How I've managed to escape addiction is an actual miracle. I mean, I can count on two fingers the times I've tried alcohol! (Beer, which tasted like sweaty gym socks, and a glass of wine at a cousin's wedding.) I used to joke that I was simply born without any desire for mood-altering substances, but the older I get the more I've come to realize I survived by the skin of my teeth because some small part of me knew from early on what hell I would unleash if I ever turned to substances. And though I've been lucky, I would never count myself above anyone who isn't also sober, as I've fought my own battles with other, different addictive behaviors.
Many with mood disorders (bipolar, schizophrenia) turn to drugs and/or alcohol in effort to escape the never-ending nightmare that is being unable to trust your own mind. The line between reality and delusions often becomes blurred, and for some it's on a daily basis. After years, months, even days of that sort of terror, wouldn't you do anything for relief? Even though I've lived sober throughout my issues, that's not to say I've never felt that pull. There are times I want to down as much hard liquor as possible and if I haven't drank myself to death by the next day, wake up and do the whole thing over again. Wash, rinse, repeat until the delusions pass. It's such an inviting notion to be able to calm the storm in my head, but in those dark moments there was one lone voice frantically urging me to push past it. I would fantasize about the lengths I would go to in order to cope, and then this mental slideshow would start playing. Sure, drinking myself into oblivion sounds wonderful, but later on, there I was an alcoholic. Shoot up and feel painless and content, but without a doubt overdose within a few short years. There would be no casual, recreational use with me; I can have an obsessive, addictive personality, and to invite anything destructive like that into my life would have been a death sentence.
My therapist and I have talked at lengths about substance abuse and how, if I had started when the episodes did as a child, I would've been dead before making it out of my teenaged years. It's a chilling thought, one that's constantly lurking in the back of my mind, but it keeps me alive. And again, the one experience with THC was enough to eradicate any lingering doubts: if my mind is this fucked up sober, the literal absolute last thing I need to be doing is be altering it in any way. Some days I'm unable to tell the distinction between what is actually happening and what my diseases are fabricating, and it's that small voice that keeps me from losing it entirely. Regardless if I have a harmless glass of wine or smoke something to relax my nerves, once my inhibitions are lowered that sane, rational voice will get smaller and smaller until finally, the insidious voices take over. I would be angry, violent, destructive, and completely uncaring. I would want to cause as much pain as I've felt, pain that went ignored for so long it started to rot inside me and turn parts of me into a cold, calculated sociopath with no feelings other than the rage. To be able to recognize that and avoid it at all costs comes with a monumental price, though, but it's one I will pay time and time again. Part of therapy is working on beneficial coping skills to replace the self-destructive ones, and because I've avoided substance abuse, mine manifest themselves as self-harm. Depending on whether I need a release or a quick jolt back to reality, I would either see it as punishment or what I've referred to as an "offering to the voices," essentially. Because self-harm can release the very same endorphins drugs do, you can begin to link the behavior to the euphoric feeling of relief.
But I feel like my self-awareness alone wouldn't do the trick; I have been enormously fortunate to have avoided what has so easily ensnared so many others. Good, kind people who have suffered and were pushed to their breaking point. People who are preyed upon by those greedy and lusting for power and wealth. And to everyone struggling with addiction of any kind, my heart breaks for you. It breaks for everyone who has been dealt an invisible illness and is tying to navigate the unchartered territory the best they can. I met some recovering addicts while I was in the hospital and their determination to get clean was nothing short of awe-inspiring. It is my hope that we all find the same courage in our journeys towards recovery, and know that there really is hope. Some days it might be far away, and other days feel as though it's entirely gone, but please believe I am cheering you on and that with each other's support, we're going to make it.
"Maybe I'm fucking up, but I think that that's ok, just so long as I'm learning every day." Make Do and Mend
Sunday, June 5, 2016
Friday, May 27, 2016
"Grew up a screw up!"
That quote from a friend has been bouncing around my head the last few days. Recently I decided to write a book about growing up with mental illness. For me, reading about people's experiences is highly therapeutic, and I've always enjoyed writing (as a kid I wrote newspapers for cats, by cats, so...), and I figured everybody else is writing books now so why not me? But revisiting some of my past, even with the guidance of my therapist, has been proving difficult.
