have over 900 followers. On a good day, I get 4 likes. If people are in a good mood, that may double. And of course, my fragile creative writer soul bleeds a little any time I post something I am particularly proud of and it gets completely ignored. I’m not looking for my existence to be validated. I would just occasionally like to know that I wrote a post that was at least as scintillating as that Facebook picture someone took of their salad with a Narwhal shaped crouton on it.

Needy bitch much, Morgue? Hells yeah.

But my entire identity has always been tied to the ‘little guy’, the people like me who are overlooked, underestimated, dismissed, criticized, insulted. So I guess it’s all about ‘the little blog that could’ for me. No, having thousands of followers and likes and comments doesn’t make anyone evil. It just means they are on solid ground so my efforts to bond with others are better spent on the lesser noticed blogs like my own.

Don’t get me wrong. I am under no illusions that my blog is anything special. At best, it’s a clusterfuck to follow some posts, and at others, it’s like depression could be considered infectious.

What I take pride in is the honesty in which I display in my writing here. No filters, no sunshine spewed up your pant legs, none of this “this worked for me, I am all cured, it will work for you too!” I curse, I leave my typos, I wander topic to topic and it is confusing and irritating and ya know what?

THIS IS JUST WHO I AM. Verbally or written…I’m a hot mess of quirk, dysfunction, dark humor, proud sarcasm, and if you can’t handle me in writing…we’d definitely need a couple of Z-Whackers to battle it out in person.

And after having confess my blog bias and coming off looking all shallow and grudge holding…I won’t be shocked to lose dozens of followers (who never read my posts anyway, so whatever) and maybe even some dressing down comments on what a bitch I am.

That bitch thing, is one more facet of my personality I am crystal clear on. My best friend in high school gifted me with a “Bitch Goddess” keychain I carry to this day and taught me not to take it as an insult, but rather as a word people fling about but when women piss them off in whatever inane way. So color me bitchy cos I am always going to piss people off with inane things, with off color things, with an inability to focus or often make sense…

This is who I am.

Some days like today when my mood is low due to lack of slep and absolutely exhaustion…I’m not real fond of being me.

Other days, when my dark sarcastic humor cracks people up and they tell me how funny I am, how good my writing is, how awesome it is that I’m still fighting to just be who I am instead of deciding “oh, I’m 45 and have a kid, time to change everything about myself and conform’.

And those rare occasions when someone comments on a blog post and tells me they like the portraits my words paint, or they totally get where I am coming from and it’s helped put a smile on their face or helped them gain enough perspective to fight another day…

THAT is why I blog, why I write, why I shun the popular blogs and beautiful people.

While a Trek Fan, I’ve never gotten on board with that whole ‘needs of the many outweight the needs of the few’ thing.

I will gladly take one comment a month from someone telling me I made them laugh or my words helped paint a picture they can relate to.

Because if I had hundreds of those, I could never have the time to reply or really interact and attempt to engage and show…misanthropal tendenancies aside…I do care.

I just reserve that energy for caring for those who don’t have a village of adorers. Maybe it’s my loss but I’ve had some experiences with the popular beautiful people and frankly…Opt out.

Bad judgey snobby Morgue.

Shamelessly, unapologetically so.

Only beautiful people I wanna hear about is when the Marilyn Manson song plays.

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The Perception Misconception

I’ve long said there’s very little truth, only personal perception. The problem with personal perception is, often, there is no malicious intent. We are all human, prone to bias based on our own experiences, so often our truth is very different from what is scientific fact, or fact proven with evidence. Now this could launch me into a political tirade but instead…

If I say, “I remember you doing this, and I said that…” Well, that is my personal memory and perception of the matter.

You can say, “No, you took it out of context, you didn’t hear me correctly…” And that would be your truth, your perception.

But if a video camera captured that same exchange and showed either you, I, or both were wrong and it unfolded differently…that’s fact. That’s proveable truth, not fallible human perception.

So short of every moment of your existence being video taped, there are going to be many, many times when perception on either side of the fence is simply wrong or a misunderstanding or breakdown in communication. And it’s okay because, hey, only human, we make mistakes, blah blah blah.

The ONE time when I do, however, find different perceptions to be very dangerous is when you have a legitimately diagnosed mental disorder, but those around you don’t mere debunk it but flat out refuse to believe it could possibly be for real. This is when perceptions can become harbingers of doom.

