29 and alive af

On Saturday February 22, I turn 29. I haven’t historically been a huge “birthday person,” but this is going to be a big one. Not only will it be the last year of my 20s, but I wasn’t even sure I would make it to 29, so I’m fairly excited it’s happening.

My 20s were a hard fucking decade. I think that phenomenon is pretty common for people in general. During my 20s, I: survived sexual assault, married my partner, earned 2 degrees, got my first big girl job, bought and renovated a house, was inducted into three academic honors societies, won an award for educational excellence from the MEA, got diagnosed with anxiety, and depression, and PTSD, and ADHD, and endometriosis. I traveled the world, became an aunt twice over, helped my sister through a divorce, stood as a bridesmaid a million times, got at least 25 tattoos (I’ve honestly lost count), made friends, lost friends, survived suicide, fell in love with New Orleans jazz, started a blog, and came out as bisexual.

I’ve been so low I didn’t think I would make it out. I’ve had adventures. I’ve accomplished goals. I’ve coped with failure, death, and pain.

Those were my 20s. Doubtlessly the most formative decade of the three I’ve been alive.

And standing here, looking down the barrel of my last year of my 20s, it is difficult how to adequately express the extent of my happiness that I am still alive.

The knowledge and understanding that I almost committed suiced in October has weighed on my mind in interesting ways over the last four-ish months. Considering I had no plans to wake up on October 30, 2019, I could have never predicted the ways that fact would ultimately bring an end to many chapters of my life, and a beginning to many others.

What I can no longer do is…

Look, I made a suicide plan and scheduled a time to follow-through on it. We have a detached garage, and I therefore knew my Subaru and I could poison myself with carbon monoxide without harming my dog and cats in the process. But, on the day I was planning on doing it, I went to the hospital instead. And here I am.

I consider this event a “mental breakdown” in the very purest sense of the term. I survived my 20s by gathering up all of my symptoms from PTSD, anxiety, and depression, all of my endometriosis pain, all of my emotional needs, and shoving them deep into a well in the pit of my stomach. Within me lies a Mariana Trench packed with the ghosts of my past I refused to acknowledge. And it totally worked. I had everyone convinced that I was “normal.” Better than normal, actually. Ask my bosses and/or teachers from this time period and they would describe me as high achieving, exceeding expectations.

But as I tried to keep them captive, those ghosts fused together like the Power Rangers once they transform into that robot thing. They became stronger, angrier. A demonic beast that ate me alive and almost killed me.

And now that I’ve fought that demon, and won, I can’t lock it back up anymore. Like, I literally can’t. My brain has literally lost the ability to perform that function. I think about mental health every single day. I talk about mental health every single day. I have to. My near-suicide didn’t kill me, but it did kill my ability to suppress. I have completely lost my ability to pretend. I can no longer “fake it til I make it.”

This means I acknowledge and work through every thought distortion, every distressing emotion, and every trigger as it comes. This is exhausting. Some days it feels like all I am capable of is surviving. It also means that there are lots of things I was able to do well before, that I can’t do at all anymore.

For instance, I can’t commit to plans. I hate myself for it, but I’ve bailed kind of a lot lately. I usually make plans with someone ahead of time, and will spend the intervening days fully committed to going. But if something triggers me on the day of said plans, I bail. I have to. Because I learned the hard way that, if I don’t put my mental health first, it could kill me.

I also can’t take control in chaotic situations. Honestly, most large crowds give me anxiety right now. But, if I don’t have to be in control, if I don’t have to be the one that makes sure everyone gets home safely and nothing gets lost, I can relax. On the other hand, if I am given any kind of responsibility in chaotic situations, I completely shut down. This has made doing my job almost impossible. I don’t know how many of you have spent time in middle school lately, but it’s a pretty chaotic place. Teachers constantly need to be on guard and in control or everything will fall apart. Everything often falls apart anyway, even if we teachers think we are in control. And I cannot handle it anymore. Luckily, my coworkers and administration have been incredibly supportive. But still, every day is an uphill climb. Every morning I start back at the bottom of the hill.

