Tag: mental illness

What bullying does to brilliance

saradobiebauer

There’s this teenager I know. She’s brilliant, way mature for her age. She reads books I read and discusses them with a level of intellect and understanding that never fails to amaze. Let’s call her Emily. Then, I received the news yesterday …

Due to suicide speak, cutting, and bulimia, Emily has been placed in a special care facility. She’s only thirteen. When asked what caused all this, Emily admits it was bullying.

Once upon a time, Emily dated the middle school star. He was an athlete and popular kid, whereas Emily was quiet, snarky, and smart. She only recently discovered her preference for girls. In fact, Emily broke up with Mr. Popularity to date a girl, but beware the delicate egos of teenage boys.

Emily’s ex-boyfriend built an Instagram account for the sole purpose of terrorizing her. Via that account, he sent message after message:

You’re ugly.

You’re fat.

You’re going to hell.

Sadly, Emily started to believe this boy’s vitriol, and although she probably had some simmering depression issues already (as do many girls going through puberty), this bullying pushed her into a deep, dark hole where suicide seemed the best recourse.

The eating disorder flourished, too. Emily began counting the amount of carrots she ate. She started watching her mother cook dinner, making sure she didn’t use too much butter. Even when she did eat, Emily soon disappeared to purge. She lost thirty pounds.

Eventually, the cruel Instagram account was discovered, and the middle school principal kindly asked Mr. Popularity to stop harassing Emily. The principal spoke to the boy’s parents but not Emily’s. Apparently, Emily wasn’t important enough to enter the discussion. I’m sure the principal assumed she would be fine. A little bit of bullying? No big deal.

Well, she’s not fine. Her parents can’t leave her alone for fear of what she might do. She spends her days at the care center on a strict diet, surrounded by 12-18-year-old kids like her. They attend support groups and talk through their problems. Emily hopes to return to normal school by the end of March.

But what awaits her then? More bullying? Will Mr. Popularity come back for more? Will the principal acknowledge the bullying? Will the principal care? Will anyone care?

A couple weeks ago, a local sixth grader committed suicide by slitting her wrists. This was not a passive attempt; this was violent dedication. I don’t know why she chose to end her life, but I do wonder how a sixth grader arrived in such a dark place.

It seems like a vague broad stroke to blame society or social media, but I don’t know where else to look. When I was in sixth grade, I didn’t know what suicide was. I was most concerned with my grades, not my mental health. Shit, I didn’t know what “mental health” was. Kids today do. They’ve become experts at being sad, confused, and sometimes cruel.

I’m scared for them. I want to hug all of them, especially Emily as they treat the sores in her throat from months of purging and keep her away from sharp objects. This little girl has so much promise—a truly amazing youth—and some dumb idiot bully robbed her joy and distorted her self-image.

I don’t have answers. I do think about that old CSNY song … “Teach your children well.” Mr. Popularity might have earned a little slap on the wrist, but I doubt he understands the full ramifications of his actions. I’m sure he doesn’t know the destruction he caused, but maybe if he did, he would stop bullying instead of moving on to the next victim.

Similarly, it appears discussing mental health needs to happen early. When I was in elementary school a hundred years ago, we never talked about depression, anxiety, or eating disorders. Maybe we should, just so kids can understand that there is help if they’re sad. However, flip that coin, and educating them early might impart the knowledge to hurt themselves. How much do we want our kids to know anyway? How early are we willing to lose that innocence?

It’s all just a mess. I wish I knew what to do. I wish I could help Emily—and I do try, as best as I can, but it’s not enough. Cutting can be perceived as an addiction, and we all know addicts won’t get well unless they make that choice; other people can’t make it for them. Maybe that’s what Emily is going through now. She must decide to put the razor down and eat again, and I hope she will. The world is a much brighter place with her in it.

Please listen to your kids. Keep an eye on them, but don’t hover because that will undoubtedly push them away. Love them. Just love them.

