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?

Darkness

I was halfway through writing a post about why the capitalist consumerism of Christmas bums me out when I stopped mid-sentence and burst out laughing. Oh my god I thought, I am so morbid.

I immediately thought about a conversation I recently had with my sister.

I am a writer. I have been a writer since I started crafting my own letters and narrating my own stories to picture books in kindergarten. That being said, I’ve never shared my writing with anyone. I have a bachelor’s in history. I’ve written history. I’m getting a masters in curriculum and instruction; I’ve written curriculum. But my personal writing, the contents of my brain, and my heart, and my soul; I’ve never shared that.

And now I am. With this blog. This is my first taste of uncensored sharing of the deepest part of my brain, and my heart, and my soul. And it scares me. And I know people are reading it. Not that many people, but still, people. But I am getting zero feedback. Not negative, not positive, just none.

Well, that’s not completely fair, nor true I guess. There have been a few who have reached out and thanked me, told me they’re proud of me, and told me to keep it up. I appreciate that feedback so much! Knowing I have support at all has been key to keeping me going.

But I’ve not gotten any specific feedback. No critiques, no comments about how certain things made people feel, or how they may have been changed because of what they read, or how they connected to something I said. And that makes me hella anxious.

I don’t know how people are actually reacting to my writing.

When I voiced my concerns to my sister, her answer was so simple I had to mull it over for a few days before I was able to accept it as true. Basically, she said there is nothing wrong with my writing. It is honest, it is unflinching, it is dark. And people have a difficult time processing through the kind of feelings this writing makes them feel.

I knew she was right. It made sense. My darkness has been present my entire life. I remember my mom freaked out when I was in preschool because I said my favorite color was black and she thought I was depressed (I don’t really remember if I was yet, but hey).

The reality is, I’ve always been drawn to thinking really deeply, realistically, and morbidly about things. I’ve always been drawn to dark colors, late-night discussions, cemeteries, and the quiet solitude of large bodies of water at night. My curiosity is ignited by decaying buildings, bones, skulls, fungus. I relish the intellectual challenge of true crime, against the background of the crimes themselves.

It probably isn’t a coincidence that I’m also terrified of most of the things I just named.

I have no idea where that morbidity comes from. Maybe it is just my depression manifesting in my personality. Maybe I am just a pessimist. Either way, I’ve slowly come to realize how my darkness can make others uncomfortable. My sister is right, darkness scares people. Darkness brings up feelings people usually try to avoid. Sure, I have set my own darkness free and am glorying in the freedom I feel because of it. But a lot of people are perfectly happy suppressing their darkness and keeping it positive.

I guess it makes sense the masses wouldn’t want to consistently have to confront something they fear so much.

I realize that, just because I’m ready to talk about this stuff, that doesn’t mean everyone is.

I guess I hope that one day, we will progress as a people to regard the darkness with less fear. For, why should darkness be so scary? Why are we so terrified of the unknown? Why do we literarily apply the color black to evil things, “the dark side?”

In the meantime, dear readers, I realize the emotional rollercoaster I’ve taken you on. I thank those of you who have returned to more than one of my posts. I will work on sharing more of my triumphant feelings associated with my mental health journey to lighten the tone a little (at least more so than I am now). And I promise I won’t ruin your holiday with a rant about my critical analysis of the Christmas season.

All I ask in return is that you allow yourself to spend more time with your darkness. Ride the wave of that uncomfortable feeling, let it all out, and see where it takes you. Allow yourself some time to really process through an intense emotion, and see what you find out about yourself in the process.

Love & Happiness to you all.

Rebirth

Today in therapy I learned the Latin root of my name is Renatus, which means “reborn.”

I’ve been in full-time therapy since Monday and, as the sun finally starts to come out in my brain, I can’t help but feel the significance of this meaning.

So, to celebrate my emotional gestational period, here’s a selfie of me without makeup, in a Christmas sweater I picked up off my bedroom floor and had to smell before I put it back on.

Cheers to rebirth, finding my way back to self love, and the UofM hospital psychiatric team

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 💕

An Insomniac’s Requiem

I have struggled with insomnia as long as I’ve struggled with depression. Puberty hit and my brain became my worst enemy. High school and undergrad for me were a stream of foggy mornings after spending nights staring at my alarm clock, doing the mental math to figure out how much sleep I could get if my brain would just shut off. I operated for decades on 2-4 hours of sleep if I was lucky. I had a small collection of friends who were fellow insomniacs. We would stay up all night texting, attempting to chase away the darkness consuming our overtired brains. There were many nights I didn’t sleep at all.

Since starting medication to manage my depression in December 2018, it seemed I finally had my insomnia under control. Balancing out my mood resulted in 8-10 hours of sleep nightly. I fell in love with sleep. I learned what it felt like to conduct my days well-rested. I became a nap enthusiast. I even slept in on the weekends. I forgot what it felt like to wander the house like a ghost, listening to the sounds of the blissful sleep gracing everyone else with its presence.

Since this newest, and rather more intense, depressive episode, my relationship with sleep continues to shift. Since the beginning of October I had been over-sleeping. I came home from work and immediately would fall asleep on the couch, only to wake one more time to eat dinner. I would put my head down on my desk and sleep during my prep hours at work. On weekends I wouldn’t even get out of bed. Although I realize this isn’t the healthiest relationship with sleep, I would take it any day over insomnia. I was enjoying my oversleeping. Relishing in my blanket nests I built in various places around my house. Finding comfort in the blissful oblivion of my subconscious mind. That is, until last Friday.

Last Friday, insomnia came rushing back to me like your least favorite ex that you keep bumping into when you’re at Target and it’s been 3 days since you’ve washed your hair. And I’m realizing for the first time the connection between my insomnia and my depression.

My insomnia and my depression feed each other. They’re best friends. Business partners. Lovers. As I lay here frustrated at a time of night I would so much rather not see, my brain careens down a darkening path that makes me feel sad, chaotic, and out of my own control.

Thoughts I’ve been trying to avoid stream across my mind and multiply. I feel alone. I feel sad. I feel hopeless. I feel disconnected. I feel empty. I hate my brain. I hate myself. I feel annoyed that I’m here, awake, having these thoughts when I could be sleeping. When I should be sleeping. I just want to fucking sleep.

Me and my cat, Detective Olivia Benson, after a particularly good nap. Look how happy we are.

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.