Jody Betty

Jody Betty, Multi-Published Blogger, Trauma Recovery Coach, Crisis Support, Best-Selling Author, Editor

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  • Sometimes There Are No Reasons

     

     

    TRIGGER WARNING…Talks about suicide.

     

    It was seven years ago tomorrow at 11:53pm that I found myself crumpled in a heap on the floor, covered in broken pieces of drywall and dust, with a jagged, rotten piece of wood to my side, complete with the hook that held the cord that was still wrapped securely around my neck. I was, stunned, in shock and had no reaction other than to sarcastically grin before I broke down sobbing. Everything had been so precisely planned and timed. The plan, methodically set out, had been executed to perfection, with all the plausible outcomes considered…or so I thought. There had been little to no give when I had screwed the hook in the wood, or when I checked it, the first, second and third time to make sure it would hold the weight I needed it to. The cord had been strong enough and remained tied to the hook by the knots I had securely fastened as it landed in my lap. The chair remained tipped over in front of me, having fallen and landed resting against my coffee table. In a hazy mess of tears, I crawled out of the cupboard and glanced up to see the gaping hole in the ceiling that had led me here, to this seemingly frozen moment in time.

    I am unsure how long I sat on the floor in shock with the cord still wrapped around my neck, but it seemed like an eternity. The tears flowed down my face as I gasped to catch my breath, and the reality of the moment slowly started to sink in. Everything I had hoped and planned for had gone horrifically wrong in one inexplicable moment; my last hope of ending this life destroying pain had come crumbling down into tiny pieces, literally. I untied the cord around my neck and threw it to the side of me, feeling the release of pressure from around my neck, and slowly tried to pull myself up off the floor. My knees buckled, and I stumbled towards the couch before collapsing in a sobbing mess. I cried until I heaved, and then cried some more until the shock wore off and the exhaustion set in, and all that was left to do was close my eyes and hope that when I awoke this whole thing had been some sort of nightmare and not a reality I would have to face.

    I woke from discomfort early in the morning and was slapped by the cold hard truth when I opened my eyes. This had not been a dream, nor a nightmare, but in fact, an unwelcome reality check. The mess lay strewn across the carpet, the chair still resting against the table and the broken piece of wood still lying in pieces in the cupboard. I slowly sat up and made my way to the washroom where I flicked on the lights only to see the redness of the cord marks starting to bruise the skin on my neck. The tears started flowing again and I crawled back into my bed not ready to face the reality of yet another failed attempt. How I got to that state of mind was not the question rattling around my brain, but how had this gone so very wrong? The anger started to build, and I got out of bed to analyze the situation. I looked at the splintered wood and then stared at the hole in the ceiling above. I picked up the wood, looking at it from all angles, and wondered if there was perhaps a pressure point in wood as there is a glass, and that is what had caused it to break under the weight of my body. I unscrewed the hook looking intently in the small hole, wondering if perhaps I had somehow screwed it in too far and caused a small crack, which led to it just giving out. There were no visible explanations. The pieces of the puzzle were just not adding up, further adding to my anger and frustration. Failing was one issue, but not knowing why was eating at my soul.

    Fast forward seven years and I still struggle with the fact that there is no concrete answer. There are only the words I put in my mind as truths, in an attempt to accept what had gone so wrong, and to try and make some peace with events that were seemingly unexplainable to my rational mind. After so many years of near misses and desperate attempts at self-harm and death, how I am still alive. What is it in me that seemingly won’t die under the most desperate of circumstances? Where does this subconscious fight come from when I am consciously trying to destroy and end my life? The question of why I am still alive nags at me like a mosquito buzzing around my ear. I wonder daily if I am just a such a failure that I can’t even, after three attempts, successfully end my own life. I search for my conclusions through my writing and sharing my stories with others, and the only conclusion I have come up with is that perhaps, at the exact moment of each attempt, it just wasn’t my time. There is something keeping me here and maybe half of the struggle is letting go of searching for the reasons why. Maybe they are just not for me to know. Maybe all I am supposed to do is continue fighting, continue advocating and reaching out. Perhaps that in itself is the reason I have been looking for.

     

  • A Sincere Thank You for Your Words

    thank you

     

     I had my breakdown almost three years ago now. I was severely depressed and dealing with both active and passive suicidal ideations and although I had started therapy, I soon learned that an hour of support a week was not going to cut it. I didn’t know what I would do all those nights alone, when the darkness of my thoughts far outweighed the darkness of the night air. I never want to be a burden so I kept as much to myself as possible, subsequently leaving me no one to talk to, which is where the crisis line came into play. As long as I watched what I said, it was a way to vent to a stranger, a non-judgmental ear, who would not feel burdened by my words, just provide a safe space to both speak and listen. I tried numerous different numbers, through a variety of networks and agencies and aside from being put on hold for up to 40 minutes, the people I encountered at the other end of the line were calm, respectful and generally kind…but one thing was missing; a true sense of understanding. The words said to me, throughout all the agencies, sounded like they were coming from a training manual which left very little room for compassion or empathy. Nevertheless I listened to these seemingly empty words and by the time I got off the phone I was either too tired or too frustrated and preoccupied by this approach to helping people to bother putting any plan into action. So off to bed, I would go, to cry myself to sleep.

    One night, after hanging up the phone with yet another crisis volunteer, I realized not only had I memorized the “script” that was being said to me repeatedly from number to number, but that these words were vague and non-specific to my actual crisis, and perhaps that was the reason they never really seemed to sink in. I sat and thought for a moment. Instead of hearing that repetitive nonsense, what exactly was it that I needed to hear at my moment of crisis? What words would help to lift the blanket of darkness that envelops me during those instances? What might give me a glimmer of hope or provide me with that last bit of strength I need to resist the impulsive urges that call me late at night when I am alone? In the darkness of my room, I reached over, grabbed my laptop and began to write.

    The next day, I reread my words and immediately decided I could not post this new blog on my site. After all, did I sound like I was speaking for the masses? I don’t voice anyone else’s opinion but perhaps I had crossed the line this time and these words reiterated only what I would want to hear which may not comfort anyone else at all. I put it in a writings folder on my computer and just like the dozen others, assumed they would never be read again.

    A few weeks later, after pulling myself far enough out of the hole to see a small patch of light, I slipped and once again found myself at the bottom. Not knowing where else to turn I found myself right back in the same cycle of repetitive phone calls that often left me feeling worse rather than better. One particularly bad night, I had finally had enough of feeling like I was not heard or understood. There had to be other people who went through these types of experiences; there was no way I could be completely alone in my thoughts, so I went back onto my laptop and opened the file with the blog I had written just a few short weeks ago. I read it over and over again until my own words sunk in enough to calm me down a bit, and at that moment I decided that if these words were enough to help me, what is the harm of putting them out there for someone else, in the off chance that they might actually get read, and do some good. I posted the article on my blog, pinned it on my twitter page and even sent it to The Mighty to see if they would be interested in publishing it.