What I can do now that I couldn’t before…

I can be honest. I can be the most honest version of myself possible now. This is momentous for me. I no longer have the energy to try to “get” people to like me, or impress anyone, so I don’t anymore. Obviously, I still have low self esteem. It will take much longer than four-ish months for me to topple that mountain. That being said, I no longer let it change my behavior. I no longer let my low self esteem stop me from asserting exactly what I want and need.

And I can assert myself now. My long history of perfectionism made it impossible for me to ask for help. Both in and outside of my school career, I limped my way through many things I could have made easier for myself if I would have just asked. Then, asking for help literally saved my life. I was self-aware enough to realize what I was going through was an emergency, and I reached out to a coworker who took me to the hospital. More than anything else in my life, this event made me realize it is OK to ask for help. I would love to say that asking for help is easy for me now, but that would be a lie. Still, I can ask for help now, and that is a triumph. I can assert my existence and validate my own needs. I can lean on the people in my life who have been desperate for me to do so in the face of my lifetime of fierce independence.

Finally, I can talk about and work through my emotions, rather than letting them conquer me. That demonic beast of suppressed needs that almost killed me in October? I calmed it. I gave it the validation it so desperately needed. I gave it a home in my life, and my heart, and my brain.

I shake hands with the symptoms of my PTSD, and my anxiety, and my depression. I acknowledge their existence. I acknowledge their importance. And I allow myself to walk away.

I ask myself what I’m feeling regularly. I allow myself the time to define my emotions. I am compassionate with myself. I utilize my skills and my support system to fulfill the needs of my emotions. And I put them to bed.

Then, there’s grief…

I don’t know about anyone else, but I was never told that humans can experience grief for many types of loss; only one of which is the death of a loved-one. I have cycled through many different and unexpected iterations of the five stages of grief over and over again since October.

I’ve had to grieve my former, “perfect,” self. As I mentioned above, my ability to exceed everyone’s expectations was fueled by my ability to suppress all of my trauma, emotions, and needs. Therefore, my inability to suppress those things has resulted in a considerable drop in performance. I can no longer do the things I once did, to the standard to which I once did them. And this is really difficult for me to handle.

Releasing myself from needing to be perfect has not taken away my feelings of failure every time I fall short. I relied on my former perfection to prove my self worth to the world. I derived self esteem from my productivity. I am currently in a time of life where self esteem and feelings of worth are running in short supply. Additionally, I no longer have my perfect performance to draw from. I therefore am experiencing an intense loss.

A loss of identity (as the “best” at whatever I’m doing). A loss of confidence in whether or not I’m still meeting expectations. A loss of confidence in how my bosses and colleagues feel about me.

Furthermore, I am daily coming to new understandings of the roots and consequences of my mental health. I have a lifetime’s worth of connections being forged in my brain as I truly analyze my emotions for the first time. These connections often result in epiphanies, often that knock me on my ass.

I’ll give you an example: while talking to my partner about something unrelated the other day, it hit me that I have spent the last decade of our relationship truly believing that I was unworthy of his love. I literally believed that I had nothing to offer a partner. I believed that, in order to keep his love, I had to prove myself worthy over and over again. I lived my life in an intense state of anxiety that, at any moment, I was under threat of losing the love of my life once he realized I couldn’t maintain the standard of domestic excellence that I was pretending I could.

That’s fucking depressing.

My self esteem was so low, I wasted an entire decade of life refusing to allow myself to feel loved, when I had an overabundance of love available to me.

Please tell me I don’t have to illustrate for you what I lost in this scenario.

Happy Birthday to Me

My point is that my 29th birthday is a big deal to me. This year, I will shamelessly celebrate myself to the fullest. I will be loud, outrageous, and silly. I will overdress for the bar I’m going to.

And everywhere I go, I will let everyone know that it’s my birthday.

Because it is not just a birthday.

It is more than an anniversary of the year I was born.

It is a symbol of the hellfire I walked through.

It is a trophy forged out of the ashes of my old life, and reborn in the phoenix of my new.

Force of Nature

Look into my eyes.

Is there fire there? Do you see how the spark has returned?

I let my spark go out. It got put out.