My family, AKA THE ORIGINAL harbingers of doom, perpetually doubt, question, dismiss, debunk, scoff- any negative reaction to mental illness one can have, my entire family practices. No matter the long mental disorder history on both sides, or the fact that my mom, me, my sister, my brother, my great grandmother-all spent time in treatment or in a psych hospital for the disorders-changes perception. Hell, even my mom and sister declared themselves cured and only weak people need medication, I need to get over myself.

Battling this daily- perception ceases to be benign and becomes a malignancy. Frankly, it beats the hell out of your self esteem because these are the very people who are supposed to love and accept you, as you are, no matter what and yet they make you feel as rejected and dejected as the masses. It takes a strong psyche to face this daily battle and not lose your mind or be overwhelmed with self doubt and self hatred.

It may hurt a little less but facing the same sort of invalidation from friends and romantic partners never gets easier. You warn them, this is my condition(s), this is how it can get bad, they swear they are strong enough and care enough to weather it out…then time after time, abandon ship because they had no idea you were so difficult.

Much as the rejection stings, I can’t help but laugh derisively. Wussies. They get to walk away cos it’s too tough. I don’t get that luxury. Furthermore, I basically slap myself with a ‘toxic’ skull and crossbones as well as a ‘biohazard’ label as warnings and still..the cockroaches scurry off. Oh, wait. That’s MY PERCEPTION, not fact. They’re not really bugs and they have every right to flee and not be dragged down by whatever shit I have going on. But I perceive their abandonment less as them trying to spare themselves and more as persecuting me for that which isn’t in my control. And they perceive my disorders as some sort of personal affront on them, as if they bring out the worst in me or I hate them so I’m moody or high strung. (Again, when greeted with a skull and crossbones and biohazard symbol, take a beat and THINK.)

And there’s the rub. Perception deception.

While everyone perceives me as negative and pessimistic, I truly do tend to view most negative views towards those with mental diagnoses as simple ignorance, rather than something evil or personal. People get scared of what they don’t know or understand and they lash out or tense up. Ignorance, however, can be resolved with some information and communication. I’d like to think *most* are willing to be educated and learn more facts before a final judgment. But the bottom line is, there will always be those who simply will never come around. And while they may judge me as crazy, I feel pity for them. Some are born not very bright and due to educational lacking or some sort of impairment, they can’t really become the next Einstein.

Ignorance, however- that is a choice. And if you are presented with facts and personal experiences and still choose to be ignorant and hold ignorant views…you are to be pitied. Nothing sadder than choosing to be dumb when the information is right in front of you.

But, hey, again…perception deception. Maybe the masses that are asses (gotta love L7 for that title) have it right and my perception is all wrong.

Maybe pegacorns are real, politicians aren’t corrupt, and body odor smells pleasant.

Not fucking likely.

But I am humble enough to entertain the merest possibility that my perception could be wrong. If so…

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE MAKE PEGACORNS BE REAL.

Gas is up to $3.15 a gallon and I can’t handle being in Armpit, I need transportation. 😉

Stripped Down Naked:Part Two

This is Part One if you missed it.

Did you know that my Debbie Downer personality has an alter ego? I call her Susie Sunshine and she annoys the hell out of me. But it is in keeping with my shelf-full-of-skulls-pet net-full-of-Furbies style. I’d like to say all the ‘negative’ comes from depression but I’ve been a little dark and ghoulish since I was 6 years old. Some are girl scouts, I’ve always been a ghoul scout.

Sometimes…

I laugh.

I like to watch College Humor videos on youtube. Of course, the horror parodies and anything making fun of Apple products are my favorite. Oh, and “If Google Was A Guy’, my kid and I both love those. (Don’t ask me to explain my severe hatred of Apple stuff, I’m not even sure myself, though I think it has something to do with my upbringing of paying too much for stuff that’s not very special outside its brand name.)

I read theoatmeal.com. That dude is funny as hell. And the comic about your cat trying to kill you is way too true.

Sometimes, I visit fark.com. People get pretty creative with their titles and the articles are often interesting.

I watch sitcoms. The Middle, Mom, Big Bang Theory, Young Sheldon, Superstore. And yes, I laugh out loud sometimes. And sometimes I laugh so hard, I have to hold my sides. Other times, I just half smile because my spirit isn’t feeling too humorous.