    The following morning, I noticed a few more messages than usual in my Twitter inbox, and to my astonishment, by the afternoon The Mighty had my article up and published. I went to bed feeling a tiny sense of purpose that is otherwise buried in tar. When I awoke, I had over twenty messages from random strangers and as I read them I felt tears well up in my eyes. All of these people were feeling or felt like I did and the reality that I might not be alone in my darkest thoughts started to sink in. These people were saying thank you to me, saying how my blog stopped them from acting impulsively or that they no longer felt alone, and for the first time in their lives they felt both heard and understood; that they felt a sense of much needed validation and a saw just enough of a spark of hope to get them through the night.

    That was almost three years ago now, and these messages, these words of kindness and appreciation have not stopped. If anything, they have actually gone up as exposure of the article has vastly increased. Now as much as this blog may sound like it is a self-indulging pat on the back, it truly is not. I am humbled each and every time someone reaches out to me in the moments that their lives may or may not hang in the balance, and I want to say thank you. Thanks to each and every one of you who had the bravery, the trust and the willingness to confide their darkest and deepest secrets and traumas to me…a virtual random stranger. Thank you for being strong and for reaching out your hand when you least expect someone to take it. Thank you for allowing me to believe in you and perhaps instill a bit of that in yourself. Most of all, thank you for taking the time, in your moment of crisis to read my words, and know how honored I am, to have those words reach you.

    Nothing remains the same. Life is a flow of constant change, so please believe what I said. Things will not always be as they are, and you are going to be ok.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • The Anguish of our Self-Criticism

    At what point in our lives did we become so self-critical.  Did we learn it or is it just inherent? Why are we so hard on ourselves and so much easier on others? Did we make some huge mistake we have never gotten over? Is it something someone said that stuck in our heads as a child that still rings loud and clear now? Is it something our mothers once said we should be able to do, or our fathers wanted us to achieve and they didn’t know that their words, wrapped up in a list of expectations, would stick to our hearts like glue, haunting our souls and making our heads spin with an image of ourselves we cannot accept.

    We are a society that thrives off of adversity, and pointing out these characteristics often starts in early childhood when we begin to highlight the negatives… “You should be able to do this by now” or “you should be better at…” or any of should have’s for that matter, they all leave little notches in the personality we are trying to carve out. The education system often spends more time explaining that your child needs to improve in whatever area, than they do pointing out the positive’s, and this continues through all of schooling and carries over into the work world. For example, if someone is not good at public speaking we recommend a book or ship them off to a course to improve that skill, but what if, in fact, that skill is just something that person is not good at, regardless of any amount of training or research. Instead, this person who is actually fantastic at accounting gets judged for being poor at one thing instead of being praised for what he is actually good at. We are always pointed in the direction of fixing ourselves so the focus on the negative becomes predominant, resulting in that inner critic we all deal with at one point in time or another.

    It’s the voice in your head that convinces you that those “should have’s” from so many years ago still hold the same power. It is the voice that tells you that you aren’t good enough, pretty enough or smart enough. It is quick to point out any mistake or error in judgment and likes to ponder over those that have already happened. Our inner critic is just flat out mean. We tell our friends and family not to be so hard on themselves, and then we are harder on ourselves than we would be on anyone else. We blame ourselves when blame does not apply and feel guilty about what we “should have” done better, or could have done differently. Our critic implies that if we try something new, we will fail and therefore holds us back from even taking the first step, and the sad thing is, even when the negative is somewhat balanced with the positive, it always seems to leave more of an imprint.

    If we let it maintain its power over our minds we will soon become accustomed to the negativity, so much so that we form our thoughts based on the lies it has told us. It is amazing…the power of the brain to convince itself of something that feels so incredibly real but is based upon negative untruths, and unfortunately there is no magic pill to silence that critical voice in your head. There is no shortcut to muting that voice; it is a matter of practice and time. In the meantime, tell it to shut the hell up. Tell it there is no longer space in your mind for it to occupy. Remind yourself that you are smart enough, pretty enough and good enough every time it tries to tell you otherwise, because you are. That voice served its purpose at the time it was needed, but we don’t need it screaming throughout our lives, we want it down to a low murmur. So try something new, say what you have always wanted to say, do what you have wanted to do. Stop letting that voice of adversity rule your thoughts and actions. Regardless of what that voice says, if you fall, you will get back up.

     

  • The Safety of my Comfort Zone

    comfort zone sign

    What is comfort? According to any dictionary, it, amongst other definitions, is a state of ease and satisfaction; a feeling of relief or consolation. It is that place where we feel safe and most soothed, one that is perhaps hard to describe to others but you know what it is and what brings you there. Is it a state of mind; a place, a thing or perhaps all three? It is completely individualistic and among the billions of people on this planet, no two states of comfort will be exactly the same. For me it is all three. There is that comfort zone in my mind in which I can retreat to in times of need; there are the calming sights, sounds and scents I get from being anywhere around water, and there is that favorite old hoody which, after all these years, has more holes than material.

    I like my comfort zone.  I like its familiar sounds, scents and sights. I like that it envelops me with that same sense of coziness as my favorite old sweatshirt or torn jeans. I like that it provides a sense of safety by building a wall which guards watch over incessantly, protecting me from others and myself. It is the one thing I feel I have control over, even though I know full well that it is fear that actually keeps me within its protective confines. It is often the only place I can find relief from my afflictions, and some sense of solace.

    Remaining in this place of contentment has its advantages. Since I feel I have some semblance of control here, I can convince myself that it is the only place of refuge to seek shelter from the mental storm that is my mind. I can persuade my thoughts to believe that this isolation that feeds my fear is the only way to stay safe; the only way to remain protected from both people and the threats of everyday life, and allows me to safely function within the little sheltered world I have created for myself. It allows me to survive, but fails to let me thrive.

    Stepping out of my comfort zone brings forward a number of powerful emotions, with fear leading the charge, followed closely by toxic shame and self-criticism. It is the place where the “what if’s” kick in and my inner critic takes over in a twisted effort to protect me from what could happen outside of this shell I have so carefully constructed. After all, I could try something and fail miserably or I could risk putting myself out there and getting hurt again. With the possibility of danger looming at every corner, red flags get raised in my mind and make me want to retreat back into the safety of my comfort zone. This, however, does not allow for the true experiences of life’s pleasures, for as much as it protects me from harm, does it also protect me from good. Putting myself out there requires me to be vulnerable which, is an uncomfortable state for most people, not just me.

    Life sometimes presents itself with an opportunity or two that are too good to pass on, and regardless of my fears and insecurities I have taken the chance. I have put myself intentionally into a situation in which I could very well fail; a situation that requires not only a step out of my comfort zone but a leap. I have weighed the benefits versus the negatives and although in my mind, they balance out quite evenly, I am now “out there”, at full risk, in the hopes that this journey will not only help my healing but others as well. I am taking classes online to become a Trauma Recovery Coach, and although I feel a bit out of my league as compared to my classmates, I hope that this could be the opportunity I have been waiting for; perhaps even the reason I have survived this long. It has been years since I have had the opportunity to further my education and perhaps this road could lead to that sense of meaningfulness that I have been searching for my whole life and although I am terrified and second guess my every decision, I have chosen to stick with it, no matter how quickly the road may become unpaved and bumpy. At least now, I am driving the car.

