This is not what I intended to write this evening. It’s actually the emotional opposite of what I intended to write. See, I’ve had an exhausting day of phone calls, waiting rooms, and non-productive meetings in an attempt to get everything situated. Red Tape is real and my god does it get in the way of things. I planned to write a rather scathing commentary on the impact of burnt-out workers, seemingly insurmountable hurtles, and the general way the system treats you as a number and a clipboard-check-list rather than as a human being on motivation to even try to get help and support. But that’s not what I’m going to focus on tonight, because I need a little positive energy and I’m just going to cultivate it for myself.
Rather than focus on people who seem to see me as “another case file,” I’d like to talk a little about meaningful connections and their importance in recovery and maintenance of mental wellness.
First, I have family members who have really stepped up in different ways to show their love and support. My mom has been immensely helpful in many tangible ways, from financial assistance to childcare, and emotionally, too, by just generally being around if I want to talk. My Uncle calls me frequently to check in. My foster sister, who I hadn’t seen in years, came up to visit me for a weekend and it was like we never missed a beat. She helped me in a lot of tangible ways, too, and I’m seriously looking forward to the next time I get to see her.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I have some fantastic friends. Friends who showed up for me even when I was actively trying to push them away. Friends who gave me “space” when I did push them away but were there for me the minute that I, much like the Prodigal Son, came crawling back beaten and filthy and out of options. I do not feel I deserve such unconditional love and support, but I’ve been blessed to receive it nevertheless.
I named this blog “Parallel Dichotomy” because the two words are, by definition, mutually exclusive. Carl Jung had a concept he called the “Tension of Opposites,” holding two seemingly incompatible things in balance. This has been a theme throughout my entire life. In this post, I’d like to focus on one particular example: if I’m being honest with myself, I’ve always had this internal pull toward self-destruction, but I’ve denied it’s existence and kept it mostly in check by my need to be perceived as responsible and reliable. As with any aspect of Self, though, the more you deny something, the more it tends to pop up at very inconvenient times and in very unexpected ways. “What you resist, persists,” as the saying goes.
This has been the case for most of my life, I think. Too afraid to be honest with myself about my feelings and thoughts, I avoided them at all costs. I denied my anger at others, and thus, took it out on myself through self-harm rather than expressing it in a productive way. As I got older, I tended towards drowning my sorrows in alcohol, especially when alone, rather than facing my feelings head on. I tended toward indulging my self-defeat in private while publicly projecting a persona of strength and confidence. I tended toward being resistant to medical professionals (or support of any form, really) while holding a career in mental health support. I tended toward a lot of maladaptive stuff, and masked it all with a smile. I basked in the light of others telling me how strong I was while really, I felt weak and broken. I enjoyed the pats on the back I would receive for each accomplishment, all while feeling, at my core, that I didn’t deserve any of it. And whenever anyone would get too close to seeing the “real me,” I’d pull away. Only now am I beginning to recognize these patterns and work to consciously address them.
My friends, though, saw these patterns for what they were far sooner than I did. When I was in college the first time, I very nearly had a breakdown which likely would have required hospitalization were it not for such wonderful friends. Actually, I nearly had two: one slightly less acute episode my Junior year of college, and then the spectacular, blazing fire of self-destruction that was my Senior year blow-out.
In each case, I had friends step in and intervene. Junior year, my high school friend Kim was literally available for texts and phone calls every day, any time of day. That, in conjunction with therapy, was sufficient to get me through what I thought was intense depression and insomnia. (Interesting aside, around age 20 tends to be when the Bipolar switch gets flipped, and looking back on that month and a half or so and discussing it with a psychiatrist, it’s now clear to me that that was my first real mixed-state manic episode.)