Years ago.

When the kindling that once resided at my core was dampened by the dark void that swallowed it as I looked deeply into my own eyes reflected in a mirror over a dirty bathroom sink during one of the worst moments of my life.

But it’s back, I can feel it.

It started at the base of my pelvis. And caught. Traveling up my spinal column, flooding my senses with a sense of assuredness. Gusto. Moxie.

And others can see it too.

“You have that spark in your eye.”
“I love when you give me that fiery stare.”

“You look beautiful, full of energy.”

Look into my eyes.

Is there fire there?

Chosen Family.

Angela Bowers Photography
Northville, MI

Chosen Family: People who you care about and consider family.

This term has emerged within the LGBTQ+ community to describe the support systems queer folks build themselves (often after being rejected by their natural families).

It is a term I want everyone to know. There is power in this term.

As a culture, Americans often put a lot of stock in the “nuclear family.” One mom, one dad, and their biological children. This cultural value has crept its way into every american’s brain through politicized homophobia in our government.

When we move away from thinking about the “nuclear” family and towards the “chosen” family, we empower ourselves to find love and support within a wider, more complex and interesting community.

These are pictures of my sister, my nieces, and me. A different kind of chosen family than you were probably thinking after reading about the term’s connection with the LGBTQ+ community. I am not attempting to co-opt the term from the LGBTQ+ community. Nor would I like to detract from the conversation about family and acceptance for LGBTQ+ folks. And, for all intents and purposes, assuming there has to be romantic love between parental figures is indicative of our cultural heteronormative indoctrination.

These are my nieces. But in a lot of ways I have been a parental figure to them since they were born. I have changed their diapers, helped sleep train them when my sister was at her wits end, comforted them through cutting their first teeth, taught them new words, done my best to instill values of open-mindedness, kindness, and inclusiveness within them, and sometimes I’m the only one that can get them to eat.

My sister and I also have had a yin and yang connection since I was born (her fiery aries personality clicks perfectly with my wishy-washy pisces). We have been each other’s unconditional support system for eternity.

These family portraits mean so much to me because they represent one of the most important familial connections in my life. This is why I survived and continue to survive 💕

The Utility of Astrology (from the point of view of a Depressed Atheist)

I am a pisces sun, gemini moon, and pisces rising. I barely know what that means. To be honest, I don’t even know if I used the correct verb in that sentence (is it “I am a…” or “I have a..?”). I don’t really “believe” in astrology, literally speaking. But I love astrology. And I believe there is utility in astrology. I follow meme accounts on Instagram. I have a pisces symbol tattooed on my left wrist. I’ve been known to drop the occasional, “You’re such a [insert sun sign here].”

But I am also an atheist. I have never been spiritual, or religious. My parents tried their best to make me a Christian, but I was never a believer. I am pretty cynical about belief-systems in general. So why? Why would a self-identified [depressed] atheist be interested in astrology?

Astrology provides me with a language to talk about myself in a positive light.

I have been working really hard recently to improve my self-image. I’ve always had low self esteem. One of my goals is to develop more self-compassion and self-love. In all the emotional work I’ve been doing, I always get tripped up on a lack of language to speak about myself positively. After a lifetime of self-criticism and self-doubt, I haven’t spent much time trying to define the things about myself I like.

Horoscopes and internet literature about astrology and sign-based characteristics use affirming language. They cast a diverse range of personality traits as strengths. The weaknesses, or personality flaws, paired with each sign are typically described through a narrative of self-acceptance. By seeing yourself in these descriptions you feel good about yourself and a connection to other people with a common identity.

Astrology allows me to communicate about my feelings without having to be too vulnerable.

When I see things on the internet that express feelings that I identify with, it’s exciting. This isn’t a unique phenomenon. The flourishing of our meme and gif culture is evidence of our desire to see our inner-most feelings represented through a clever reference or image evoking a common feeling among those who see it.

I’ve never been very skilled at sharing my emotions with anyone. So, when I see a meme that explains one of my feelings by pointing to my gemini moon, it feels validating.