The Heat with Sandra Bullock and Melissa McCarthy is one of my favorite funny movies. I also love the horror parodies like Scary Movie, Vampires Suck, and a lot of stoner films. That last one is probably growing up during the heydey of Cheech and Chong, but then again, Harold and Kumar are just funny without pot.

Susie Sunshine may not come out to play very often and she certainly doesn’t appear much in this blog, but she is here, part of me. Just not a part I’m all that fond of. I think it’s an attachment issue. Because when I feel good, I never want it to stop. But then if I feel too good, I get scared it’s the start of a manic episode and I could do so much damage…So I muffle and muzzle the very part of myself that might actually draw others to me and make them see I’m not such a bad chick.

I play kickball in flip flops with my kid. I splash around in kiddie pools and run through sprinklers when my mood is amenable. I’ll jump on the swings or slide at the park with her. I even have a character in her dollhouse I named Drunken Giraffe because we were playing one day and I was in a winter depression and distracted and she accused me of being no fun to play with. So the plastic giraffe became drunken or hopped up on energy drink and suddenly, she’s laughing her butt off and I am the best playmate ever.

Drunken Giraffe in his snazzy cut off shorts stolen from a Barbie.

The point of this post isn’t that I am cured or that life is all fun and games.

The point is that I am not just depression and desperation. I have more going on than the negative even if it’s a low background hum.

There is positive here.

I’m just glad Debbie Downer is here to smack sense into Susie Sunshine when she starts getting too damn happy. No one needs to be that cheerful, damn it, it’s unnatural.

Stripped Down Naked

(EMOTIONALLY NAKED, move along, perverts who thought otherwise.)

I like to think I am pretty transparent in my blog about my feelings but then, I have to come to grips with my coping mechanisms of sarcasm and macabre humor, not to mention mood-fueled rants often masking the true emotions that might actually resonate with others. Those coping mechanisms have kept me alive my whole life at times when I was being so mentally beat down I could have easily exited stage left never to return again. I treasure my mechanisms even when others don’t get it, or doctors or therapists say they’re not healthy. They’re mine and they work for me.

At the same time I realize they can mask a great many things about me that might actually be likeable. In the interest of transparency…Allow me to remove my masks and strip down emotionally bare.

I wasn’t always this angry sarcastic bitch monster. Once upon a time, I was a vivacious girl who loved watching Madonna and Cyndi Lauper on MTV and mimicking their fashion. I loved cherry Slush Puppies from the gas station. Walking to this corner hole in the wall mom and pop stand with a dollar in coins and coming out with a paper bag full of penny candy. I loved staying up late, drinking Mountain Dew, eating nacho cheese Doritos with beef jerky, watching cheesy slasher flicks. I relished warm summer nights when we had an old horse trough as a pool and the water would be so warm under moonlight and I was so free, unwatched, unjudged, just splashing and having fun.

The flip side of this would come, of course, when the depressions hit and I’d retreat within myself because no one wanted to hang with Debbie Downer holed up in her bedroom listening to sad or angry music.

It wouldn’t be til many years later I’d find out that the vivacious side of me that pondered no consequences and just lived life to the fullest when I could was actually part of a mental disorder. Mania or hypomania. I was flabbergasted. Being happy and loving life is MENTAL DISORDER,WTF? I just couldn’t reconcile with what the professionals were saying about extremes. To me, happy was happy, I didn’t know you could be ‘too happy.’

Wasn’t til after too many cycles of too happy and too sad with way too few episodes of stable that I saw the damage being done to my life, and my mind. I wanted nothing to do with medication, convinced it was all artifact of a dysfunctional family and childhood bullying. Eventually, though, I had to face that happy behavior or not- it was a problem.

Money-or more aptly, spending it, became what made me feel happy and alive. Eating would take its place when it ran out. Then when money for food ran out, it would become sexual extremes. I’d draw people to me, then become some other person and drive them away. Over and over and over. And I’d always go running to the counselor, asking why, what is wrong with me, why can’t I stop???? Why can’t you just say it’s okay to be too happy and let me ruin my life naturally instead of it happening anyway even with the damned pills? Little did I know at the time thatn while the counselors had diagnosed me manic depressive, their ancient, inept shrink labeled me dysthymic and kept feeding me antidepressants that sparked the mania episodes. It would be over 12 years before I’d find a correct diagnosis and mood stabilizers.