Senior year, I was in a state of complete willfulness. I was just going to do my thing, get through the year no matter what life threw at me, because I was stronger than my depression and anxiety and trauma and dammit, nothing was going to stop me from graduating! I’d just act like everything was good, “fake it ’til I made it,” and self-harm and drink as stress relief. As I am now 28 years old and still do not have my bachelor’s degree, you, astute reader, have probably deduced that this approach was unsuccessful. See, there was no way in hell I could juggle everything life was throwing at me. Thankfully, I had these wonderful people called “friends,” you see, and one of them in particular realized I was on a very slippery slope, took away anything I could possibly use to hurt myself, and essentially dragged my ass to therapy (*cough* Paige *cough*). She also refused to leave me alone until everyone was sure I’d be OK. (There was a whole fiasco with anti-depressants making me hallucinate and a Halloween ER visit in which literally all of my closest college friends showed up, piled into the car, and hung out in the ER waiting room while Paige sat with me in the actual exam room. Again, friendship at a level I did not deserve. And another aside, such a reaction to an SSRI should have been a red-flag for Bipolar, but the doctors missed it.)
Many of these people are still around today, despite me really falling off the face of the earth after I found out I was pregnant, burying myself in work and my marriage and parenting, and generally being a shitty and unreliable friend.
As I gingerly claw my way out of the pit of self-hatred and self-destruction once again, this time actually learning ways to avoid the pit all together next time (a foreign concept to me), many of these friends have come back into my life in full force and demonstrated that even though I suck at picking up the phone, they are always there for me.
My friend Paige (the same Paige from Senior Year), who literally lives across the country now, supported me by listening to me vent, cry, get mad, and sometimes, just bitch and whine from October (when things were just starting to slip) on. She came to my house for almost a whole week right before Christmas and dealt with me and my flashbacks and panic attacks and dissociation which, at that point, were so bad they disrupted just about everything we tried to accomplish. I talked to her on the phone leading up to me going to the hospital and she gently encouraged it. And she talked to me every day I was in the hospital and in the ensuing weeks and months. She’s one of those good friends I’m not sure I deserve. (Ok, she’s one of the best friends possible.)
And then, there’s Cassie. Now, Cassie has known me for over 15 years. She’s younger than me, but she’s always kind of played “big sister” in a way. In 90’s kid terms, she’s always been the Cory to my Shawn. That self-destructive tendency I mentioned earlier? If Cassie wasn’t in my life in middle and high school, I’m honestly not sure where I’d be today. I’m quite sure, though, that I wouldn’t be taking positive steps to improve my well-being and over all quality of life. Because Cassie has always possessed the ability to steer me away from the stupid choices and toward the right ones. Gently, with compassion, without being forceful. She’s the person who is always on the other end of the phone if I call. I spent the weekend prior to my hospitalization at Cassie’s house, and she spent the weekend making phone calls, doing research, letting me sob on her lap, holding me while I rode out panic attacks and flash backs, comforting me after nightmares, and, ultimately, convincing me (with the help of Paige and Kelly – another fantastic friend I have) that the hospital was the way to go because things needed to change and I needed help and, despite my Irish stubbornness, I couldn’t do it on my own, or even with friend support and once-a-week therapy.
Once at the hospital, I had five different people who called me almost every day to check-in, and I learned about another very meaningful connection – peer support and the importance of spending time with people on a similar journey. It might sound weird at first, but I made some fantastic friends while on the psych unit and at the partial hospitalization program. And I plan to maintain those relationships, because spending time with people who “get it” is essential to success, I think.
And, as of today, I’m beginning to connect with other mental health advocates as well. Bloggers, YouTubers, and Twitter Kings and Queens. I’m feeling a little more confident about putting myself “out there” as a vehicle for impacting change and shifting perceptions about mental health struggles and successes. I’ve mentioned before that I have a drive to be a force for good in this world and a desire to have a positive impact. This has not diminished, I’m simply shifting it toward a more healthy (for me) platform.
The scathing post about some of the reactions I got today from “support” people will come at some point, but it felt important, tonight, to focus on the good people in my life, and I dedicate this post to all of you.