Then, being able to share that meme allows me to share that intimate part of myself in a risk-free way. And anyone who takes the time out of their day to look at my post has the potential to feel a little bit more connected with me (I thought about this because of a meme shared on Instagram from my favorite astrology meme account @crabintwinsclothing). I don’t know if that emotional quality I have really is due to my moon sign. But either way, does it really matter?

Astrology is a conversation starter. And I suck at small talk.

I really have a difficult time meeting new people. I am super awkward at introductions. I don’t do well with small talk. Unfortunately, we live in a world where small talk isn’t altogether avoidable (and I don’t want people to think I’m a dick).

Luckily, the pisces tattoo – easily visible on my wrist – often becomes a great ice breaker (frankly, all of my tattoos are conversation starters, whether I want the conversation or not. But that’s a separate issue). When people see the little black symbol, they automatically have a connection to it. I’m not fluent in astrology, but for the most part its present enough in our culture for me and any random stranger to have some kind of conversation about it. Or, when I’m desperately casting around for a topic of conversation to fill the billowing silence I see the tattoo out of the corner of my eye and latch on. I’m fine being the quirky girl asking you about your sign. In this way astrology serves the same purpose as any other label we choose to apply to ourselves. Queer, feminist, atheist. It helps us drive connections with others who have the same interests, ideas, and identities as us.

I am an atheist. There is no god or afterlife I believe in. But I am also depressed. And as a depressed-person, I reserve the right to use whatever tool I want to drive connections between myself, my community, and the world. Maybe astrology isn’t “real.” Maybe it is “basic” or “trendy.” But if it helps me feel alive, then who fucking cares?

An Open Letter to My Loved Ones

From a Suicide Survivor

I am one person who has made a suicide plan I didn’t act on. I wouldn’t begin to assume that I am able to speak for anyone else who has experienced depression, suicidal ideation, and/or suicidal attempts. That being said, I decided to turn this letter into a blog post in the hopes that someone, somewhere is helped or feels a connection to it.

Since leaving the hospital, I have found that my support system has had a difficult time supporting me in the ways I need. In my opinion, societal stigmas surrounding mental health has created a culture of silence. This culture is so instilled within us, it often makes it terrifying for a would-be supporter to approach their loved-one going through depression. So, in the spirit of being more open about my emotional needs, I wrote a letter to my loved ones about how I would like them to support me:

Dear Loved Ones,

I understand that it must be difficult to approach me right now. What I’m going through must seem confusing and scary. I know you are trying to be there for me, but you may be struggling to know what to do. Therefore, I created the following list of things you should know as you think about supporting me:

This has nothing to do with you.

I love you very much. There’s nothing more you could have done to have prevented me from being suicidal. Those were not thoughts I shared out loud with people. And when I did share them out loud, the people I shared with responded appropriately. We followed protocol. I went to the hospital. I am alive. If I had confided in you about my suicidal thoughts, I believe you would have gotten me the help I needed.

Reaching out to remind me I can confide in you is much appreciated, don’t expect me to respond.

I want to hear from you. I want a heartfelt reminder that I can talk to you. That my mental health issues aren’t going to scare you away. That you love me and would be devastated if anything happened to me. This is helpful as I experiment with talking about my emotions and allowing myself to be needy. I want to know if you’re open to talking about mental health.

That being said, I don’t owe you anything. Please do not be offended if I don’t confide in you. Please don’t feel as though I’m snubbing you if you find something out on my blog and I didn’t tell you in person ahead of time. I got to this point because I have devastating issues talking about my struggles. I am sharing exactly what I can, with whom I can, when I can. I want more people to know more about me and my journey. But I can only share information in my own way, at my own pace.

I am desperately needy for your time and attention.

Acts of Service and Quality Time were tied for my top Love Languages. I am feeling very raw, emotional, and needy right now. I feel a deep sense of loneliness. Worse still, it’s a loneliness I created myself. I am so fixated on being the perfect friend, and not being a burden, that I don’t confide in people. Therefore, people don’t ever know when they need to be there for me. Well, right now, I need you to be there for me.