In doing so, I felt like I finally had an explanation for so many things. But I also felt like the vivaceous part of me was dead and gone. Depression or not, everything that had made me fun and creative seemed to get sucked up by the stabilizer meds. To some extent, I still believe that, though Lamictal is the only one I can tolerate without horrid side effects and being numb.

I have been so caught up in this cycle of mood swings and anxiety and dates that ended with me throwing up after a panic attack. Hard to see the up side of life when that is your life.

So bare naked truth.

We need money. What I value most, though, what I have always value most…are words. I guess as an avid reader and writer it makes sense. I got my first pen pals when I was 15 and my name was published in Metal Edge magazine looking for other music fans to write. Over the years, I lost touch with dozens of people, then submitted my name again, and made new pen pal friends. I wasn’t a snob, I even wrote to inmates. And some of those inmates may have been working an angle, they may have been puppy smothering goat molesting scum for all I know but…words. And some would send me artwork of dragons and such and I was in awe because I always wanted to be able to draw and…I simply can’t, even my stick people suck.

Once the internet became a thing, letter writing has died off more and more. I can’t remember the last time someone sent me a handwritten snail mail letter.

During the move, I came across my stash from an old friend I met in a mental health chat room. He would write me even when he crashed and burned and had to go into the psych hospital. I haven’t heard from him in 8 years and I miss him so very much. He struggled so hard. Every part of me hopes the silence is because he found his magic cocktail and got his life on track and not some…darker reason. But I still have his beautiful words, his amazing artwork, his stark naked thoughts and feelings that he chose not to just share on line with me, but to pay postage and send to me.

Of all the things found during the move…it’s his letters that I treasure the most.

It is difficult for me to bond with people but when I do…it’s also hard for me to unbond.8 years without a word and I still love that boy like he’s my child. What others see as words on paper, I see as a beautiful treasure I can keep for the rest of my life. Knowing at least for a bit, someone cared as much for me as I did for them.

But technology has changed everything. Much as I love the internet…I am sickened by ebooks. I want paper, ink, pages, bookmarks, I want the entire writing and reading experience sometimes. It may make me a relic but this is who I am. These are the things I treasure when I am not overly focused on money and depression and anxiety and just trying not to fail my kid.

My family was non demonstrative of any feelings except anger and hatred.

So I’ve spent my life searching for someone who feels things deeply, like I do, not just the negative. These feelings, when put on paper with pen, become a thing of everlasting beauty.

If this makes me hokey, so be it. This is me, stripped emotionally naked. I am not a money grubbing bitch beast under it all.

But since letter writing has gone the way of landlines and social media basically turns everyone into 160 character simpletons…what I value most is what I cannot have. It is sad but I am trying to change with the times.

I will never forget this is who I am, though. Retro, relic, old school, nerd-whatever label you wanna slap on me. Some values should never be trends, they should just be who you are deep down.

The Malevolent Presence That Is Mental Disorders

Based on last week’s “Illness Identity?” post and the research that lead to discovering that term and notion, I have been trying not to view mental disorder as some insurmountable demon haunting me in my daily life. The theory the professionals have cooked up (this week’s trending Kardashian, I suppose) is that by viewing our disorders negatively it gives them more power over us and we surrender more of our identity to them. While intellectally I can grasp this concept, living with mental chaos isn’t as cut and dried as they’d make it out to be.

It may not be the spooky paranormal demonsand malevolent presences of horror movies, but I’ve seen mental disorders take lives. Of course, it is always deemed ‘suicide’ but the driving force to it is almost always the malevolence of the disorders and the toll they take over time. Once your will to fight has been tapped out, exiting stage is often the only peace people can find. I am not a proponent of self harm of any sort, but I don’t condemn and I do understand how it goes that far. Too many friends have been lost to mental demons, by their own hand isn’t the relevant part.

The relevant part is being haunted by your own mind. We all know our minds, and disorders, aren’t seperate entities, it’s a package deal. Part of what makes some of us creative, intelligent, empathetic, interesting- can stem from our battles with anxiety, depression, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, OCD, and a plethora of other psychiatric demons. These are also the very things that impact our identities in devastating ways, ruining our ability to work, to parent, to maintain relationships. Even basic hygiene becomes a dragon to slay. For anyone, especially those in the mental health field, to consider this without appropriate severity is cruel and disrespectful.