Holiday cheer?

saradobiebauer

On our descent into O’Hare International Airport in Chicago Friday night, we passed through a thick layer of fog/smog. Not sure which. This was after a week of Christmas celebrations and travel with two non-functional post-op feet. A week of very little alone time for a woman who loves alone time.

Anyway, we had to fly through fog, okay? But then, once the fog broke, there were all these little lights. If you’ve ever flown at night, you’re aware there are little lights. This was different. These were Christmas lights. Teeny tiny Christmas lights decorated little Monopoly-sized houses that got bigger and bigger as we descended into O’Hare.

It was … beautiful. All those houses lit with glimmering lights of green, blue, red, et cetera. Houses I will never see up close, decorated by people I will never meet. It didn’t matter. It was a sight that took my breath away.

Friday night, I was tired. I was grumpy. I was in pain. All of it went away when I saw all those twinkle lights beneath the fog.

I suppose the metaphor is obvious, but let’s reiterate: beneath all the shit is something beautiful. Beneath all the sadness and tough times you’re going through, something meaningful awaits. We don’t go through shit for no reason. We don’t float through the fogs of mental illness/death/worthlessness/name your poison for nothing.

Eventually, twinkle lights show up and remind us that life is beautiful. It’s easy to forget, especially during this difficult time of year when we’re supposed to be jolly and blah blah happy blah joy to the world blaaaaaaaaah. Most of us aren’t fucking jolly, okay? We’re sad and stressed and just want the parties to be over.

Then, there were those tiny lights decorating houses in Chicago, and BOOM.

Joy.

Happiness.

A wily giggle.

Sorry if you’re going through the fog right now. I know I have been. And no, the lights didn’t heal everything, but they made me remember that life is pretty damn good. Yeah, we pass through dark times, but there’s light eventually. We just gotta be strong and wait. Trust me; the light shows up when you least expect it.

Live life to the fullest?

saradobiebauer

Just had a phone call with my hubby. One of his old coworkers is in hospice, dying of cancer, and the man’s wife has kept a journal of all the happenings that (according to my husband) is both sad and uplifting. It’s a reminder to live every day to the fullest because tomorrow is never promised.

I cried today over a rejection letter from a literary agent. It was the final rejection in a long line for a certain manuscript that initially evoked much enthusiasm with agents … but, in the end, did not. I cried over this rejection and came to the realization that bartending is way more fun than publishing. And the money is better. And it’s just so much less stressful and emotional.

Maybe it’s because I suffer from chronic depression, but some days, I’m just pissed. I don’t want to have a positive outlook. I want to be grumpy. Are grumpy days wasted? Are busy days wasted? Ferris Bueller would have us slow down and stare life in the face, but Jesus Christ, some days, I DON’T WANT TO.

Again, maybe it’s the depression, but living life to the fullest sounds mostly tiresome. I mean, it’s not like I can just stop working and run amok around the world, having many adventures. I probably wouldn’t want to anyway. Living life to the fullest sounds exhausting. Also, I’m not actually sure how to do it.

I’m not a deep person. I rarely ponder the mysteries of the universe or the purpose of life. Mostly, I just stay busy because I don’t know what else to do. What is the point of all this anyway?

I’ll let you in on a secret: I’ve totally lost touch with God lately. I talk to Him, but I don’t know what He wants from me. What am I here for anyway?

People, right? Loving the people in your life is important, and yet, I’ve been too busy to give my family members the attention they deserve. I should be talking to them more, because remember: tomorrow is not promised. I could make more time for them, but I’m in a chaotic fog most of the time.

I have loved reentering the bartending field, and I love writing. (I hate pretty much every other part of being a writer except the writing.) It would be so much more fun to write for me and my friends and bartend to make a living, because Lord knows writing books doesn’t pay the bills.

See? I’m complaining about the most inane stuff when young people are dying of cancer. A woman is about to lose her spouse, and I’m stressed about making dinner.

Change my perspective, right? See what’s really important in life. Focus on the positives. Live life to the fullest.