I understand what it’s like to be busy. As a teacher, I realize that “time” is everyone’s least favorite four-letter-word. I have struggled giving my loved ones my time in my adult life. I want to change this. It is one of my personal goals to give my quality time more freely to those I love. You may not have the most time to spend on me, but if you would be willing to pencil me in, reach out, set something up, even if it’s just lunch.

When we spend time together, we don’t necessarily have to talk about suicide, depression, or mental health. I would actually probably rather not.

Not everyone is comfortable talking about mental health. Not everyone is ready to hear the nitty-gritty of all my baggage. I may not even be ready to tell you that stuff. So when I say I need your attention, I literally mean I want to hang out. I want to have good conversation with eye contact and minimal distractions. I want to watch and discuss true crime documentaries while eating ice cream out of the container. I want to get weirdly invested in trashy competition shows that mean very little to our lives. I want to come up with ridiculous business plans that we will never follow through on.

I won’t be able to commit to certain activities for a while.

Sometimes when I’m depressed, I can’t stand being in public. It makes me feel like there is a spotlight on me. Like someone flipped over a rock and exposed me at my slimiest. Sometimes, in the middle of a depressive episode I will get a burst of energy. And I want to spend time outside. I want to feel like I’m part of the world again.

The thing is, I can’t guarantee what I’ll be in the mood for at any given time. Therefore, please be patient with me if I need to change plans at the last minute, or if I attend the beginning of an event and then have to leave earlier than planned. Please don’t take it personally if I bail. Or if I come, but am not the most animated and energetic version of myself. I appreciate you and your invitations to anything you want me to attend. Please keep them coming. Please realize that me declining your invitation doesn’t mean I don’t love you. It just means I’m not feeling able to fulfill the social expectations of that event at the moment.

I know that all of this is difficult. A big part of the difficulty is that we’re both grieving the fact that I nearly took my own life. I’m sad about it. I’m sure you’re sad about it. We can be sad together, and then we can move on together too.

Love, Me

From the Psychiatric Hospital 10/30/19

I am here to get to know my depression.

My depression has always been a part of me. But I have never really known it.

It has been more like a tumor, a parasitic growth. The quintessential monkey on my back that I ignore, but that controls me anyway.

You see, I thought ignoring it was the way I could loosen its grip on my soul.

I thought ignoring it was how I could live a “normal” life.

I thought ignoring it was taking back the power.

I was wrong.

I am here because I wanted to commit suicide.

I don’t want to die. I do want to take back the power. And I’m starting to realize that the only way to do that is to look my depression dead in the face and accept it as my own.

What no one seems to mention about self love, is the fact that it means loving every part of yourself. My depression is part of me. It isn’t fun, but continuing to hate it means I will continue to hate myself. Trying to kill my depression means I will always be trying to kill myself.

When I thought about some of the people I admire who have killed themselves (Anthony Bourdain, Sylvia Plath), it made me feel like depression is a battle I would eventually lose. I thought of it as a terminal disease that would eventually “get me” in the end. It would just be a matter of when.

It is this mentality of constantly running from my depression that made it so difficult to live with.

Then, once I was sexually assaulted, I started running from my trauma too.

I’ve been running. And running. For so many years. My depression and my trauma? They finally caught me.

So, here I am. At the psychiatric care unit of the University of Michigan Hospital.

I’ve finally stopped running. So it seems like it’s time to turn around and face what I’ve been running from. I want to get to know my depression. And my trauma. What do they want? What should I do to acknowledge them appropriately and put them to bed, until the next time?

I want to talk with and about my depression and my trauma. Without fear of judgement. Without worrying about stigmatization.

I want to take up space with my depression and trauma. As if they are worthy of peoples’ time, energy, notice.

For people to know me, they need to know my depression.

For people to love me, they need to love my depression.

For me to love myself, I need to love my depression.

So, what does my depression give me that I wouldn’t otherwise have?

Empathy
Patience for others going through mental health crises
Appreciation and gratitude for moments of pure happiness
Poetic understanding of the complexity of human emotion
Complexity of worldview that others find interesting
The ability to make others suffering from depression not feel alone
The drive to educate myself and fight to improve mental health support in my community

Let’s start there.