Recognizing a disorder doesn’t mean you define yourself by it. Refusing to be shamed into silence isn’t a sign of weakness or waving the white flag and letting the disorder become your identity. Acknowledging the daily malevolent presence of whatever hinders your life is not some sort of negative. One of the biggest signs of courage by my estimation is when we have the self awareness and bravery to step up, say this is a problem, and seek help. That is no small feat. And being open about your conditions, well, with the stigma attached, that itself is like scaling a mountain.

So right or wrong…I stare down the monsters under my bed, the voices inside my head. I face the malevolent presences. I exorcise my demons by any means necessary. I don’t flinch, don’t blink. They do not define me but they certainly impact me. I won’t diminish this by pretending they’re minor or don’t exist. I am also not giving the disorders more power over me by refusing to cede to denial.

I’ve read a lot of blogs on wordpress that deal with mental disorders. Everyone has their own way of coping, of viewing their struggles. One writer views her disorders as a battle with her brain whom she calls Brian and is convinced he is out to destroy her. One friend views it as a specter. Another chooses to view minor symptoms more positively, as a constant companion, a merging of identities that grants strength.

For me, defiance and rebellion fuel me. So when I view my disorders as dragons to be slayed, demons to be exorcised, a bully to stand up to-this is my positive. This is how I cope, and I don’t really think it’s up to the professionals to say it’s wrong without proof it is somehow negatively impacting our determination to feel better.

If you read things like that and it helps you gain perspective, more power to you.

But if you are like me and have your own coping mechanism that works for you…don’t fall victim to trends, even in psychiatry and psychology. We are the ones who live it, who live with it, and we are experts when it comes to our own mental chaos. Battle it your way.

Now I am off to banish some brain gobblins in hopes I may at some point scale the mountain that is called bathing.

Mother’s Day, Fundraising, Hypomania, And Soft Kitty,Warm Kitty

Share if you care, it costs you nothing but a click on social media

YEP. Another fundraiser. But before you exit the page, would you let me explain how I have the gall to ask perfect strangers for help?

EVERYTHING I DO IS FOR HER.

Spook is the only thing I’ve truly gotten right in my life. Maybe my domestic fairytale didn’t work out as planned, and it’s been a financial clusterfuck courtesy of my own limitations and her donor’s…dumbfuckery…But I don’t regret her for an instant. She is the best of me and the worst of me and loved so very much. Sure, I vent because she’s difficult and stressful but…yeah, that’s my karma cos I got a mini-me. (R.I.P Original Mini-Me, Vern Troyer, hope you found peace, dude.)

So learning that the donor is apparently switching jobs and leaving us in a child support lurch indefinitely…I started another fundraiser, with a modest goal, and we got our first donation this morning! We are so very grateful to the kind soul whose simple act of generosity means we can afford household necessities for a week or two. You are amazing.

And I get it if you’re in a similar boat and can’t donate. But many of you are very active on social media and you could share our story with a click, costing you nothing. It’s still a big ask, but I’ve got a little girl counting on me since I am the only parent she has that gives a damn. I may have given birth, but I had to EARN this.

Sorry I didn’t do a neat presentation but I gotta roll with my current half ass hypomanic state before it pulls a David Copperfield and vanishes. Point is…that little girl may give me hell, but she adores me and counts on me. And I am doing my very best. I even tried to get a summer babysitting job, but alas, the woman went with someone else. I’m not unwilling to make the effort but you can’t point guns at people and demand they allow you to work for money. And I’m not on board with pointing guns at people just demanding they give me money, that’s a felony, I think. Besides…if I could afford a gun, I’d go pawn the damn thing.

Please.

Just a share means the world to us.

$500 is the goal I set for these impending, necessary expenses: $325 security deposit (to avoid eviction, which he would be within his rights to do.) $48 car insurance (it will be canceled before my next check comes in if not paid by the 28th.) $100 for gas, household supplies, pet supplies, and a little wiggle room because the move meant losing my library privileges in town. It costs $60 for non residents and since I can’t afford to buy books or well, even go out, reading library books is my one luxury. And yeah, it’s sad that reading and libraries are considered a luxury, living in this town feels more like a punishment than anything because of lack of access to everything cerebral and civilized. I wish flannel and farm machinery popped my rocks but, alas, I want books to read.