It’s all so easy to say, but how the hell do I do it?

I Do Not Feel Okay … Do You?

saradobiebauer

sad

Yesterday, I watched someone have a meltdown at my bar. I realize alcohol is a crazy thing and that, as a bartender, I often see crazy things due to alcohol. Last night was something else. It was a full grown man finally breaking down after a series of very unfortunate events, and he broke down in a violent, loud, hard to watch way (that eventually merited the cops).

This isn’t specifically directed towards men, although I know most men were raised to be tough and not talk about their feelings. Women have the same problem because we want to seem perfect, like we have it all together (and really, who does?). This isn’t even a particularly long blog post, but listen.

Sometimes, we all need help.

Sometimes, we need to admit that we are

Sad

Angry

Depressed

Happy

Joyful

Giddy

Terrified

Weak

Numb

Pick your emotion.

I don’t want you to have a meltdown. If you think your mental health is taking a turn, don’t just sit idly back and hope it gets better. Do something. Talk to friends and family. Talk to your spouse/boyfriend/girlfriend. Talk to your doctor about getting on meds. Talk to a therapist. Hell, just write a loud ranting blog post.

Whatever you do, get that poisonous shit out.

Get treatment.

Get help.

I guess that’s the first step: learn that it’s okay to ask for help. It’s okay to admit you’re not perfect. In fact, it’s okay to admit you’re barely holding on. When you’re barely holding on, that’s when you need the most help, so please please PLEASE don’t suffer in silence.

My heart broke for my devastated customer last night. I want him to get help and get better, but he has to make the decision to seek help. He has to admit I DO NOT FEEL OKAY, and with admittance comes the start of healing.

You are not alone

saradobiebauer

Yesterday, I wrote a pretty heavy blog post because life is heavy right now. I received some amazing responses, some serious, some silly, but all reminding me that I do not suffer alone. A sampling of texts …

“So we have this life. Mother Earth gives us everything we need to survive but does not give a fuck if we do or not. I think that’s beautiful. We must learn to fight. Learn to adapt. Learn to love. Then we learn that everything ends. That’s beautiful, too. So in this brief time we are given, we can do our best to live our best lives and make a difference in whatever small way we can. Or we can sit around and feel bad for ourselves and be miserable. We’re gonna die eventually regardless of our choices. Might as well make good choices.”

“I feel you. Life sucks balls. Just pretend to Life. You can. Do it.”

“I actually sobbed my way through your post this afternoon because I can relate to it so much right now. Reaching out to you from my own dark hole.”

“I just wanna float. Is that possible?”

“That kind of depression sucks. It’s the ‘I’d rather not get out of bed’ variety. Exercise is basically the only thing keeping me sane right now.”

“I once asked a professor I really respected how she ‘did it all,’ expecting some super wise advice. She said, ‘Just get up and do things. Then, things happen.’ I was disappointed at the time, but the older I get, the more I think that’s about right. Just keep on going on.”

Several of these messages were interspersed with GIFs of Timothee Chalamet and Cillian Murphy, so that didn’t hurt, but the words were helpful, too.

Just remember: you’re not alone in your depression. Other people are super sad, too. Other people can’t get out of bed, either. We are never alone, and we can’t give up.

Depression never really goes away

saradobiebauer

I’m trying not to be angry with myself for my current state of depression. It doesn’t help to get angry with myself. I know, scientifically and from experience: depression doesn’t go away. It merely hides.

Literally, I say in my own mental health speech:

“I think the scariest thing about depression is that it waits. It has the patience of God. It’s that dark shadow in the scary movie, the monster under your bed. It waits and it waits and then it shows up with its knives for fingers, bloodshot eyes, fangs. It shows up and says, ‘Remember me? You didn’t really think I’d gone, did you?’”

Maybe I’m angry because, for a hot minute, I was doing so well. I was in the midst of successful therapy and had finally found an antidepressant that worked. There was joy in my life again. There were actual emotions other than sad and sadder. I looked forward to things and woke in the morning not dreading every minute of the coming day.