  • The Hit and Miss Game of Pharmaceuticals

    Hello my friends, I hope you are all doing well. My latest monthly blog post is up at http://mindbodythoughts.blogspot.ca/ if you want to have a read. It is about my struggles with mental health medications. Anyway, take care of yourselves.

  • Suicide and Adoption, is There a Genetic Link?

    Happy Monday to all my readers. I hope this note finds you all healthy, safe and strong. My monthly blog column at MindBodyThoughs is up if anyone wants to have a read. Thank you all for following me, it really is appreciated.

    Jody xxx

    http://mindbodythoughts.blogspot.com/2017/09/genetic-link-with-adoptees-and-suicide.html

     

    Sent from my iPhone

  • The Emotional Paralysis of my Dissociation

     

    I have a large compass tattooed on my shoulder and I still feel lost and overwhelmed.  I have no sense of direction and no map to point out if I am heading the right way, or if I am wandering further into oblivion. I have looked inside and outside for the answers, or at the very least for some guidance but I still find myself waking up questioning not only who I am, but why I am here. What were the reasons I survived three suicide attempts, it couldn’t be luck for all of them could it? What am I supposed to be doing in this life that I have been given a third chance at?  It certainly has got to be more than spending my days fighting my illnesses and my nights wondering what could have been. It has got to contain more than just struggle and strife; more than just years of trying to heal. When is that elusive day when I will go from surviving to thriving, or will I ever even get there. Is there a place where my emotional and rational brains both work at the same time and my future path will finally show me my direction.

    I have trouble staying present in the moment. As with so many survivors the past not only haunts me, but it has interwoven itself through my thoughts and emotions, distorting every view point I have and interfering with every relationship I have. I have a hard time discerning that the same traumas that have been a reoccurrence for so many years of my life are not going to repeat themselves. The terrifying feeling of being repeatedly abandoned as a child, resurface every time a trigger presents itself, and my automatic reaction is that of an angry child with the same feelings of being lost, helpless and unprotected yet again.  I can’t help but think that trauma is going to occur again and either lash out or go numb as my form of protection.

    Lashing out as an adult with a screaming, angry toddler trapped inside you does nothing but cause harm to yourself and those around you. There is no functioning between my rational brain and my emotive brain and the emotions take over and become vocalized in an extremely negative way. My other habit is numbing, or dissociating, which I have been stuck in for a while now. Dissociation for me is like being a visitor in my own body, and an outsider in my own mind. It is like watching a video of me going through the motions and actions of each day, without actually feeling through the emotions, like being an observer. I manage to “function” through the day but feel little attachment to what is actually going on; paying little attention to my surroundings.  I generally spend my time between hyper and hypo vigilance but dissociating doesn’t allow me to bounce around like that. Instead, it literally mutes my feelings. It doesn’t allow me to sink to the bottom levels of being actively suicidal, but at the same time it does not grant me the ability to feel pleasure.

    Dissociation numbs my creativity and my sense of self and fills me with self-doubt. It has taken me weeks to put words to paper and even as I type I question the validity of my writing itself. I question the relevance of what I am saying and how it is being worded. I worry about it not being good enough, not keeping up to the level I have set for myself. Being numb does not allow me to write from my deepest emotions. It does not enable me to be raw and vulnerable; it does not allow me to be.  It takes any sense of direction I had and fills it with questions and negativities from an un-emotional, yet not quite rational perspective. It protected me when I was overwhelmed as a child, and it is once again doing its job, even though the same danger is not there. I am not a weak child anymore; I am an adult who has resources and strengths I did not possess then. I am no longer a victim and even though I don’t know what path is mine to travel, as long as I am journeying forward I’m heading in the right direction, and perhaps with some guidance I will eventually find my way.

     

  • Should the Right to Die Include Mental Health?

     death blog

     

    It was 1988 when my mom wrote the first in a series of letters to our Prime Minister at the time, Brian Mulroney, regarding being able to end her terminal illness in a manner in which she had some control. It was in 1989 that she contacted the Right to Die organization based in Oregon and after numerous rounds of correspondence was mailed a book written by the founder about euthanasia. This book was not only a memoir but contained information about certain drugs and the amounts that would be required to overdose. The letters and pleas continued, to no avail, and after battling cancer for six long years and deteriorating to the point of having no quality of life, on September 10th 1990, she took a lethal overdose of pills in the comfort of her home. She had spoken multiple times about this plan over the previous months and made it quite clear she had no intention of dying in hospital.  She already had a DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) order and wanted to have some control over the last moments of her life.

    She lay in her bed for hours but had merely slipped into a coma which caused enough concern that she was transported to the hospital. When I arrived at the hospital and saw her lying motionless, she looked so peaceful, like she had fallen into the deepest of sleeps. She remained comatose for almost a week before shocking everyone and waking up, which no one could explain given that they said the number of pills that she had consumed would have killed a horse. She had nothing but painkillers and IV fluids and continued to rapidly decline. There was one more failed attempt in hospital before the last one finally brought her the peace she was so desperately seeking. That was October 5th, 1990. She had written nearly 100 letters.

    In February 2015, the Supreme Court of Canada made physician assisted suicide (Euthanasia) fully available to all mentally competent Canadians with terminal illnesses. Prior to the ruling, assisted suicide was illegal in Canada and punishable by up to 14 years in prison. There are strict laws governing the process, such as assisted suicide not being available to minors and only available to those residents eligible for Canadian healthcare. It cannot be used to relieve the suffering of any mental illness or long-term disability and patients are not allowed to arrange to consent in advance to dying, for example in cases of dementia or Alzheimer’s. This protocol has sparked debates in many areas but none as big as when a parliamentary committee recommended that people with mental illness be eligible to seek euthanasia to end their lives in the same manner of those with a terminal illness.

    An estimated 90% of suicides in North America are associated with some form of mental illness.

    The Netherlands was the first country to legalize euthanasia in cases of terminal illnesses 13 years ago, and in that time, the practice has become legal in Belgium, Luxembourg and Switzerland as well as in five U.S. states…Washington, Oregon, Vermont, Montana and New Mexico. In Germany, doctors are able to provide patients with the necessary drugs for a medicinal suicide, but are not allowed to take any part of the actual suicide, such as guiding the patients or supporting their hand. The feelings are mixed when it comes to people’s beliefs of right and wrong, but if you have ever watched another human being slowly, painfully, rot away with not an ounce of dignity left, it might just open your eyes to the reasoning.

    Assisted suicide based on psychological suffering is permitted in the Netherlands, Belgium and Quebec. A 2015 Netherlands euthanasia report stated that there were 5306 assisted deaths that year, with 41 being for psychiatric reasons, and 81 for dementia. In early 2012, a group called the Life-Ending Clinic went into operation for people whose doctors refused to assist in their suicides. The clinic has pushed the moral debate to its highest peak by helping people with chronic depression to die, and allowing some dementia patients to sign a euthanasia declaration in the early stages of their disease. In the past five years the number of assisted suicides has doubled and in Belgium it has increased almost 150%, amongst which has included people who have had autism, anorexia, borderline personality disorder, chronic fatigue syndrome and chronic depression. In two of the more famous cases, the women had suffered from multiple mental illnesses over the years, tried pills, therapy and everything else possible before giving up on the thought of their lives ever improving. Should doctors respect their wishes to die in the same way they would respect the wishes of a patient with stage four cancer?

