Jody Betty

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

recent posts

about

  • I Want You to Want to Live

     

     

     

    semi colon

     

    SUICIDE….Catch your attention yet? It’s a shame if it didn’t because the actions most certainly will.

    The rate of suicide is on the rise worldwide in all age categories. It affects all ethnicities, cultures and religions.

     It is bias free.

    It is a last resort, a desperate attempt to quell the never ending and relentless pain that monopolizes your mind. It has become the only feasible way to rid yourself of the burdensome weight that has dragged you to this level of despair.

    That is how I feel anyway, the countless number of times I have and do fall into the darkness, and because I can empathize, take a minute to read this letter to you.

    Dear You.

    If you are reading this there is a small piece of you that wants to hold on.

    I am so proud of you for reaching out, even if you have done so without words. You have kindly given me a few minutes of your time, and I do appreciate that.

    I want you to live.

    I want you to want to live.

    I won’t feed you some bullshit like it’s all going to be ok with time because it may not be, and it may not turn out as you wish, but you will never know if you don’t stick around to find out. I will instead tell you I am here with you and let’s take this a minute at a time.

    I will remind you that although I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, I will be by your side to find out.

    You are so important.

    I won’t make you feel selfish by telling you to stick around for your family or friends, because I know you feel that leaving would not only end your burden, but theirs as well.

    I will tell you that someone loves you despite how you feel inside. I will remind you that you are not and never will be a burden. You may not see or even hear it, but your life is valued by someone out there; it is valued by me. I don’t know you, but I do care because I can empathize with your pain; I feel it myself.

    You are incredibly strong.

    I won’t ever tell you that you are being dramatic and don’t really want to die.

    I will instead be here to listen and validate your feelings because they are as significant as you are.

    I am so proud of you for still staying with me.

    I won’t ever tell you things could be worse, or that other people have it worse than you and don’t want to die.

    I will acknowledge your despair and lack of hope. I will never compare your pain to another’s. It would be like observing two gunshot wounds, one in the chest and one in the leg. Yes, it is worse to get shot in the chest, but it does not take away the pain of being shot in the leg.

    You are beautiful.

    I won’t use the old adage “suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.”

    I will say that your problems might not be temporary but I will be with you and help you to find a coping mechanism that works for you. I will tell you that suicide is simply not a solution.

    I won’t shove the ideas of therapy or medication down your throat as that will not help at the moment.

    I will ask some of the most important words of all “how can I help?” I will provide you with a suicide hotline (1-800-273-8255 or text the word “start” to 741-741.)

    You are a warrior.

    You are a survivor. Your track record of making it through trauma, heartbreak and devastation is 100%.  Despite the rocks life has thrown at you, you have emerged with scars and grit. You have proven those wrong who expected you not to make it, those who gave up on you long before you gave up on yourself.

    You are amazing.

    You have a purpose in this life, whether you realize it at this point or not. Your book has so many chapters to be written. You are needed, your voice and your story are essential for someone, be it a stranger or a friend.

    You are your own hero. You have done what you think you cannot do. You have looked death in the face, stared it down and walked away having won another battle in your war.

    If you are still reading this, I am incredibly proud of you for stopping what you were doing, and giving me a few moments of your precious time. Just reading this is the beginning…you have extended your arm, you just have to unclench your fist. I implore you to keep this conversation going, be it with a hotline, a friend or family member, or even me (@onelastkick71/bravewingstrc@gmail.com/jodybetty.com). You have taken the first step; let’s make it to the second together.

    You are loved.

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • The fear of a simple birthday

    As most of you know, I suffer with BPD, severe depression and suicidal ideation, among other diagnoses.

    The Canadian winter hits me hard. The lack of sunshine for so many days, sometimes weeks in a row, and the bloody freezing temperatures, adds to depression. I have tried a SAD lamp, I have raised my Vitamin D, but nothing works, and the deeper we go into winter, seems to be the deeper I sink. I feel constantly anxious, unmotivated, and emotional. My fear of failure intensifies to the point of not wanting to start anything, because I am convinced I will fail anyway.

    I am also aware that the instability and insanity of this past year has exacerbated the depression and anxiety for hundreds of millions of people. We run off routine, whether we like it or not, and routines have changed so much, they feel irregular and unsettling. Humans are a social species by nature, and isolation is taking its toll on most of the world, in one way or another.

    So I combine these two situations, and try to use my coping skills to keep me afloat. I remind myself, that each day, the daylight is extending ever so slightly. I emphasize to myself that this too will pass, just like it has, for season upon season. I remind myself that in a mere 8 weeks, birds will be chirping, and the sun will emit a taste of the upcoming summer’s heat. I may feel suicidal. I may feel anxious and depressed, but somehow I manage to get through, holding a tiny iota of hope in the back of my mind.

    Something felt different this time. I became utterly unproductive. I stopped writing and podcasting as I did not have the ability to focus. I was afraid for others to read or hear my words, expecting them to judge me as harshly as I judge myself. Fear held me back from everything. I felt like there was something different to this situation. Something particularly dark and heavy, and for the life of me, I could not put my finger on it. My coping skills were not working, and for the first time since my last suicide attempt I felt that dagger slice through my skin as it ripped hope away. What was this darkness? Was it even mine?  Had I subconsciously taken on the feelings of others, which I tend to do as an empath.

    I don’t like not knowing things. I research and read constantly, just to be informed. I absorb everything I can about my conditions, and the ailments of others. I reread my journal to see if it would trigger anything, and quite frankly, it was pissing me off, as I am aware and can identify most of my triggers, but this heaviness felt like someone placed a boulder in a backpack and strapped it on little me.

    Well, I had a revelation yesterday. The lightbulb finally turned on, and the light led me to the answer. Now, these next few paragraphs may seem ludicrous, ridiculous or perhaps even selfish. Most of you won’t understand, and that is ok. All I can do is share my reality and hope it does more good than harm.