Then, some bad things happened last week. I was on a bender all weekend. There are hazy alcohol moments I don’t quite remember. I felt out of control. I wanted to give up on everything.

I told myself Sunday night, Okay, that’s it; tomorrow is a new week. You got this.

Well, I don’t “got this.”

I’m beyond sad. I’m numb, which might be worse, and I’m beating myself up because YOU WERE DOING SO WELL, SARA. Things looked good again. I felt good again. Now, it’s all gone.

Depression isn’t like the flu. You can’t get an anti-depression vaccine. It’s the invisible killer. There is no cure, only treatments, and many of us seek treatments so we can live semi-normal lives. But just like cold weather makes arthritis flare up, life circumstances affect our mental health—no matter the yoga or funny movies or SSRIs.

Depression is the relative you don’t like but shows up for surprise visits anyway.

Depression is the thief who comes in the night and makes you less in the morning.

Depression is the thing that will never let me go because it’s not only in my blood but also in my sensitive, artistic psychological makeup.

This is me, riding the proverbial rollercoaster. Up, down, up, down.

Today, I can’t remember how to be happy. I don’t even remember what “happy” feels like, but I tasted it for several weeks this year, so I know I can get back there. I can find “happy” again. For now, I nurse an open wound that doesn’t bleed because depression is invisible.

It’s not like getting your arm chopped off. If you get your arm chopped off, people are going to point and say, “You should probably get that checked out.” No one can look at depression, see the pain is so much worse, and give me a bandage to fix it.

Invisible me

saradobiebauer

ghosts hand

One of my earliest childhood memories is from when I was three. I was friends with these twin sisters who were blind, and we were looking under my bed, possibly for monsters. I told them to “Look,” and they told me, “We can’t.” I’m not sure my childhood brain really understood, but I knew they couldn’t see me.

A later memory was of swimming at the Perrysburg pool. I was a good swimmer, but I was tiny. A friend of mine—who was a lot bigger than me—started panicking in the water. She shoved me under, held me under, in her rush to get out of the deep end. Once I was able to escape her grip, I vomited. Hygienic, I know, but it was like she didn’t notice I was drowning.

When I look back at school as a kid, I was the smallest one in class. I wore big glasses and had a funny haircut. I was smart, well behaved, and shy. No one saw me. I was an invisible kid simply because I was good and average and quiet.

This isn’t to say I wasn’t loved. I’m sure I was, dearly, but when I think hard about my childhood memories, they’re mostly of things happening to other people, like I was an observer but not a participant in life. I remember my dad crying when his father passed away. I remember a drunken woman peeing on our front porch. I remember watching the neighbors have a huge screaming fight. I saw, and no one noticed because I was the invisible kid.

Most of my current issues, seemingly, have to do with my fear of returning to that state—of becoming Mrs. Cellophane. (Look right through me, walk right by me.) Maybe this is why I dye my hair crazy colors and wear revealing clothes. Although I can’t imagine being anything else, maybe this is partially why I’m a writer. It’s a limelight sort of career, especially the romance genre, especially erotica. (Look at me! Look at all the smut!)

Lately, despite professional success and an amazing support system, I have felt invisible. Like no one cares. Like no one is listening. Like no one can really see me. It’s partially my own fault, because I come off as happy and carefree—the social butterfly. And, yes, there’s a thing as being “too seen.” This past weekend, I was sexually harassed at a convention, possibly due to my weird hair and revealing clothes. Desperate to disappear on Monday, I wore a huge coat, didn’t wear makeup, and covered my head in a big hat. Sometimes, surprise, I want to be as invisible as possible.

But not usually. Usually I want to be seen and heard and understood. Our early memories shape us greatly, and the invisibility of my youth has followed me like a ghost into adulthood. I fear being forgotten, being ignored. My depression thrives in this space. When I begin to feel invisible, the Depression Monster loves coming around to remind me … “You’re not important. No one needs you. They look right through you, walk right past you.” Maybe this is why my mental health has been so bad lately.