Like many others with mental illness, I have my hand in a fair number of disorders. An old therapist used to tell me, "it's like going to an all-you-can-eat buffet and picking out a little bit of this, a little of that." Having traits of one or a diagnosis of another made no difference to me: I was weird, I was different, and I felt wrong. I felt incomplete, like someone was supposed to flip a switch to give me a normal brain, but forgot. There was always something inside me that was patiently waiting, watching as I suffered through panic attacks as early as age seven and when the perfect storm of life-changing events hit me at age eleven, the monster roared itself to life. My first two suicide attempts came in quick succession, and I spent the next five years convincing myself to get out of bed every morning by whispering, "just make it through today and you can kill yourself tomorrow." Those demons raised me, did their best to break me, and taunted me with hope always just out of reach. I was a shell-shocked child wandering around in a daze, acting out in violent outbursts as a cry for help.
Throughout the following years, I had a few psychotic breaks and knowing that it could be a permanent change one day brings up so many emotions that I just become confused and numb. Knowing that you're not quite insane but very well could become so after one too many breakdowns isn't exactly an easy thing to hear, and not something I can focus on as I'm working towards making myself healthy. But it's always there, in the back of my mind, and some days it's so close I could wave hello. With an indescribable longing, I put my hand up to the glass and watch as my reflection does the same. Feel the pull to join it on the other side, free of any burdens or worries, free to do and say whatever I want. I know that once I open that door, it will be nearly impossible to shut it and there will be absolutely horrendous consequences... But giving up means no more fighting for my life every single day. The voices would cease in their daily torment and maybe, just maybe, they would be my friends. (So, yea, I hear voices. I've dealt with auditory hallucinations most of my life and I simply assumed as a child that everyone else did too, they just kept it secret. Like me!) But those are their promises and I know full well they're empty and hollow, but there are days they're maddeningly tempting.
The closest I've come to that reality was the one time I tried weed. People swear by it to calm their anxiety and better their moods, and I had nothing left to lose at that point. So I ate an edible, and spent the next two hours hallucinating that I was being skinned alive by a man calmly singing along to the pina colada song. A few nights later, while I swore I was taking a nap on the couch, my boyfriend informed me that my eyes were open and I was looking directly at him while ignoring everything he said to me. I've experienced disassociation before but never quite like that. We turned on the tv and a horror movie was playing. I only made it about five minutes before a scene was showing a girl being choked with a curling iron (Like, I get that she'd definitely have severe burns but is that scientifically possible? Death by hot curling iron to the mouth??)- and that's when it hit. I was watching myself die, I could see my face plain as day on the screen and then, just as suddenly, I wasn't myself anymore. I still saw my face but the person inside, trying to recognize that it was me, was no longer me. Having those two personalities fighting for control and the sheer terror of thinking I was seeing myself die again broke me in a way I had never experienced. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't shake off the dread, and every time I closed my eyes the scene was there, mocking me. I had literally terrified myself to the point of vomiting the next morning (and I still went to set and worked a 14 hour day because I'm no fucking quitter!).
This is just a piece of the puzzle of the bizarre mural that is my life and my invisible illness. Being self-aware is the most important skill I can rely upon right now. Confronting these dark places inside that don't want to be fixed takes enormous effort, and experiencing PTSD that nearly rendered my meds useless is exhausting. The joke's on me because now, either as a side effect or result of the stress, I don't sleep at all. My body is refusing point-blank to fall asleep. If anything is pushing me faster and closer to insanity, it's this. So I'm writing now in hopes of organizing my thoughts that it gives me the strength to push back another day.
This is for you, having fought these demons alone for so long. This is for your friends and loved ones, while you may not relate to their pain firsthand, you're doing the best you can to support them. This is for the ones who recently woke up one day and realized something was very wrong, but didn't have the words to explain it. This is for us: may we take each day as it comes, with strength to continue surviving and persevering, and that while it may not ever go away, or we fall victim to the belief that we're in it alone, know we are never alone and we are stronger together.