    It’s my birthday in two months. Society would consider it a monumental number, and most would throw parties, and celebrate their successes in life. It’s ironic actually, as I am not one to consider numbers important. Age is a mindset, not always just a number, and for me, watching my mom die from cancer I learned at a young age that quality of life is more important than quantity.

    The deep down details of my past are not relevant for this story. All you need to know is I was abused starting at 6 months old and lasting until age 14. I have never known a day without trauma. I was pretty messed up and although I didn’t understand the long term consequences of death, I did know that if I was dead, no one could hurt me anymore. That being said, I had been warned many times not to touch my grandmother’s pills because “they could make you very sick or even die”. I took them all, and as I was passing out I became violently ill, throwing up like crazy, which triggered my mom to come down, and they rushed me to the hospital. It was chalked up as “childhood misadventure”. I was eight years old.

    I was 19 when my mom passed away. She had just turned 44 just three weeks earlier. Growing up with trauma and watching a parent die for six years somehow reinforced the thoughts of death in my head. At 19, 44 seemed like a good age. Not too young and not too old, and I had convinced and embraced the fact that I too, would die around that age. Over the years, it went from being a thought to being a core belief. I was sure I would die by suicide, or cancer, or anything really and accepted a young death as my reality. I made peace with it. I knew I was never having kids, so my death would not be a big deal to anyone, except a small handful of people.

    It was a very strange feeling as I crept up to the age my mom was when she died. Was it possible that I was not going to die? How could this be happening? I didn’t prepare for a life after 40, mentally, financially or any damn way? Why did she die? Why couldn’t it have been me, since I had planned for it?  The day came and went, and the next thing you know, I had outlived my mom. I only got to have a Mom for 17.5 years. It made my head spin, and my emotional state plummet. Now what was I supposed to do?

    The future was now terrifying, and full of unknowns and uncertainties. I felt I had no choice and made one last attempt to take my life, a few years back.  I needed to be able to have control over this one last thing, since everything else was spiralling.  Obviously, I failed.

    Fast forward to the present and I have survived three major suicide attempts, and a handful of overdoses. With my cumulative years of trauma, plus the adoptee rate being four times higher, and living with only recently diagnosed BPD, which has the highest suicide numbers of all mental illnesses…statistically I should not be alive. Some days I don’t know how I am still alive, or why for that matter, but here I am.

    This whole upcoming birthday thing, while I realize it is just another day, is still entwined with my core belief that I should not be alive at this age. I have no family, I own nothing of value, I can no longer work, I have accomplished very little, and as much as I try to make them stop, these thoughts of suicide have dominated my mind for decades, with thoughts of diseases chasing closely behind. I gave myself a time limit; if things didn’t improve by this birthday, then at least I will have tried my best, and it will be ok to go. I spend almost all my time in hyper-alert survival mode. That is what gets me by each day. I don’t know how to live in any other mode for any extended period of time. Survival keeps me in control of one thing…me. If I let go of that for too long, would I be able to stay alive?

    It’s such a simple thing for the average person; celebrate, or don’t, and move on to the next day. I am in a conundrum. Part of me is holding on to a tiny bit of curiosity, wondering if something could actually get better, while the rest of me is repeating the destructive circle by holding onto those old and unnecessary core values. It is a difficult internal struggle that seems to worsen as the day draws nearer.

    I guess what it comes down to is curiosity over fear, or fear over curiosity. Am I brave and strong enough to let go of that control for now, and face the uncertain future, holding on to that sense of curiosity and an iota of hope? Maybe I can, maybe I can’t, but I have to try. Besides it’s not like suicide has an expiry date. Maybe I can test the waters and still have a back-up plan.

  • Loneliness can break your heart

    We all need human contact. Human beings are social creatures by nature and although isolation is a comfort for many, human communication is vital to survival. Isolation, in many cases leads to a deep sense of loneliness which is such an overwhelming feeling. You feel like you have no one and nothing and will do almost anything not to have to feel it. It is like you are drowning in a lake with people in sight but no one close enough to throw you a line…that is the worst kind of loneliness. Feeling like this is not only emotionally devastating but research is showing that loneliness and social isolation can impact a person’s health, causing problems ranging from high blood pressure and obesity to heart disease and stroke,  much the same as anxiety and depression. Some researchers have indicated the increased rate of illness as high as 30%.

    It could be because people who feel alone are generally isolated and tend to take poorer care of themselves. They have worse diets, generally not enough sleep or exercise and are more prone to not sticking to their medication routine or doctor’s appointments. After all, when you are alone, you are reliant on your own motivation, and let’s be honest, when you are feeling that low self-motivation is a near impossibility. Top that off with the depression or anxiety or whatever other mental health issue you are dealing with and the cumulative of those factors could drive up blood pressure which could in turn lead to heart issues. Loneliness is an independent condition even though one condition may affect the other. So for example it you were treated for depression or anxiety the symptoms of those may dissipate but that does not mean the loneliness does.

    There have been studies on the biological effects of loneliness particularly on the stress hormone cortisol as well as the link tied to hardening of the arteries, which also leads to high blood pressure and increases risk of heart disease and stroke.  Researchers define loneliness as the gap between a persons desired and actual social relationships  and chronic loneliness can wreak havoc on your blood vessels and heart by undermining regulation of the circulatory system so the heart works harder and the blood vessels become more subject to damage. Though they may not be aware of it, lonely people tend to perceive social interactions as more negative and threatening than others do, leaving our brains on constant alert for social threats and this persistent state of stress  effects the cardiovascular system. Studies have found that people who were less socially connected had higher blood pressure as well as higher levels of inflammation markers in their blood while others suggested that the risk of solitude is comparable to that posed by high cholesterol, high blood pressure and even smoking. Loneliness and isolation also appear to take a toll on a person’s lifespan, with some research suggesting that the increased risk for heart attack, angina or death by heart disease is 30%, and the increased risk for stoke by 32%, for both men and women.