Do you know me? Do you see me? I’m barely here.

Cold season

saradobiebauer

IMG_8021

My brother and I sometimes joke about how nice it would be to have the emotional sensitivity of a sociopath. It’s a joke—mostly. However, it would honestly be nice to just not care and not worry about what other people think and not worry about emotions and blah blah blah …

Let me be Sherlock Holmes for a day and just. Not. Give. A. Shit.

Currently, I have a cold. A terrible, stupid cold that doesn’t let me sleep and makes my brain all fuzzy. And honestly? I feel nothing. I’m like the honey badger. (“Honey badger don’t give AF!”)

In physical therapy recently, my doc talked about how that one joke is true. You know the joke, goes like this:
Person one: My stomach hurts.
Person two: Want me to punch you in the face?

The distraction of pain is actually a real thing. When people get into car accidents, their bodies are often only capable of reacting to the worst pain. Usually, that pain is whiplash. They get the whiplash treated without realizing they have a broken wrist until two days later.

That’s what it’s like being physically ill right now. I have all this work and house cleaning. My husband is traveling. I could be stressing, but I’m not. I float in a cold medicine haze. I do not clench my jaw as I type. The faulty, injured rib in my chest is forgotten. My sickness has made me a momentary sociopath, replacing emotional duress with a pile of snotty tissues.

It’s sort of nice really. Alarming but nice, so long as my emotions do eventually come back. (Even bad emotions are better than no emotions.) Today, my body is too sick for my brain to be depressed. Maybe it’s the cold; maybe it’s the Mucinex. Whatever, I’ll take it. It’s a relief giving my emotions a break.

Stressors

saradobiebauer

journl

My therapist asked me to write my daily stressors in a journal, but I feel like “my dogs barking” is trite when there are things like school shootings and walls being built out there. But I am me, and my world is small. Therefore, “my dogs barking” is indeed a stressor. My girlfriend says, “To each their own.” She says this in reference to my fixation on actor Timothee Chalamet. He’s too skinny for her.

To each their own.

My dogs BARKING.

What else is on my stressor list? I’m not ready to tell you the big ones, I don’t think. We’ve only just met. Maybe a couple little ones. Hmm…

Therapy. Therapy stresses me out, which is funny because it’s supposed to help–and it does really. I’ve only been in therapy for about three weeks now. It was my last resort because I’ve been severely depressed for two months and don’t want to go back on medication. In regards to mental health, I’ve been doing the right things. My “witchy” friend in Arizona (who’s not actually a witch, but I like calling her that) suggests making tinctures and teas with ingredients like St. John’s Wort, catnip, and ginkgo. I use my sun lamp in the morning. I binge Letterkenny and Seinfeld on Hulu. I write smutty fan fiction and make myself laugh. I even bought an adult coloring book with cuss words to add some color. Nothing helps. I’m not getting better. So therapy. I’m trying, really, so I don’t have to go back on meds. And even if I love my therapist (she’s awesome with funky hair and a nose ring), I still get stressed about therapy because I know I’ll be tired after. I’ll probably cry. I’m tired of crying.

My body stresses me out. I pulled a rib/muscle (the exact prognosis is up for debate) in the center of my chest in October, which means I had to cut way back on my yoga. Yoga is like a religion to me, and I’ve missed it. I just started going back, but it stresses me out that I can’t do the moves I used to. It stressed me out that I can’t challenge my body. I’m a China doll under the radiant heat of hot yoga. I’m trying to go slow, but I’ve never been good at that before. It’s hard to break old habits … which I’m learning in therapy.

No matter how much they bark, I stress over my dogs. Maybe I accidentally leave a candle lit and my house burns down and my dogs are trapped inside. Maybe they run away. Maybe they get hurt. Maybe I won’t survive their loss.