    With regards to mental illnesses, the biggest issues are whether legalized euthanasia can lead to a suicidal frame of mind based on a desire to escape prolonged suffering, and whether a person suffering from chronic mental illness has the capacity to make such a life and death decision. Given that mental illness can distort thinking and impair judgment, perhaps on the finality of the consequences, we have to question is it the rational mind speaking or the voice of the illness. “Right to Die” advocates point out that doctor assisted suicide would be less traumatic than a hanging or gunshot, for everyone involved. The protesters say that accepting euthanasia as an option for the mentally ill would create a presumption of sanity for those who attempt suicide or request assisted suicide as candidates are supposed to be mentally competent to make an informed and voluntary decision. Statistics say almost all people who die by suicide have mental health problems and there lies the conundrum.

    Having had three failed suicide attempts myself, I question if I would even be here if euthanasia was available here in Canada for chronic depression. I wonder where this debate will take us in the future, but for now, I continue to fight.

     

     

     

  • Lost In the Darkness of the Jungle

     

    dark jungle

     

    They say that without darkness there is no light, yet I see not even a glimmer of light right now, like it has dissipated into tiny particles and scattered into obscurity, leaving me surrounded in a blanket of gloom.  I feel like I have been dropped off in to the depths of the jungle with no flashlight or compass, nor the light of the stars to guide me, with a deadline to somehow make my way out and back to a place where the light shines again. It feels like every step I take is through the thickest bush lined with vines of thorns and branches of spikes. I glance up hoping for even a glimmer of light to help light my trail but the density of the leaves form an umbrella of shade. I start a climb uphill only to have the earth give away under my feet. I have no sense of direction and feel like I have been wandering the same path in circles, or perhaps just always heading the wrong way, yet I keep walking.

    I feel lost. Lost in every possible way; lost to the point that even if I was handed a map, I am not sure I could find my way out. Maybe I have been lost in this darkness for so long it has become my comfort. Perhaps a part of me doesn’t want to find a way out, not because it is easier to stay but because it is what is familiar to me and the unknown is frightening. Maybe there is an invisible string that pulls me back every time I follow that flash of light because I have unfinished business here. It might even be that I have convinced myself that without light I will finally succumb to the darkness, in which somewhere lays the only peace I can see. Why do the answers come so much easier in the shadows than in the light?

    I am grasping for hope. Grasping on to anyone or anything that can help to fuel the reserve in my empty tank; probing for any reason, any purpose to continue this trek. I have looked and pulled from within for so long there is very little self-reliance left.  There is no unlimited stockpile of strength hidden somewhere deep within. There are not enough learned behavioral techniques in my mind to overcome the ingrained negativities that keep drawing me back into the darkness. I clutch on to anything I can…words, pictures, memories…anything that can provide a hint of this elusive thing called hope. I rely on my empathy for others to encourage myself to continue on this journey, after all, I may want out of the jungle but I certainly am not willing to drag someone in there with me to accomplish that.

    I am afraid. Afraid that perhaps this jungle is actually my home; that there is no beaten path for me to follow or make to find my way home, and that the darkness is actually where I belong. I am afraid that no matter how hard I try or how far I travel that I may never find that glimpse of light, that smidgen of hope that is bright enough or strong enough to guide my way. I am scared of looking up to the jungle always covering the night skies, fearful to look forward because I can’t see far enough through the thick brush to see my hand in front of my face, and looking behind me all I see are the trails of cuts and bruises that have gotten me to this point. I am afraid that my thoughts are far too at home in this place and that the darkness has always felt comfortable for me and perhaps the needle on my compass is just pointed here.

    I can’t at this point even say why I continue to walk this unlit, beaten track, or why I continue to plod through the mud and stumble over the uneven ground. I don’t know why I insist in looking up in the hopes that there is a crack in the canopy where just enough light will peek through to at least point me in the right direction when time and again, the blackness is all encompassing. I stumble forward, unguided, trip over broken branches and fall right back to the place where I started, yet despite the mud weighing me down, regardless of the cuts and bruises incurred with each fall, I continue to rise. I somehow manage to stand back up time and again, after losing my bearings, and keep searching for this seemingly elusive path of light.

     

     

     

  • Loneliness Can Break Your Heart

    Happy Monday everyone. I have a new blog post up at MindBodyThoughts if anyone is interested. The link can be found below. Have a safe week.

    Jody

    http://mindbodythoughts.blogspot.ca/

  • I Speak Because I Can

    blog i will not be silent

     

    I leave my social media private messaging open for anyone who may need a friendly ear or some advice and have received countless kind emails and messages from people of all ages, in all types of situations. It is humbling that random strangers can muster enough trust in me, also a random stranger, to not only reach out, but to express their deepest fears and emotions. I am by no means a counselor, just a survivor who may be able to offer a different perspective based on my knowledge and experiences. I want to thank those of you that have reached out for having the courage to do so. As the saying goes, the first step is the hardest.

    I started a blog last year to not only help heal myself but with the hopes that maybe some aspect of the traumas I have endured will make at least one person feel less alone, or perhaps a bit more understood. I am completely open about my experiences and almost always have gotten positive feedback and encouragement. The people who have been ignorant have been few and far between and generally their comments just roll off my back. However, for the first time this got under my skin to the point where I am now going to respond with the hope that a little education, ignorance does not have to be.

    I won’t bother copying and pasting the entire message as you should get the idea with the following few quotes…

    “Why do people like you insist on reliving your past in a public forum for everyone to see? It’s the past for a reason, get over it. Everyone had their own childhood issues but do you see most people whining about it online? You had plenty of time to tell someone when you were being abused or sometime shortly after, but after thirty years, it’s time to move on. Complaining will get you nowhere…”

    “…are you not embarrassed enough that you were abused and now decades later you think anyone is going to believe you…”

    “…and anyone who has attempted suicide three times and not succeeded is simply seeking attention. There are enough resources online that you shouldn’t need three attempts to end your life. You are obviously sick in the head and should seek professional help.”

    The message continued for another few hundred words but I am guessing you get the point. So, Mr. Ignorant, allow me to reply.

    The fact that you say people “like me” screams the type of mindset that you hold. We are not a stereotype, we are warriors. We are survivors of atrocities and horrors that you could not comprehend. We went through more trauma in our early and formative years than you will likely suffer in your lifetime. As a child I was afraid to speak for a multitude of reasons, and that carried on through a large part of my life, until one day I found my voice and so now, I speak because I can. I am no longer bound in fear and silence as I am no longer a victim. I use my words to in an attempt to educate people like you who are bound in stigma. I write on behalf of those who have not yet found their voices and to let others know they are not alone. The fact that you asked if I am not embarrassed enough about my abuse already says a lot about your mentality. The last time I checked I did not molest myself, so what do I have to be embarrassed about? I was merely a child who was preyed upon by some very sick people and was unable to defend herself, and whether or not anyone believes me or not does not sway me from my purpose. Those who don’t believe me simply don’t have the privilege of being in my life.