    So as much as your illness is telling you to isolate and feeding into your feelings of loneliness, try and fight it the best you can. Try to allow yourself a small support group be it with friends or family or even in the online world. Sometimes the company of a distant stranger is welcome; non-judgmental support from people who may be struggling with loneliness as well. Not only is it important for our mental health but as studies may be proving…loneliness can literally break your heart.

    . Being alone can break your heart——literally.

  • Disability is forced poverty in canada

     My background may be different than tens of thousands of people across Canada, but somehow, regardless of our stories, we have all ended up in the same place; government forced poverty. When COVID hit, the Canadian government decided that $2000 monthly was what the average Canadian needed to survive. As lock downs arrived and prices soared, money was sent coast to coast to millions of people to help them through the pandemic. I am glad the government was able to step up and help so many, however, I am wondering why thousands and thousands of people with physical disabilities and mental illnesses have continually been cast aside, and treated like we’re as disposable as the trash. If the average person requires $2000 monthly, then why do we not qualify as average citizens?  How is anyone expected to live in this country on $1169 monthly? Who decided that $497 a month is supposed to cover ones rent? You cannot rent a room in a house full of strangers for less than $700-$800 monthly.

    We are looked down upon, and treated poorly by the majority of society. “Just get a job”; “They’re too lazy to work”; “They’re a drain on the system”; “Why should I have to work while they get to stay home and do nothing?”  There are thousands of statements like these. They are nothing new to us, but that does not make it less hurtful, or less degrading. Do you think we choose to have disabilities and mental illnesses? Do you not think we would prefer to live a societally accepted life, rather than being discarded? Do you not think we would like to be able to eat daily, or not have to choose between food and toiletries? Do you not think that just once in a while, we would like to be able to go out, or buy something for ourselves? Do you think we choose to live with depression or anxiety, or so many other illnesses? You point, you condemn, you judge, yet you know nothing about me, or any of us.

    You can’t fathom the traumas some of us have had to live with, day after day. To give you a brief, summarized example, I shall share a bit about myself. I am 49 years old, and I have never known a day without trauma. My birth mother was an alcoholic and drug addict. I was born drunk and addicted, and spent the first few months of my life fighting for my survival. I was taken away and placed into the foster system in the 1970’s, and from the tender ages of 6 months to 18 months, I was removed from four homes; for sexual abuse, physical abuse, and severe neglect which lead to me drowning when I was one. I was placed in only one safe home, and then adopted when I was 18 months old. You may be thinking I was too young to remember, so what is the big deal? Traumas that intense scar your mind for life. Trauma is also stored in our bodies. Our muscles cells have memory, hence the physical reactions we have to certain cues and triggers.

    In the 1970’s, all that was needed to adopt a child was for you to fill in an application, come in for a meeting with two reference letters stating that you would be good parents, and presto…pick a kid. I had one visit with my social worker, and then I was dropped off to live there, so traumatized and terrified that I wouldn’t let anyone touch me. I slept in the corner on the floor at the base of the stairs, with my jacket on, my little suitcase beside me, and the only doll that had stayed with me from place to place.

    The abuse did not stop. My father abused my mother, who then made me her confidante and protector when I was five. My mom spent a lot of time in bed depressed and I spent a lot of time outside of my home, trying to escape what was going on there. However, vulnerable children are sniffed out by predators, like trained dogs sniff out drugs. I was sexually abused by a number of people, until I got the courage to make it stop when I was 14. The year previous, my mom was diagnosed with stage 3 breast cancer. She fought hard for six long years, and I lost her a few weeks after her 44th birthday, when I was 19. I have since had multiple suicide attempts, and have been diagnosed with five mental disorders; so forgive me if my view of the world is the polar opposite of the societal norms.

    I am not sharing my story with you for pity, or for personal attention. I am using my words for the tens of thousands of Canadians, who, one way or another, are forced into the system via their mental or physical ailments. I am speaking to demonstrate how very broken the system is. Basically being on disability is being kept in forced poverty. Can you imagine trying to survive, and being maxed out at $1169 monthly? If we make any money, we are punished, and that amount is then deducted from our payments. For example, this year the Federal government gave a raise of $16 a month, which in itself is insulting enough, but then the Provincial government turned around and deducted that $16 from my payment.  So I literally cannot get $16 ahead. I am being punished for surviving years of abuse. We all are.

    What we earn yearly is approximately 40% less than what Canada states is the official poverty line. So again, we live with being looked down upon, and treated differently by society, and then the government supports that with a nice financial slap in the face, followed by a swift kick in the ass every time you have to prove to them you still have a mental illness. Perhaps if we were not constantly worried about shelter and necessities, we would have the time and be provided with the resources to help us to heal. As it stands, the average wait for a psychiatrist that is covered by a medical plan is 11 months, and when you finally get in, you will be lucky to have four visits a year before you are discharged and forgotten about. All the government wants to do is wash their hands clean of us, until we either get out of the system or take our lives.

    Essentially it comes down to the stigma that surrounds both physical disabilities and mental health issues. You read my story and perhaps think I can just get over it, or I should have done so already. Maybe you think that the past is the past, and there’s no reason I shouldn’t be able to work; or I’m lazy and just want to drain the system. I worked from the ages of 14 to 44, living with the effects of my trauma, until one day my mind became too overwhelmed and I had my breakdown. No one sees or understands how difficult it is to hold steady employment with multiple mental illnesses. Unless you have experienced it, you will never understand.

    These are just a few of the judgements placed on us by society. I did not choose this life. I did however, choose to survive it, and in no way should I be condemned to a life of extreme poverty. None of us should. If the government of Canada does not do something to rectify the situation, lives will be lost. Possibly even my own. It’s time for change. We deserve better.