Sometimes, I stress about drinking. Am I doing it to numb myself? Adversely, am I doing it to be able to talk to people? I’m an introvert with an anxiety disorder, but I’m actually good at talking to people—unless I’m depressed. However, add alcohol, and I’m the life of the party. I worry, though. It’s very easy to make myself numb; what if I start needing to live that way?

I stress because I don’t dream anymore. All my life, my dream was to be a published author, and now, I am. I thought it would make everything okay, like “Once I get published, I’ll never be depressed again.” Lie. Huge lie. I don’t know what to dream about anymore. What do you dream about?

I stress over mistakes I made ten years ago. Those mistakes keep me up at night.

I stress over dumb stuff, too. I was sad for a week after Timothee Chalamet didn’t get an Oscar nomination for his role in the addiction drama Beautiful Boy. How dumb is that? I don’t even know the guy.

But ah, we’re back to the dogs barking.

Just because a stressor is dumb doesn’t mean it isn’t a stressor—doesn’t mean that stressors don’t affect your mental health. No matter how trivial, stress is stress, and I’m trying to find patterns. I’m trying to see what ruins my day so I can make the days better. I’d suggest you do the same. You’d be surprised.

Let’s Talk About Cutting

saradobiebauer

I want to cut my wrists. Don’t panic; it’s not a serious thing. I don’t want to kill myself, but sometimes, when I’m daydreaming, I like to think about cutting myself.

I’ve been doing it off and on in secret since eighth grade. Once I hit my upper twenties, I stopped caring if anyone noticed. Now, in my thirties, good friends know how things are going based on my Band-Aids.

Again, this isn’t a suicide thing. It’s not a “cry for help.” I don’t cut for attention. I don’t cut because I mean myself any harm. I cut because it feels good. Physical pain is better than emotional pain any day. But it very rarely comes to that anymore. Mostly, it’s just in my head. I fantasize about cutting because it calms me down.

Say I’m in a crowded room, and people are small talking around me and I’m just feeling … anxious. I zone out and picture a knife against my skin. Not cutting into my skin—just lingering above it, like a playful tickle. This is my meditation, my visualization, my Power Animal. This image calms me down and always has.

I considered getting a tattoo on my left wrist. That way, I wouldn’t cut my left wrist anymore because I wouldn’t want to ruin the ink. But then I thought, “How does ink hold up on scar tissue?”

I spoke to a group of troubled teens a couple months ago. I admitted to a room full of strangers (who possibly had more in common with me than most “adults”) that I’d been cutting for years. One of the girls asked, “How did you stop?”

Well, I didn’t want to tell her I hadn’t. Instead, I lied. I told her I channeled the yearning to cut into something else—my writing, for instance, or yoga.

But being a cutter is like being a smoker. You quit … but you never really quit.

I’m not saying this to freak out my mother or make you uncomfortable. I’m saying this to be honest. I often question God’s intentions: Why did You give me this stupid disease? Why did You do this to me? What kind of a loving god are You anyway?

See, I get sad, then I get mad. Once I’ve calmed down, I usually realize I wouldn’t be “me” without the depression. I wouldn’t be as weird or funny or oddly charming. I wouldn’t be an artist. I also wouldn’t be able to speak to troubled teen girls or write blog posts that hopefully help other people—make them feel not so alone.

Recently, when I opened up about self-harm, I brought it up, nonchalantly, with a friend of mine who shocked me by saying, “Yeah, I’ve been trying so hard not to cut lately.” Who knew? Now, I do, and now, we talk about it.

We need to talk about this stuff. In college, I hid my mental health problems. No one would ever have thought, “Wow, Sara’s a real downer.”

The older I get, the more I have learned to embrace “me,” even the psycho side of me who wants to stay in bed, never eat again, and play with knives. If anyone needs a hug, it’s her!

So seriously, I’m not trying to freak you out. I just want you to know me, and maybe someday, we can help each other. Isn’t that why we’re here anyway?