    Your comments about suicide actually left me stunned for words, which is not easy to do… so shame on you for not only saying that, but for thinking that. People like yourself who’s views are based on stigmatisms believe that you are untouchable, and that nothing like that could ever happen to anyone you love, and just based on statistics alone, if you know more than four people you likely know someone affected by a mental illness, which in some cases leads to suicide attempts. I won’t even begin to try and explain to you the complexities of suicide as you are too close minded to learn. Just know that anyone who has sunken low enough to make an attempt to take their own lives is suffering a sense of hurt you could not comprehend, and in most cases, for them, at the time, it seems the only way to truly end the pain is to end your life. 99% of the time it is not a cry for attention like you have insinuated.

    So, to sum it up, thank you for reminding me why I speak and write and advocate for mental health…it is people like you that keep me motivated.

    I speak because I can.

     

     

     

  • A Compelling Letter from Death

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    I have travelled the world from coast to coast, over and over since the beginning of time. I have seen the blessings and the sufferings of all of mankind. I have seen the souls of men, women and children through war, disease and famine. I have no sense of discrimination or bias. I do not judge.  I know not of religion, race, age or culture. It does not matter the riches you may or may not have had, or the tragedies and traumas you may have had to endure. It does not matter how much time you may or may not have had, or what you have or have not done, as upon the time of my arrival you are all the same. You are all on an equal playing field and at some point you all will have to face me, our meeting is inevitable; it is fate.

    I am death.

    I have a thousand faces, disguised in forms you recognize and many you cannot imagine. I am called to collect the souls that are loved and the ones who are forgotten. I pick up the leftovers of the damage mankind has caused to itself with war after war, century after century. I’ve gathered those of the innocent and naïve and those of people so heinous there are no words. I have watched the greed of mankind lead to millions of souls being stolen from starvation and disease, all for profit. I have seen the damage humans are willing to do to each other over the smallest of things and I am there to pick up whatever is left. I have forever been left saddened over collecting the souls of those who have departed too early; those of the children who never had the chance to grow and develop and live a life. Those who were not given a chance and their imminent meeting with me came long before it was due.

    I have seen the beauty as well. I have seen the kindness and generosity that is possible.  I have seen things at their purest forms. I have watched strangers help one another with no expectations and loved ones support each other during the most trying of times. I have watched love bring together people whose paths undoubtedly would never have crossed had it not been for this serendipitous connection. I have watched the weak fight and raise above their struggles and the strong reach a hand out to help. I have watched the rich share with the poor and the poor share with the poorer. I have observed altruism from humans extend to every living creature, from one corner of the world to the next, and watched the innocence of children spread joy and laughter across the seas.

    I am coming for you when it is your time, but I implore you not to call me early. I beg you not to take matters into your own hands regardless of the darkness that you feel, or the loneliness that seeps deep into your soul. I ask you to think twice, three times, or a million times if needed, before snuffing out the flame that represents your life. I will do that for you in due time. I have seen lives turned around in a matter of moments or a perhaps years, but the one constant is that everything changes.  Nothing remains the same. The seas rise and lower, the mountains shift. Your situation will change, the circumstances will change, your emotions will change and you will change, and what may seem impossible to face now will eventually be a memory; a stepping stone in your climb up to the light. You may not see it now but your life is a onetime gift and I plead with you to hold on to it like the rare treasure it is. I come for too many souls who have had no choice, but you do.

    So, do not seek me out, we will unite when the time is right.

     

  • What Depression Exhaustion Feels Like

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    At some point, all people get tired. Sometimes it is a physically tired body that is run down and overworked and requires some rest to heal itself, other times it is an overwhelmed mind that needs some rest to clear out and organize thoughts. Often it’s a combination of both that drives us to exhaustion and forces us to slow it down a bit, and take some time to rest. There’s that tired where you can’t stop yawning, the one that nothing will cure but a good night’s sleep, and there’s a tired from actually sleeping too much, and then there is a tired that comes with depression and other mental illnesses. That feeling of being tired from dealing with a mental health issue is difficult to explain to someone who has never felt that.

     It is not something you can empathize or sympathize with, because in your mind there is no reason I should be so exhausted. After all, I am off work right now and have no set agenda, so much of my day is spent “resting”, therefore how could I be so tired. You might even be thinking that if I got off my ass and started doing more during the day or perhaps even did some exercise, that might alleviate the feeling of being so wiped out. Perhaps a routine during the day or a more regular sleep schedule would solve the problem, or maybe add a nap. You mean well with your suggestions and ideas and I appreciate the effort, but this kind of tired can’t be solved by any of the above.

    This type of tired is like a constant state of exhaustion that riddles your body from head to toe. It is not a have a few cups of coffee and perk up kind of tired. It starts from the mental exhaustion that is from the daily wars that you fight inside your head from whatever mental health issue you are battling. It affects your emotions causing hypersensitivity to complete numbness and running the emotional gamut in between and having to constantly explain or justify it, believe it or not, is, in itself tiring. This type of tired makes you feel weak and vulnerable whether it is a reality or not. It makes every decision ten times harder to make and often means not being able to think clearly and focus or forgetting the simple things that before, you would have remembered.

    For me, depression tired means my legs ache and every step feels like I am carrying a ball and chain, leaving me to wonder how I could possibly get from point A to point B. This fatigue creeps up my body sitting heavily in my stomach and tying it in knots before working its way up, making my neck and shoulders ache to the point of not wanting to lift my arms or hold my head up. The thoughts in my mind are rapid and unrelenting and my brain is tired from trying to slow them down, and in some way organize and process them. It means spontaneously bursting into tears for no apparent reason with no apparent trigger. It means feeling tired when I wake no matter what the quality and quantity of sleep is. It means having to summons strength from somewhere within my already drained body to get basic things done leaving me at a point of exhaustion that simply cannot be described.

    My soul is tired.

    I don’t expect to ever be my old self again but I would like to have some energy back. Depression has drained enough from me already.

     

     

     

     

  • BPD and My First 15 Minutes

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    The moment my eyes open each morning, the same thoughts run through my head.

    Here we go again, another day of fighting non-stop battles in my mind, another day in which I begin the day as tired as I end it.

    The variations of thoughts that can overwhelm my mind in an instant have started; the first domino pushed down as the rest clatter and fall one by one, each one affecting the next and the speed picks up as the pattern continues. The rapid and often uncontrollable intense mood swings are my BPD’s worst nemesis.

    Well as much as I want to stay in bed all day, I know I won’t sleep and the lying around will lead to even more destructive thoughts. I wonder if she has text me.