  • Adoptees and suicide; is there a genetic link?

    Children are placed for adoption for a variety of reasons. It is true that many are born to mothers whose choice was based on reasons of selflessness and love, but the harsh reality is that some adopted children were abandoned, unwanted, abused, neglected, and even made victims of sex trafficking or other crimes. Sometimes adoptive parents and adoption agencies are aware of the circumstances surrounding the placement; sometimes they are not, yet, if adopted children are loved and cherished and raised in wonderful, stable homes, why are they more likely to commit suicide?

    Studies have found that the odds of a reported suicide attempt were 4 times greater in adoptees compared with those who were not. There could be a few reasons behind this elevated number, one being the fact that adoption, or the separation from one’s mother, is in itself a trauma; Another reason is that adoptees often lack any type of family history or medical background, which could include mental illness or even suicide, which in itself could induce anxiety in the adoptee. As an adoptee, there is almost an invisible line dividing one from the adoptive family, simply because things like looks and even personality characteristics are different from the rest of the family. Anxiety and depression can also occur because, even though an adoptee may have only known love and family security,  many may also grapple with the idea that if they were chosen, then it is possible for them to be “un-chosen”  This idea can occur even if the child has only ever been shown unconditional love and acceptance. I had a foster sister for nearly two years when I was around five to seven, and when she went back to foster care, was the day I knew I was expendable. After all, if she could be returned, surely so could I.

    Adoptive families must recognize that their child may have feelings of depression, anxiety, abandonment, and loss, even if their adoption occurred during infancy and especially if the circumstances surrounding the placement are unknown. Doctors and other professionals encourage adoptive parents to help their child learn as much as they can about their biological heritage, if the child has a desire to know. Parents who have frequent and open conversations with their child about their adoption are more likely to be aware of the concerns and feelings of their child and will be able to help their child navigate through the fears that naturally occur. Adoptive parents need to be extremely aware that even though they have loved their child from the start, their adoptive child may need more than love.

    However, perhaps there are more than just external circumstances that lead to suicidal behaviors and thoughts. A new study from the Center for Addiction and Mental Health (CAMH) in Toronto, is suggesting that there is evidence that a specific gene, which is involved in the development of the nervous system may be linked to suicidal behavior. CAMH scientists have found that among people with a psychiatric diagnosis, those who had a specific variation of the gene were of higher risk of suicidal behavior. The mutated version of the gene may cause a chemical imbalance in the brain, which in turn may lead to suicidal ideations and actions, and may also provide a link to a genetic trait. Some scientists suggest that genetic factors seem to play a role in 30%-50% of cases with suicidal behavior, independent of other psychological disorders or environmental stressors. The hope being that the beginnings of this discovery could eventually lead to the development of genetic tests which could help to identify those at risk.

    I am adopted. My birth mother, who I never met, had five suicide attempts before succeeding on the sixth. My half-sister (same mother) has survived two attempts and I have survived three. Three related people, three different environments and one commonality…suicide, perhaps supporting the theory that being suicidal is not completely environmental and possibly there is some genetic base that further complicates the situation.

  • I Will Never Say Goodbye

    A while back I wrote a blog for a dear friend of mine, who is battling cancer. For those of you who may not recall, or did not read it, my friend is the reason I write. She is the reason I share my story so openly in writing and on my podcast. We have never met. We’ve only chatted on the phone and text, and on Twitter, which is where we originally met five or six years ago. I had just been diagnosed with a handful of illnesses including Borderline Personality Disorder, and had just started up on Twitter, discovering an enormous mental health community. She was one of the first people I followed. Something about her screamed “safe person” which doesn’t happen to me often. Many people with BPD were traumatized or neglected in their childhood, so when we started to chat and no red flags were popping up, I started to slowly let her in. We shared our stories, our journeys and our lives with each other, and although they were drastically different, the emotions we felt from our situations were basically the same.

    Fast forward a few years, and not only is she a dear friend, but she has become like a second mom. I lost my mom when I was 19, but felt my friend held the qualities that my mom would have had, should she have lived. Without her encouragement and support, I would not be getting published in three separate anthology books this year; I would never have had a blog, and certainly not a podcast. She stuck with me during my often long, depressive episodes, reassuring me that things will work out eventually. She has my back, without question. I am not sure I believe in unconditional love between humans, but if there was or is such a thing, she would be the closest thing I have to compare to my idea of what it “should” be. Shit, if I’m being brutally honest, she is a huge reason I continue to not succumb to the illnesses. You see, my friend has been battling for her life, literally, for the past few years. If she is brave and strong enough to fight the evil that is cancer, then I must somehow summon the strength to continue fighting the darkness that calls me so often. I have to stay strong. I have to be a rock of support for her. As I tell her every time we chat…anything, anytime.

    I fucking hate cancer. It has taken so many lives, for not only me, but hundreds of millions of people around the world. It is insidious, non-discriminatory and vile. It tears people away from their loved ones, far before it is their time to go. It left a permanent hole in my heart and soul when it took away my mom, and yes, time may ease the pain a bit, but nothing will fill the void that feels as vast as the universe itself. My friend is a true fighter. She has tried every possible chemotherapy treatment, endured the pain of radiation and even had a stem cell transplant. Things were looking up for some time. The cancer went into remission for a while, but like a snake in the grass, it reared its ugly head, spread out and attacked. Every effort was given by the doctors, and despite her loving sense of stubbornness, and great sense of faith, this cancer is now terminal.

    It kills me inside knowing I am utterly helpless, and unable to fix this, or take the pain away for her. As most of you know, I have spent most of the days of my life with suicidal thoughts and actions, so in a millisecond I would trade places with her. She has a loving family, a good life. It should not be her time; it should be mine, so she can continue to enjoy the life she deserves. Sadly, there is no swap button or I would have hit that when she first got sick. There is no fairness or sense to when someone’s time is up and there certainly is no way to prepare for the pain that you know is coming with unstoppable force. I have lost a few people since my mom, but no one close enough to put another hole in my heart; another void in my soul…until now. I am not ready.