I would love to raise a little more than our goal so I could buy a used desktop computer. Both of mine died during the move but they were so old, they still had 3.5 inch floppy disk drives, so I think they served their time well. It’s just difficult to commit to my serious writing on a laptop because I live in terror of overheating them. My last tower cost $55 on ebay so it’s not like I am a spoiled brat. The current laptop I am writing this on was a freebie someone abandoned at the shop and my nephew reformatted it. My other laptop is XP and the fan is broken. There’s no pampered princess thing going on here, just function.

Survival is the goal. Not letting down my kid until I can work something out. There can’t just be one person in this armpit who needs a sitter or housekeeper, but as I am still considered an outsider…finding a way to earn some extra may could take time. And pegacorn knows when I’ll be able to pin the donor down again, he has no problem working, he just as an allergy to that paycheck covering part of his child’s upbringing. (Seriously, Canada, if this is the best you have to offer, take him back.) If he keeps changing jobs, he knows by the time I catch up to him he’s done created enough chaos, time to do it again. Oh, well, he helped make a beautiful spawn.

In case you missed it, I’ve gone hypo. I was up til almost 3 a.m. Didn’t take melatonin. Did more housework, packed my kid’s lunch, wrote another post…Did not want to go to sleep because ya know, use it or lose it. But I slept 3 and a half hours and now I am still in hypo mode so I am doing the rambling rapid speech (rapid typing?) shuffle. Apologies, but no apologies. OMG, it’s been so long since I’ve felt this good mentally. It’s not that anything great happened but in spite of it all, my mind is…not in the abyss. I LOVE feeling this good.

So soft kitty, warm kitty. Yeah, who doesn’t love good cat pictures? I am fighting for these three, too, they’re our family.

My crappy camera does not do justice for Godsmack’s gorgeous blue eyes.

Hex is outgrowing her box.

Vex looks heavenward and pleads for it to rain tunafish.

And me, the cat sofa, bed, snuggle post, but fortunately, not the litter box.

Remember…SHARE to show you care. Because as shameful as it is for me to ask for help…I am more afraid that not asking for help is a bigger failure of character. I still believe in the good of people.

And the flying spaghetti monster, totally believe in that, too.

Illness Identity?

As usual, a simple plot line in a TV show sent me on a Google quest that further lead me down a rabbit hole that ranks right up there with mindfulness and cognitive behavior therapy, for me. Which is…nada. Anyway, I went to search for “why would a doctor prescribe only amitriptyline for bipolar disorder?” Because ya know, this was common in the 90’s but these days, it’s just shoddy medicine asking for a manic episode to be triggered and negligence suit to be filed. Been down the antidepressant-only road too many years, it isn’t pretty and the fact it’s referenced-even on a fictional Australian TV show- irks me.

Anyway, while Googling this, I came across an article about how bipolar disorder is wrongly treated so frequently. In the course of reading that article, I encountered an unfamiliar term. “illness identity”. Though not popular theory (yet) in the mental health field, it essentially means that people with a mental health diagnosis often develop their illness(es) as part of their identity thus it impacts their self esteem and ability to be in relationships, hold a job, be a parent.

So in my new quest for self awareness I spent the entire day Googling some more and soul searching. Is that me? I mean, I sure do talk a lot about my disorders. But then this is a mental health blog meant to share my experiences, to educate, and often, just for me to vent the poison in my mind so it doesn’t boil over. Does this mean I have come to identify myself solely as my depression/bipolar/anxiety diagnosis symptoms? Am I self sabotaging by being on disability because I let fear and stigma convince me I’m unemployable?

I suppose anything is possible. The moon just may be made of blue cheese. And I’ve met some people who do seem to base their lives and choices around whatever diagnosis they have, though in their case, it’s generally physical ailment.

I just don’t see it with me. I NEVER wanted to go on disability. I worked from the time I was 16 and when I was stable or manic,I was a powerhouse. Then splat or nervous breakdown would come and I was no longer the employee they needed me to be and yeah, my disorders created many problems and made me an unstable candidate for employment. I kept trying, for years, and years, and years. It was the therapists who watched me fly so high than crash so low, who saw how great I was when functional, how brutal it was when non functional. They told me it was admirable to want to work but I was doing myself more harm burning through jobs and getting bad references and never knowing if I could pay rent so I needed to protect myself and seek disability.