    I sit up and as my eyes slowly start to open, I grab for my phone, knowing that something as small as a text, or the lack thereof could set me on a BPD ride for the day. Keep in mind there is nothing wrong with the text, it is usually as simple as a “morning” or an “I hope you slept well”, both perfectly nice words to wake up in the morning to. If for some odd reason I have had a good night’s rest or don’t wake up feeling quite as emotionally drained it seems so easy to just respond with a “good morning” and continue on with the conversation. However if I am on the BPD edge, the thought process is quite different.

    Oh look, she did text…a morning and that’s it? Omg maybe she is mad at me, or upset with something I said or did. Maybe she doesn’t want to talk to me anymore or know how I am doing, or maybe she doesn’t even love me or want to be with me anymore. I don’t blame her, I am impossible to be in a relationship with and maybe I really am not deserving of love and no one wants me. I hate being like this. I hate feeling out of control over these mood swings and I am never going to get better, no matter what pills or what therapy, I am just too damaged to be fixed.

    At this point, the tears start as I have a morning pity party sitting on the edge of my bed. This sadness, and these tears often goes on for hours as my mind continues to emotionally attack itself, but every time, at some point, the sadness turns to anger.

    Who cares if she only said morning, I don’t need to wake up to some generalized text anyway. I don’t need to wake up to any texts at all because I don’t need you or anyone. I have gotten this far on my own and I don’t need your help. Besides, it’s obvious you don’t care because if you did you would have said more than just “morning”. You are just like everyone else who loves me on the surface and abandons me, the past repeating itself over and over. Fuck this life and everyone in it anyway. I am alone, a complete failure and a waste of space. I shouldn’t even be alive.

    I sit up in bed and return the text with a casual “morning”.

    Umm it’s been five minutes and still no answer. Here we go again. Should I ask what I did wrong or just leave it alone? Why won’t she just answer, it only takes a few seconds. Maybe she doesn’t have time to talk to me or really doesn’t want to and is ignoring me.

     

    My phone vibrates and I quickly reach for it to read the message…”how are you?”, and the way I respond may very well set the tone for the day.

    Does she really want to know how I am or is she just asking to be polite? Should I keep it simple and just say that I am ok or do I be truthful and tell her that I have only been up for ten minutes and my emotions are already bouncing up and down? What if she doesn’t want to hear it for the hundredth time? I am sick of listening to myself so why would she want to know. God, I am so pathetic.

    I decide to keep it simple and reply with an “I’m ok”, to which she replies “good”

    Does she seriously think I am ok? Since when am I ok? I am a mess and always will be. Why does she think that today would be any different? What is wrong with me that I think like this and why can I not get this BPD under control? She is only asking how I am, a perfectly normal, nice question and yet my brain takes all these statements and twists them so fast I can hardly keep up. I just want to be normal, whatever that may be. Is it going to be another day of this hell? I am so tired already.

    All these thoughts and emotions have occurred before I have even stood up from my bed. Up and down that many times within 15 minutes. Welcome to the beginning of my day and thanks for taking the ride with me.

     

     

     

     

     

  • Love, Me and BPD

    Love, Me and BPD

     

    Borderline Personality Disorder basically feels like all your emotions are attached to your nerve endings, which are all protruding from your skin. They are constantly tingling and even the slightest breeze initiates a sense of pain that would be almost incomprehensible to someone who has never felt it. They fire off at even the smallest of triggers with the ferocity of an electric shock, no matter the time or place, for undetermined periods of time. It’s like being sunburnt to the point of blisters and the pain of having to put the cream on, then the gauze and top it off with the constant irritation of clothing; or like having open sores after having ripped the scabs off, only these sores are affected by words and actions instead of touch. Being around people can in itself be a challenge, but it seems for me that the closer you are to me, the more reactive my emotions are.

    It’s been just over seven months since I decided to deconstruct the wall that was guarding my heart and allow someone close enough to not only invite them in, but actually allow them to cross the threshold and shut the door behind them. It is a constant daily struggle to not to rebuild my walls while slowly pushing them out the door, or to just run out the door myself. The vulnerability that is involved in a relationship is a constant trigger to my deepest fears of abandonment and being un-loveable, and regardless of the constant reassurances I require and receive, the terror continues to surface. I question things that are said or not said, done or not done, and always seem to read between lines that are not even there, creating unnecessary negative scenarios that trigger me even further, causing me to either internalize the pain or lash out, neither of which are particularly healthy. With BPD, vulnerability is far more than the feeling of being susceptible. It is more like walking down a dark alley, naked and defenseless while trying to keep an eye out in every direction knowing that nothing can protect us, from others or from ourselves.

    Almost all of my relationships have had a sense of instability. Distant friends seem to be the easiest relationships to maintain because there is limited contact or communication, but the closer I am to someone the rockier the road becomes. My closest friends and my relationships often face the brunt of my BPD episodes, and despite my trying to control the impulsiveness of my words and reactions, I always seem to fail and for this reason, very few stick around. Despite my explaining my illness thoroughly it is just too much for them to understand and it is overwhelming. In fact, unless you have BPD you can sympathize but not truly empathize. The outbursts are so impetuous and the words so often hurtful that when I am rational, I can fully understand why no one would want to stay. If someone said those things to me, I wouldn’t stick around either, yet a few have chosen to stay, chosen to overlook and see past the emotional eruption I throw their way, and for the life of me I don’t know why.

    So to those who have stayed in my life despite having to put up a shield from my words and my BPD driven actions, from the bottom of my heart, I thank you. You have chosen to peel back the layers of my illness and look for the good beneath. You elect to not only see the positive qualities in me but point and try to bring them out. You put up with my erratic moods and my pushing you away with one hand while reaching out for you with the other. You remain loyal through the hardest times of my life and not turned your back, proving to me that there are people in my life who won’t abandon me, there are people who can love me, undeterred by my illness. I don’t test you on purpose, nor do I mean any malice with my words and I am working on learning to try and control both a little bit better, but in the meantime I want you to know your love, trust , loyalty and patience mean the world to me as I travel along this healing path. I truly love you and you are my family now.

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • Drowning In the Waters of Depression

     

     

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    I don’t know if it is the Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) or the depression, or the two of them that work together to try and pull me into the water, after securing boulders to my feet. Regardless of the fight left in me, the weight of the rocks pull me slowly under the water, before sinking me to the cold, dark bottom. These are the times I find it hardest to keep going, to keep fighting. These are the times where I question the progress I have made in therapy and wonder why I don’t yet feel better, or if I ever will.  These are the times when the smallest of things irritates me, getting under my skin to the point of feeling angry. These are the times when I cry the most, feel the most frustrated and misunderstood. These are the times that I wonder if I should fight to cut those boulders off and float to the surface or allow the water to fill my lungs and put my mind and body to a final, peaceful rest. I have clawed my way to the surface more times than I can count and will continue to do so.

    For me, these major depressive episodes can come on as quickly as the blink of an eye. They are often triggered by the simplest of things, and last anywhere from a few days to a few months. These are not BPD depression episodes which tend to bounce my emotions around more rapidly, like the lines on a heart monitor. These are feelings of hopelessness and despair compounded with an overwhelming sadness that leaves upon me, an invisible heaviness I can physically feel yet cannot accurately describe. This depression sucks the life out of me, emotionally and physically leaving a sense of tiredness that I can’t control. The simplest tasks like getting up and having a shower or doing the dishes can leave me feeling like I just ran a marathon. The exhaustion of doing something so menial leaves me wanting to crawl back into bed and sleep the day away, and the frustration of that, draws me further towards the bottom.