    I’m writing this blog, because I cannot keep the tears from falling for long enough to express it properly. As soon as I think about it, I feel the tightness in my chest, the quivering in my voice and the burning sensation behind my eyes, which are desperately trying to contain some of the tears. I write this because I cannot bring myself to say goodbye. I just can’t. I won’t.  I don’t know how to. I know how to provide her the best support I can. I know how to love her, and listen, but letting go is just surreal to me. I think it is fair to say most people don’t like to say goodbye in most situations, not just with death, but people with BPD usually have attachment issues, so letting go can feel like someone tearing a layer of your skin off, inch by inch, leaving exposed nerves which for us, represent feelings, so even the slightest tug on your skin can cause indescribable pain. I have stopped and started this blog for hours. None of the words seem right; perhaps because there are no right words. I hope the brief letter below manages to somehow express all my emotions, and conveys to her, the importance and influence she has had, and continues to have in my life. This, by far is the hardest thing I have ever had to write in my life.

    My dear friend; you are my confidante; my source of strength; my fountain of positivity; my inspiration, and so much more. I know time is not in our favour, and these words may be premature and not necessary at the moment, but I wanted and needed you to know what I simply can’t say. You know how much I love you, and that you’ve become not only one of my closest friends, but the closest thing I’ve had to feeling “mothered” in almost 30 years. You have given me unconditional support, encouragement and most importantly, unconditional love. Not for a single moment did I ever feel unloved or worthless. You challenged my thoughts and made me feel that unconditional love between people is possible. It may be the only time I experience that, so I want to thank you for filling a small part of the enormous void in my life. I want you to know how much your encouragement and belief in me meant, and the huge factor it had in helping me discover the paths I am on now. My blogs, the chapters for books, my podcast, all because you never doubted my abilities, and constantly reminded me that I would succeed, and that you were proud of me for achieving these things, despite my fear of failure. Your strength fighting this horrible illness, kept me alive more times than I could count…after all, if you could stay strong enough to keep fighting cancer, I had to stay strong enough to fight life.

    Now, we face a different path; one that will physically separate us but will never be able to divide the bond that we have. You are a part of my heart, and I will carry that with me always. I will miss you so very much. I will miss our chats and texts. I will miss your words of support and encouragement. I will miss hearing you say I love you, but I won’t forget that you do and always will, and not even death can stop that. I know that you know I would trade places with you in a millisecond if I could. I wouldn’t even think twice, but that is a wish that unfortunately I cannot make come true. If I could, you know I would be sitting beside you through your journey, and I would never leave your side, however a few thousand kilometres makes that not a possibility. Please know that my heart, my love and strength is there for you 24/7. Not a moment passes that you don’t cross my mind, or that I am not sending you as much light, as I can muster. It has taken me a few days and thousands of tears to get this letter to this point, but I can’t seem to find the courage or the words to wrap it up. What can I say aside from thank you; thank you for being in my life and allowing me the privilege of being in yours. Thank you for never leaving me, for loving me and for your unwavering belief in me. Well, you know I don’t do goodbyes well at all, so I am not going to say it. I will finish simply with this…I love you and I always will. You will never be forgotten. We’ll see each other again one day soon. May you find your peace.

    Until we meet again.

  • Mobile Mental Health Crisis Response Teams…A Wave of the Future?

    I have been passively suicidal since I was eight years old, when I had my first attempt. Since then, I have dealt with these incredibly invasive thoughts day after day, and have survived a handful of actual suicide attempts. Over the years, I have learned a variety of coping skills to allow me to keep these thoughts as passive ones, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t have times where these techniques simply do not work; times where I feel I have lost all hope and I am encompassed by the darkness of these thoughts. Over the years, I have thought of every possible way to take my life but with a lot of hard work, I have held those actions at bay for nine years now.

    I have a really hard time with some classifications of anti-depressants, primarily SSRI’s, and the side effects have been so extreme they have actually increased my suicidal ideations ,and decreased my ability to put my coping tools to work. My thoughts become uncontrollably irrational and my actions tend to follow to follow suit, adding in a healthy dose of impulsivity. I can feel the difference in my mind that the medication is making, and none of it is good. I was recently on Zoloft and as soon as we increased to 100mg is when my mind went haywire. I chose to suffer through for a few weeks, in hopes that these side effects would subside, but unfortunately they just worsened, and my thoughts went from passive to actively planning a route out. After a few days of this, I made the decision to reduce back down to my original dose of 50mg and wean off to nothing from there.

    The decrease did not go well and I found myself in a heavy and dark place that was swallowing me whole by the minute. A few weeks ago, after a particularly hard start to the day, I was feeling so unsafe that I was actually afraid of myself. I was afraid that I would no longer be able to employ any skills that had kept me alive for so long, and so, I made the decision to try to reach out, the question being, to where? I often don’t feel much relief talking to a crisis worker as so much of the conversation is scripted, and my fear of hospitals far outweighs my fear of death. I researched resources in my area and happen to come across Peel Crisis Services, who run a hotline around the clock. The thought of calling them was of little interest as I expected just another crisis worker, saying the same things that the last one did.

    Hesitantly, I picked up the phone, dialled the number and waited about 18 minutes to press the call button. The line rang, and rang, followed by a message saying that all the crisis workers were busy and I could either wait on the line, or leave my name and number and someone would call me back, and so I opted for the easy way out and left a message. My phone rang back less than ten minutes later and although I was riddled with fear and anxiety, I answered. There was a young gentleman on the other end of the line, which immediately threw me off, as in my mind, I had expected a woman to call, however, he was quite gentle and pleasant and after ensuring my immediate safety mentioned that they could send a mobile crisis team to my home which would consist of a specially trained, plain clothes Police Officer and a social worker. I hesitated at first, not sure if I was comfortable having a cop at my house, but decided it was the safest space for me to open up.