So did I let them get in my head and instead of continuing to fight, I just gave up?

I think how long I tried to hold on and help R at the shop through multiple breakdowns indicates I have never given up, do want to work and be productive and feel good about myself, and I do not define myself by my disorders. My illness is a factor in my daily life, much like a diabetes, blood sugar testing, insulin, and pills are part of a diabetic’s life. Are they guilty of illness identity if they talk about their numbers or diet or medication side effects? Or if they know a certain activity overtaxes them so they limit their participation? No. But we all know the putrid double standard when it comes to physical illness verses mental disorders.

Aside from not being stable enough to hold a job and blogging about my experiences with these disorders…

My life goes on pretty normally. I have never given up on being a parent or maintaining a home of our own. I recently applied for summer babysitting but for some reason, was rejected by the lady who was looking for a caregiver for her son. I cook, clean, take care of the cats, go grocery shopping, occasionally go to a yard sale or two or take my kid to the park or for a bike ride. All the while I AM riding out mood swings, depressive lows, and crippling anxiety. It is difficult and many days, I do have meltdowns. The difference is, my kid and cats can’t fire me for my instability. If I need a break, I can get a sitter at my family’s and I can close my bedroom door to keep the cats at bay. In job situations when you ‘snap’ or ‘splat’ there is no corner to go stand in until you work through it. And other than failing to show up one day or failing to give proper notice or missing too much work- I doubt my former employers would have much critical to say about my work except for the depressive periods or panic meltdowns.

But that’s their job, to hire not just partly functional people. They need stability and I can’t offer that consistently. So while I do want to be well and stable and work…If I am deemed unfit and it’s not simply stigma from my mental illness but the fact that such situations, combined with my disorders, lead to meltdowns…I can’t fault employers and I don’t think I should be faulted, either. It’s not like I don’t try my hardest and keep trying.

I suppose it all sounds like justification, like I am trying to convince myself, but I am honestly viewing it as objectively as possible. Even though I am far from stable and a summer with my own kid nearly drives me to the bring, I was willing to babysit for extra money. I was polite, I gave references, a reasonable rate, the kid likes me, I am close by…but I was still rejected. Instead of blaming it on my disorders or being defeatist, I just view it as being an outsider in this town and people may know my dad and his faction but they don’t know me and I can respect not wanting to leave your child with someone you don’t know, or who, for whatever reason, gives you a bad vibe. (I’ve heard of people not being hired because of their eye color making someone uneasy, never work in management, you find out the law is a joke, it’s largely based on personal bias and quirk.)

It just bothers me that I try so hard yet am constantly filled with so much self doubt. This is normally where I’d say, “Hey, counseling might help.” Except the new ‘behavioral health’ concept has me so rattled on top of my prior bad experience at that center, the idea of seeking ‘help’ there when they caused me so much damage is met with as much horror as a lobotomy. Unreasonable? Maybe. But until I ‘get there’ to that mental stability spot where I don’t feel they will do more harm…I am just going to have to be my own cheerleader.

Yes, I am a manic depressive. I have anxiety disorder.

It’s not who I am.

I am a woman. I am a single mom. I am a cat owner. I love Halloween. I love heavy metal, crime shows, horror movies, black eyeliner, yard sales, and I say ‘fuck’ a lot.

That all has nothing to do with my disorders. That is my identity.

And the fact that six weeks ago I could have never thought that, let alone felt it, meant it, and write it- tells me we may be onto something with the Cymbalta and my pursuit of an even deeper self awareness.

Counseling could happen.

But right now..I am going to focus on healing from all the upheaval in my life, continue treating my depression and anxiety, and venting my feelings here. Healing is a process and this is my way of going about that process. Everyone has their own method, their own path, this is mine.

Yes, I am a bit of a dark gothy ghoul but that has NOTHING to do with my disorders.

I’m also the 45 year old woman with a pet net hanging from the ceiling filled with furry cats, bears, iguanas, and Furbies.

I am light. I am dark. I am me.

My illness isn’t my identity.

But it’s the monster under my bed that I have to live with popping out way too often so good thing I kind of dig the whole monster thing. 😉