    The depression eats away at my desires. It sucks the pleasure out of the few things that once brought me joy, and replaces them with a complete lack of motivation. It feels like there is just no reason and no ability to see more than an hour ahead. Anything further than that feels impossible, and pointless. The depression makes my mind foggy and takes away my clarity and focus. It makes something that comes naturally to me, like writing, become a daunting and overwhelming task, as if I have to dig for the words instead of them just flowing. This depth of depression takes away every last ounce of hope I have. It makes the sunshine less bright and the flowers lose their wonder.

    This type of major depressive episode has an inner monologue that drowns out any voice of reason. It is louder than and stronger than the positivity in my mind, or the therapeutic techniques I have learned to put into practice. It feeds my inner critic with falsehoods so convincing, I have to stop myself from believing them, and remember that depression is a master liar. It amplifies every negative thought or action I have ever done in my life. It takes the words from voices of my past, reiterating that I am a failure, that I am worthless, that I am all those things they said and repeats them over and over like a skipping record. It slowly eats away at my hope replacing it with overwhelmingly realistic scenarios of negativity that are as easy to fall into as a pit of quicksand. It makes me question my existence, my purpose and if I will ever be able to do anything more than just survive.

    However, despite the despair and fear, I remain to fight. Despite the feeling of being constantly weighed down, I continue to fight the war in my head and survive its battle scars. I realize this will not last forever. It will pass just as the other episodes have. I know that regardless of the depths of dark, cold water I am pulled into, that I will continue to fight to untie those knots and release those boulders so I can take another breath and perhaps each time, I will spend be able to spend a bit more time at the surface.

     

  • Is the New Method of Suicide Note Online?

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    I have been passively suicidal for most of my life and actively suicidal three times. I know what it feels like to be carrying a burden so heavy your legs can no longer hold you up. I understand what it is like to see nothing but darkness and pain in your future and to have lost every last ounce of hope. I realize the amount of pain you have to be in to get here; to reach the point where death seems like your only option, the only way out. Without getting into the gritty details, let’s just say with my last attempt was meticulous and organized. To me, suicide is a very personal and private thing and I do not want to traumatize anyone more than they may already be. I wanted to make sure the authorities found me and not leave that scar upon my friends. I think most suicidal people would tell you they are not trying to hurt anyone, they just don’t know how else to end their pain. To them, this is the only way out.

    That being said, I ponder the people who are determined to make their suicide public. What drives them to jump in front of a train packed with commuters at rush hour? Is there any maliciousness towards others? Why not wait for a cargo train or an empty one? Why affect the lives of others intentionally? Have you felt so invisible your entire life that you felt this method of suicide would draw some attention to you for the five minutes of “fame” you will get as they mention you once on the news or in the papers? Do you feel that because you are in so much pain, then others should be too? These are questions that remain unanswered because there is no one left to answer them.

    Technology has done so much for our society and we have come so far in such a short time. The internet has provided endless amounts of information and resources. It has connected people across the world, whether it is family or new found friends. The advancements are rapidly changing and many things become fads until the next new thing is available. We were once excited about the fact we could make a video and put it on the internet for the world to watch at any time but now that is “old”, as the latest and greatest allows you to post live and to show the world a piece of your life at the very present moment. Sadly, there seems to be no limit to what people share, or what people are willing to watch, hence the alarming raise in the number of online live suicides. Again, what motivates someone to share both the preparations for and the last moments of your life with the entire world, and what kind of twisted individual do you have to be to sit and passively watch?

    The examples were certainly not difficult to find.

    A 12 year old girl, who had previously broadcast a few times that a family member had tried to rape her, hangs herself from a tree, live streaming the whole 40 minute video. Not only did people watch her live, but many of those people online actually encouraged her to kill herself.

    Another girl who had spent her life being bounced around foster care hung herself from the shower door of her bathroom, while 1000 people watched her make her preparations, many ridiculed her. A friend saw it and alerted police but they did not arrive in time.

    A 20 year old university student went on a message board and offered to kill himself online if he could get help setting up the live video stream. 200 viewers watched as he chased down pills with vodka, barricaded his dorm room door and then set fire to it while he waited to die lying under a blanket. No one online called 911.

    Those who turn on their webcams during the darkest, most desperate moments of their lives must feel a need for someone to bear witness to them, or perhaps wish that somebody out of the thousands watching the suicide would care enough to intervene and alert the authorities. They feel like finally their name will be heard and remembered, however within minutes of the video being taken down, most of the viewers will have already forgotten their name.

    The internet provides an outlet to suffer in public, to share pain and gain the attention desperately needed, however in these cases, perhaps the internet is just the new form of suicide note. Even though social media sites “prohibit” the promotion of suicide or self- injury and ask viewers to report to authorities immediately, there is no enforcement or regulation for these things. It is impossible for the sites to monitor everything which shifts the burden to the community to help stop bad things from happening. There are now groups of volunteers who monitor many of these live sites hoping to intervene before it’s too late, or perhaps before it is even started.

    What I find deplorable are the ones that watch. Are people so disconnected and desensitized that they can sit in the comfort of their homes and not only watch, but encourage a child to kill themselves. Unfortunately it isn’t surprising that online viewer’s tap into these streams, it is almost human nature. There’s no such thing as an accident without a crowd gathering and standing on tiptoes in order to see the person lying on the ground, or people slowing down to stare at the car accident.. Violence and destruction are everywhere in society, from the news to the entertainment industry. Perhaps there is a fascination with other peoples pain because it’s only one gesture removed from our own, or maybe it is just bystander apathy, which basically is a social phenomenon where people are less likely to help someone in need if there are other people present. We are all relying on someone else to make the first move, to differentiate themselves from the crowd, when in fact we should all feel a moral responsibility to help someone at risk, whether you take it seriously or not. How is it going to sit in your mind years from now that someone who was seriously sick killed themselves while you egged them on?

    I have been on both ends of suicidal situations and I know the anguish you can feel inside and the desperation to get any bit of attention, but posting a suicide attempt live is the ultimate cry for help, and I will never understand how anyone would take the time to not only watch someone make preparations but taunt and encourage them to carry through with that attempt, most often with fatal results. Think about it, someone’s life was in your hands and you made the conscious decision to do nothing but watch them die. It frightens me, the number of people who feel no moral obligations. We are all human.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • We All Just Want To Be Healed

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    We all just want to be healed. Regardless of what type of traumas we survived as children or adults, or which illnesses we have been diagnosed with, the end goal is the same. We want the pain and the burden of guilt and shame that we have carried for a lifetime to be eased. We yearn to somehow lessen the effects of our traumas that we drag along like a ball and chain, be it with medications, therapy or a combination of both. We’re looking for our piece of happiness and a sense of peace, but it seems that at some point in time, we all hit our “breaking” point and perhaps that is what starts us on our journey down the seemingly elusive path of healing.