    About two hours later, my anxiety through the roof, they arrived. I let them in, sat them down and proceeded to have a panic attack. They talked me through it, got me settled down enough and we began to chat about what had triggered me into crisis in the first place. They were both, incredibly kind, compassionate and sympathetic. They actually listened and allowed me to express my feelings without fear of judgement, or fear of hospitals. They ensured me several times that their job was to ensure my safety at home, and at all costs, avoid going to hospital. The social worker asked all the standard questions but also went a bit more personally into my case. They stayed for almost two hours, by which point I was calm and rational. They left me with some information pamphlets, the 24 hour crisis number and a resource to another service to look into. They also said they could write a report detailing our conversation and submit it to my new psychiatrist once I have seen her. All information remains confidential and is only accessible by Peel Police internally. All in all, it was a good experience, which helped to ease my fear of police and opening up to strangers.

    The downside is that due to the volume of calls, and the lack of funding for trained Mental Health Officers, it leaves only six teams to deal with about 700000 people meaning that this is a one-time service. I am hoping that as the number of people with Mental Health issues increase that eventually the funding will have to come, out of necessity if nothing else. In an ideal world, all officers would be trained to deal with people with mental health disorders, which would eliminate thousands of unnecessary trips to the ER, where they also don’t have the ability to deal with you. I have to say, I am disappointed that this could not be a “lifeline” of sorts, and I am back to the futility of crisis lines, but for the time being, it is what it is, and perhaps one day it will change.

  • I Have Never Learned to Love Myself

    Three simple words…I Love You.

    People always say if you don’t love yourself you can’t love anyone else. Is that a truth or just one of those things “they” say? For me those words could not be more untrue.

    When I was growing up my Mom told me she loved me all the time. I fully believed her and I repeated them back with truth and feeling. My father on the other hand hardly uttered the words. My extended family said them on all the appropriate occasions, and dutifully I replied. At that time in my life, with the exception of my Mom I held little truth to their words, or the words of any adults for that matter. I always felt “surface loved”; like they loved me because that is what “family” is supposed to do. I wondered if it was because I was adopted and not their blood, that they would never love me like they loved each other. It is an awful feeling for a child to feel so unloved; the only saving grace being my Mom.

    This feeling not only continued in my pre-teen years, but actually got worse. With my Mom dealing with domestic abuse and depression, the belief that it was somehow my fault started to sink in and the feeling of being unlovable deepened. Maybe it was something I did, or didn’t do that made him so angry, or maybe I wasn’t a good kid and that is why she was so depressed. My self-blame turned into self-hatred, which directly correlates to the feeling that I cannot be loved. Was Let me clarify, it is more than me thinking I don’t deserve love, although that is a huge part of it, but that I actually can’t be loved. It is something I have felt as long as I have memories, and although it has wavered in degrees over the years, it never left and still hasn’t to this day.

    My teenage years were mostly consumed with taking care of my Mom, who had been diagnosed with breast cancer and although bond between us was deep was also full of my teen angst. I could not get the love I needed from my mom, and because of the years of sexual abuse which had recently ended, I looked anywhere I could find for some love and attention. I went through a promiscuous stage, as do many survivors, where the only physical affection I was repeatedly shown aside from my Mom, was in a sexual manner. Even though you realize seeking love this way is wrong you do what you know, repeatedly and still never feel loved.

    When my Mom died, I lost the only person who I felt loved me, and the only one I could love.

    As an adult, I have learned to love other people, and not just on a surface level, but to the fullest extent that I know, however, I have not learned to love myself or accept true and lasting love. I have allowed two people to really love me, as they have stuck with me during the dark times, but those three words from anyone else, I question. After all, if I can’t be loved or love myself, how can anyone else possibly do so? I require a lot of trust before I can believe those words, and quite frankly, most people do not stick around long enough for me to accept them as truths.

    Fast forward to now and the “Twitterverse”, where I have made some very good friends who have stuck with my through the hard times. I don’t have as much difficulty telling them I love them as I do accepting their words. Please don’t misunderstand; I certainly believe that they are truly meant by whoever spoke them; however the fear of accepting and believing them means I will have to learn to love myself, which I have no idea how to do. How do I change something ingrained in me since I was put up for adoption? I have been to therapists, read countless books and articles. I know exactly why I feel like this, yet I still can’t fix it, learn it or unlearn the ingrained thought.

    So, if I tell you I love you, know that I mean it to the full extent that my being allows, which will likely be different than yours. If you tell me you love me, please know I do believe you as much as my heart will allow.  As the saying goes, “I’m listening but I can’t hear you”. How I wish that was not true.

  • A Miracle Drug for Depression?

    pills for blog

     

    It is being touted as the new “super drug”, a true breakthrough in the treatment of Treatment Resistant Depression. It has just been approved for use and is the talk of the mental health community. It was discovered in 1962, first used on humans in 1964, and was approved for use in the United States in 1970. It was and is used extensively for surgical anaesthesia and acute pain management, and is also used in the veterinary field for the use of sedation in animals, however, because of its high and dissociative effects; this drug has been popular on the party scene for decades. It is a close relative of the drug PCP, and its effects are stronger than both cocaine and speed, raising the risk for accidental overdose. The drug I am referring to is Ketamine, also known as Special K, or as big pharma is calling it Esketamine, branded as Spravato.

    It was first identified as having antidepressant potential in the late 1990’s and since then studies have shown tremendous results in helping relieve the symptoms of depression. At low dose levels, Ketamine infusion therapy has been proven to redevelop the neural pathways in your brain that have been damaged by debilitating mental health or chronic pain conditions.  Unlike typical antidepressants which take up to six weeks, sometimes more, to take effect, ketamine can start to relieve depressive symptoms in as little as four hours. It requires initial treatment of four to six sessions, and ongoing maintenance treatments once stabilized, and because of the physiologic change it causes, many patients can feel improvement in as little as one or two treatments.