"The only people for me are the mad ones." Jack Kerouac
Like many others with mental illness, I have my hand in a fair number of disorders. An old therapist used to tell me, "it's like going to an all-you-can-eat buffet and picking out a little bit of this, a little of that." Having traits of one or a diagnosis of another made no difference to me: I was weird, I was different, and I felt wrong. I felt incomplete, like someone was supposed to flip a switch to give me a normal brain, but forgot. There was always something inside me that was patiently waiting, watching as I suffered through panic attacks as early as age seven and when the perfect storm of life-changing events hit me at age eleven, the monster roared itself to life. My first two suicide attempts came in quick succession, and I spent the next five years convincing myself to get out of bed every morning by whispering, "just make it through today and you can kill yourself tomorrow." Those demons raised me, did their best to break me, and taunted me with hope always just out of reach. I was a shell-shocked child wandering around in a daze, acting out in violent outbursts as a cry for help.
Throughout the following years, I had a few psychotic breaks and knowing that it could be a permanent change one day brings up so many emotions that I just become confused and numb. Knowing that you're not quite insane but very well could become so after one too many breakdowns isn't exactly an easy thing to hear, and not something I can focus on as I'm working towards making myself healthy. But it's always there, in the back of my mind, and some days it's so close I could wave hello. With an indescribable longing, I put my hand up to the glass and watch as my reflection does the same. Feel the pull to join it on the other side, free of any burdens or worries, free to do and say whatever I want. I know that once I open that door, it will be nearly impossible to shut it and there will be absolutely horrendous consequences... But giving up means no more fighting for my life every single day. The voices would cease in their daily torment and maybe, just maybe, they would be my friends. (So, yea, I hear voices. I've dealt with auditory hallucinations most of my life and I simply assumed as a child that everyone else did too, they just kept it secret. Like me!) But those are their promises and I know full well they're empty and hollow, but there are days they're maddeningly tempting.
The closest I've come to that reality was the one time I tried weed. People swear by it to calm their anxiety and better their moods, and I had nothing left to lose at that point. So I ate an edible, and spent the next two hours hallucinating that I was being skinned alive by a man calmly singing along to the pina colada song. A few nights later, while I swore I was taking a nap on the couch, my boyfriend informed me that my eyes were open and I was looking directly at him while ignoring everything he said to me. I've experienced disassociation before but never quite like that. We turned on the tv and a horror movie was playing. I only made it about five minutes before a scene was showing a girl being choked with a curling iron (Like, I get that she'd definitely have severe burns but is that scientifically possible? Death by hot curling iron to the mouth??)- and that's when it hit. I was watching myself die, I could see my face plain as day on the screen and then, just as suddenly, I wasn't myself anymore. I still saw my face but the person inside, trying to recognize that it was me, was no longer me. Having those two personalities fighting for control and the sheer terror of thinking I was seeing myself die again broke me in a way I had never experienced. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't shake off the dread, and every time I closed my eyes the scene was there, mocking me. I had literally terrified myself to the point of vomiting the next morning (and I still went to set and worked a 14 hour day because I'm no fucking quitter!).
This is just a piece of the puzzle of the bizarre mural that is my life and my invisible illness. Being self-aware is the most important skill I can rely upon right now. Confronting these dark places inside that don't want to be fixed takes enormous effort, and experiencing PTSD that nearly rendered my meds useless is exhausting. The joke's on me because now, either as a side effect or result of the stress, I don't sleep at all. My body is refusing point-blank to fall asleep. If anything is pushing me faster and closer to insanity, it's this. So I'm writing now in hopes of organizing my thoughts that it gives me the strength to push back another day.
This is for you, having fought these demons alone for so long. This is for your friends and loved ones, while you may not relate to their pain firsthand, you're doing the best you can to support them. This is for the ones who recently woke up one day and realized something was very wrong, but didn't have the words to explain it. This is for us: may we take each day as it comes, with strength to continue surviving and persevering, and that while it may not ever go away, or we fall victim to the belief that we're in it alone, know we are never alone and we are stronger together.
"The only people for me are the mad ones." Jack Kerouac
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