    The road to healing is unpaved, unstable and full of unseen hills and curves, yet we trod along, often taking one step forward and falling three steps back. We may see some progress and then suddenly become overwhelmed with emotions which send us spiraling down into the darkness of depression, yet somehow with the lure of being healed, we eventually manage to claw our way back up to continue our fight. This cycle of ups and downs may slow down our progress but as long as we advance in a forward motion, we will get there eventually…or at least that is what my therapist tells me.

    As much as healing is the ultimate goal, I struggle with two major issues down my path, the first being, what exactly is healed? The concept is not only completely foreign to my mind but also seems completely unattainable. I can imagine it would be like the weight of the world being lifted off your shoulders, or like being able to have days where your mind does not perpetually attack you and send you into a state of emotional frenzy for minutes, hours or even days. I picture fewer tears, less ups and downs and less fear. I imagine rising in the morning and not having those instant few moments of wishing I hadn’t awoken. I picture a more emotionally stable life with healthier relationships and positive choices. Is that being healed or a fantasy I have created of what I wish things could be like?

    What is often forgotten on the path of healing is that in order to get there, I have to give up my two best friends, in my case, depression and anxiety, both of which have lasted longer than any one person or thing in my life. Even though I despise the depths of the darkness I am pulled into, there is a sense of comfort there simply because of familiarity.  I have been wading in those waters for so long I no longer know the feeling of walking on dry land. I would have to walk away from the safety of my passive suicidal thoughts, the one thing I can control. I may not be my illnesses per say, but they have certainly been with me long enough to become a small part of my identity, regardless of the obvious negative aspect, and I am supposed to just lose pieces of me and trade them in for the unknown?

    The same applies to my negative coping mechanisms. I have been in weekly trauma based therapy for over a year and have been taught many new, positive ways to handle different situations. I have learned different techniques to recognize where my emotions are coming from, that perhaps they are a trauma response from the past. I have been shown how to try to regulate the impulsivity associated with BPD. I have listened, learned, read books and done worksheets and yes, have even taken a few steps forward. However, learning and putting into practice are two different things. When I am of rational mind I am calm enough to remember these methods and perhaps even put them to practice, but when I am emotively driven, the new habits are kicked out the door by the old ones which have become instinctual. They may not be the healthiest ways to cope but for me, they are tried, tested and proven. They have helped to get me through the hardest of times from the earliest of ages. They have kept me safe and alive until this very day, and again I am expected to surrender them and replace them with methods that in my mind are yet untested and unproven.

    The path to healing involves a whole lot of uncertainty and blind trust. It means being willing to lose those parts of you that have provided safety and comfort for all those years. It requires an open mind, an open heart and the aspiration to learn. Don’t get frustrated with not making instant or even quick progress, as it takes hours and hours of practice to replace a negative coping mechanism with a healthy one, which will take patience and dedication. All of these twists and turns on my path of healing have tested every emotion and reaction possible, they have pushed me back as I am struggling to step forward, yet I continue on. I am not yet at the point of replacing all of the old with new and have found that as long as I have the comfort and availability of the old tucked in the back of my head, then the new seems a little less frightening. It’s like wading into the deep waters but knowing there is a lifeboat within reach.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • The Dread of Losing My Sanctuary

     

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    I have lived in the same place for 13 years now. It is a small, cozy apartment in a historic house in a quiet, old area tucked in the suburbs. Over the years I have made it as much my own space as possible. It is well suited to my needs and most importantly my budget. When I first moved in, it took quite a few months for me to feel just physically safe. The blackness of the backyard, the creaks of the floors above and the surrounding sounds kept me alert at night for months on end, and despite me being surrounded by my possessions, it was well over a year before I started to feel the emotional safety I desperately need. Having Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) and major depression, I tend to isolate myself from people and places as much as possible. When I am alone and safe, I can be me without worrying about others reactions or feeling insecure I can cry, scream, shout, be in the silence or do whatever it is that comforts me at the time and I don’t have to deal with the anxiety from the stigma surrounding mental health.

    My house is being torn down for property development.

    Very often, survivors of childhood trauma have difficulty finding a sense of both physical and emotional safety. For me, it comes out as an intense feeling of uneasiness in public places and increased anxiety in social situations. My mind and body have become hyper-sensitive over the years which leads to me feeling like I am always looking over my shoulder, keeping my senses and emotions on high alert.  Most survivors have created their own place of safety, whether it’s at your therapist’s office or your home, a room in your home, it is a sanctuary; the one place you can just be you without fear of stigma or judgment. It is a space that provides you comfort, ease and a sense of peace.

    Nobody enjoys moving. It is a big change and causes anxiety and stress for many people but when you have the addition of a mental illness to the situation those feelings increase tenfold. There’s the organizing, the checklists and the packing. There is the packing and unpacking of the truck and organized chaos while boxes are being carried to their according spaces. There is the hassle of having to dig through stacks of boxes to find the simplest of necessities and the frustration of not being able to do so. You desperately want to unpack everything, find its place and put it away as soon as possible in order to gain some control over the chaos that has become. Chances are you did not pack your home in a day so it is somewhat unreasonable to expect to unpack within the same time frame. Sure, you can relax somewhat now that the biggest part is done, but that does not necessarily put you at ease. For me, there is the stress of getting to know a new area, with new neighbors and new landmarks. There are the new creaks and noises to adjust to while I lay in bed at night. There is the gradual acclimation to the new places and spaces that I have filled with my décor to turn the new into the comfortable.

    The specifics of when I will have to move are one big unknown. I have a rough idea in my head, but the fact that it is not concrete, leaves it out of my control, and has me at great unease. I have about four months to save for first and last month’s rent plus moving expenses, and that is even if I can qualify given I am on Long term disability right now. I have made countless lists of what needs to be done, down to the smallest detail and am as prepared as I can be this far ahead of time, and yet my anxiety spikes and my depression spirals down every time I think of it. Quite simply put, for me, it is far too much change. It requires time to adapt to a new environment but being able to make it a safe place, a sanctuary could take months, and that leaves me emotionally vulnerable, scared, depressed and anxious. I understand that I will have with me the things that make my home comfortable, but for a survivor, feeling comfortable is far from feeling safe. It means I have to deal with the loss of my safe space and a period of limbo until I can create a new one.

    So in the meantime, I can do little other than wait. Wait and hope. Hope that the fear and anticipation won’t push me deeper into the darkness. Hope that my anxiety does not continue to snowball into a million negative scenarios and enhance the issues from my BPD. Hope that things will work out the way they are meant to be. Those thoughts however do not seem to be easing my fears.  Change is inevitable.

     

     

  • Just A Quick Note

    I wanted to sincerely thank everyone who takes the time weekly to read my blog. It really does mean a lot to me and is very humbling. I try to post weekly but wanted to  inform you that for the first Monday of each month I have been asked by a good friend and fellow survivor to be a guest blogger on his site, so if you are still interested in reading you can find the posts at mindbodythoughts.blogspot.ca. My regular posts will be on here except for the beginning of the month.

    Be well and stay strong.

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