    Treatments are administered in a clinical or hospital setting, and patients monitored for two hours afterwards to check for potential side effects and at no point would a patient be sent home with Ketamine to administer to oneself, which helps to minimize the risk of addiction. Common side effects include disorientation and confusion because of the drug’s anaesthetic nature, drowsiness, increased heart rate and blood pressure, and nausea, which are no worse than those I have experienced from SSRI’s and both typical and atypical antidepressants.

    It sounds promising doesn’t it? For someone like myself who has been dealing with depression for nearly 40 years, and tried a dozen different medications, it provided me with a sense of hope and the possibility that something could finally lift this cloud of darkness that has overshadowed every aspect of my life for decades. I have researched, read and studied up on all the information I could soak in about this new drug and despite my fear and hesitation, I decided that should it become readily available, I would be willing to take the risk and try this new treatment. After trying so many medications, all of which failed and some which made me worse, this could be the one thing that might actually help me and the thought of being able to live a life, for me, far outweighs the risks.

    For the first time in ages, I was optimistic about the possibility of feeling even a bit better, however this optimism was quashed by the absolutely ridiculous, eye gouging price big pharma is selling this drug for. To be clear, as a party drug, a Ketamine pill costs somewhere in the range of $20 – $25, and will last you at least six hours, especially if it is crushed and either snorted or injected. In the pharmaceutical and developing world, the wholesale cost is between US $0.84 and US $3.22 per vial, which even with the incredibly large price hike, would still be considered an affordable source of treatment. This, however, is not the case at all.

    The average Ketamine Infusion or nasal spray treatment cost for depression is US $500 per session, and as I mentioned earlier, you will need on average four to six sessions to start, and realistically, who knows how many you will need to maintain. So basically, if you do not have $5000 lying around, you can count yourself out for this type of treatment anytime soon, which infuriates me. Money should not be the deciding factor on whether or not your brain becomes healthy, especially when the profit range of big pharmaceutical companies is in the billions of dollars, yearly. Yes, there may come a time when it is common enough to be accepted as a form of treatment by the insurance industry, but I do not foresee that in the near future.

    So once again, the world spins for rich people while the rest of us are stuck in ruts, and never ending holes of darkness. The inaccessibility for the average person to receive proper mental health care is astounding. What little hope I held, was ripped out of my hands by the sight of a mere dollar sign and the thought of my life improving dashed before my eyes as the darkness swooped back in with a smile.

  • The Unspoken Reason behind My Tattoos

    tattoo for blog

    I have always been a lover of tattoos. I got my first one when I was 20 and have not looked back since. I currently have 13 (and counting) pieces of body art, each one reflecting a beginning or an ending or something that is close to my heart; each one representing a piece of my life, or revealing a piece one of my many layers. There was a time when we glared and stared at those with tattoos; mainstream they certainly were not. People tended to judge a person for expressing themselves with body art, and were often forced to cover them in social situations; however, in the last few years tattoos have become so popular among so many cultures, sexes and ages that it is now considered to be socially acceptable to most.

    People get tattooed for many different reasons and as I mentioned above, each one of my tattoos was done during various stages in my life and although they outwardly represent something, they also all have an inner meaning. My lotus, for example, reminds me of what beauty can grow in the mud. One of my quotes is a memorial quote for my mom. It is in Latin and translates to “until we meet again”. My elephants represent my bucket list and a spiritual connection I have with these magnificent creatures.

    The one reason I have never discussed is that for me, tattoos are both a deterrent and a safe and productive way to self-harm. As someone who spent many years self-harming, I wore my visible scars without shame. I did not shy away from wearing a tank top because of the scars on my arms, and I did not get tattoos there to cover those scars. They were always a non-issue for me, funnily enough, more so than the ones that are not publicly visible. For some reason, I hold more shame in those. Of course the tattoos covered many of the scars on my arms, but now that I have them, and have attached meaning to them, I am almost guaranteed not to cut them. Not only did I spend money on them but I am proud of the actual artwork and simply do not want to ruin that. After all, I would not take a blade to a canvas on my wall, so why would I take one to my arm. Art is art.

    People self-harm for a variety of reasons, most being related to underlying or ongoing trauma, but all resulting in wanting the same thing…a release; a distraction from that emotional pain, even if only for a minute. For me it was a way to release my anger without putting my fist through the wall. It was a self-punishment for all the things I have done wrong, or for the feelings I could not understand at the time. Physiologically, when you self-injure (or just get hurt) the body produces and releases endorphins, which mimic the effects of morphine, to counter the pain. This release gives a rush or a “high”, and one can become addicted to that feeling just as one can get addicted to drugs, gambling or  alcohol. Not only is the high addicting but the distraction is as well. It is a free few minutes where physical pain takes over emotional pain and you get the tiniest of breaks, but at least it is something.

    If you have never had a tattoo, it can be quite painful, depending on the area of your body, and the length of the sitting. It is after all, a cluster of needles penetrating your skin repeatedly and rapidly in the same area. It forms a scab as any other wound does which lasts for a few weeks and when the healing is done, you are left with a reminder of why you got that particular piece of artwork, what it means to you as an individual.  For me, being tattooed not only fulfills my urges to self-harm but provides a marker of certain times, people and places. It is one of the only times where I cannot focus on my illnesses. Between the pain and the conversation with my artist, there is little room for my issues to surface. It gives me a few hours of painful peace, and as contradictory as that sounds, it is a welcome break from the thoughts in my head.

  • The Unfairness of Life

     

    This piece is so emotional, and so close to my heart that it is written through tears and with love.

    As I have mentioned a few times, when I first joined twitter a few years back, I really had no idea what to expect. I had no clue there was such a huge community of support, especially surrounding such a sensitive topic like mental health. There were people from all regions and backgrounds, with incredible diversities but all with one thing in common…their support for others dealing with the similar issues. At first, I did not have my name on there and just stayed in the background observing, but then I realized I could post whatever I wanted with true anonymity. One day, after a particularly hard week, I posted a bunch of quotes surrounding the topic of suicide, and within 30 minutes I had a few private messages which I decided to check. They were all lovely people, offering to listen, offering to share their stories with me, offering to validate and sympathize. I read them, closed them and went about my day.

    A few hours later, while back on social media, I kept thinking about one message in particular, from a lovely lady in the United States, feeling it had drawn me in enough to warrant a reply. At the very least, I would thank her for reaching out and offering to help, but instead she messaged me back right away, and although I may be open and blunt on paper, I am slow and hesitant to open up one on one, yet before I knew it a conversation had started. She was positive and encouraging and supportive; all things I was lacking at the time. We chatted for a while. I thanked her, as I felt a bit better from our talk, and in my mind, that was that.

    Well, boy was I wrong. She continued to check in on me a few times a week, all the while making me feel more comfortable to share my story with her, as she was reciprocating. At the time, I had just started my blog, and she, being an author, was kind enough to take the time to read a few pieces that I had written. I was stunned when she came back with nothing but compliments and kind words for my writing. She encouraged me to continue to write and read most everything I published. I felt so incredibly lucky to have found such a kind lady, who was also helping me pursue one of my true passions.

    She, herself, is a survivor of childhood abuse, domestic abuse and a long term recovering alcoholic. She is writing a memoir that has been picked up by a known publisher. She is far into her emotional healing from horrors of the past. She shows me a sense of courage and determination, and for she also has her faith. She was doing radio events, and everything was finally moving in the right direction when a terrible fall, with a complex broken elbow would change the direction of her entire life. During the scans of the arm, it was revealed she had a spot of bone cancer. The elbow was repaired surgically and the cancer was attacked aggressively. She endured rounds of chemotherapy, with endless bouts of sickness. She suffered radiation treatments and the pain that comes with them, and in order to try and put this nasty disease in full remission, she underwent a stem cell transplant.

    After suffering near two years of hell, she was finally in remission, and although still exhausted and sick from the strain of all the procedures, she was determined to get right back into the swing of things. She continued to work on her book and heal, both physically and emotionally. Her three month check-up was clear, as was her six month, but for some unknown reason, just a month later, the cancer returned. She was immediately placed back on chemotherapy pills, which again, knocked her on her ass, but failed to help. They

    Doctors added a third drug which made her so sick, they not only took her off that, but off the other ones as well. They would wait until this illness had passed and then reassess which medications to put her back on. She went for a scan which showed the cancer had spread to two other areas of her bone, and the decision was made to take her off her chemotherapy pills. She will undergo an eight hour intensive, last resort chemo session but if that doesn’t show any efficacy then she will no longer take any medications.

    Funny how time means nothing to us as the minutes and hours pass but when our life now has a shortened timeline, time takes on a whole new meaning. She has made as much peace about the situation as one could expect, and her faith is helping to alleviate her fear. She will spend the time she has with her family and loved ones, and hopefully knock off a bucket list item or two. She will enjoy every minute of every day as she knows now that time is not just a word, but a series of moments, of memories, of cherished events.

    I try to be stoic. We talk weekly on the phone, and I try not to let the tears out. It is not time for that, it is time for my unconditional love and support, but if I am being honest, the minute I hang up the phone I breakdown. The thought of the inevitable breaks my heart and makes my blood boil with rage. Of all the people, I can’t understand why her. I know there is no reason or rationale for cancer but this is simply unfair, and due to my daily issues with suicide, the unfairness of it all is heightened. I would give my life for hers in an instant, and she knows that, unfortunately life doesn’t work like that. The ones who should, and want to live die, and those who want to die live.  She is like another mom to me, and I try to hide the fact that this is a huge trigger for me, having not being able to do nothing but watch my mom die of cancer, and being as completely helpless in the same situation yet again.

    I have chosen not to identify her as it is not my story to tell, and when she is ready, she will speak. In the meantime, I hope she knows that she has had a huge effect on my life, in more ways than she could know. I hope she knows that her strength, bravery and positivity have kept me going on numerous occasions. I hope she knows that she is one of the few people in my life that has actually climbed my endless walls and made it over, and for that, I am so very grateful. I hope she knows I would switch places with her in an instant, but since I can’t and she continues to fight, so shall I. I hope she knows how much I love her and how grateful and appreciative I am to have her in my life. I hope she knows I have her back as she has always had mine. I hope she knows she is one of the few people to make a landmark in my life, and I will never forget that. Thank you for being you, and thank you for accepting me. I love you always.

     

  • Silence is a Killer

    dythymia1

     

    As the numbers of deaths continue to rise at an exponential rate, it baffles me that we are still so afraid, so ashamed and embarrassed to talk about suicide. I don’t understand how the topic will trend on social media for a day or a week for World Suicide Prevention, and then suddenly, all is quiet again and the subject is swept under the carpet until the following year. How is something that is so prevalent in our society, and highlighted by the media, still not talked about within the schooling system, or even within the family? Here in Canada, we just legalized marijuana. Immediately, the government has spent countless millions on advertising to educate the masses on everything from the effects of marijuana to how to approach the subject with your children. Now, don’t get me wrong, I am all for the responsible usage of weed, however, the number of people that have died from using cannabis is so minimal it is hard to find statistics. Suicide, on the other hand, has statistics aplenty, yet never have I seen an advertisement on how to talk to your children about suicide, or even show the rising numbers in an attempt to bring public awareness. It is still so stigmatized, that most of society just closes their eyes and ears and pretends it doesn’t exist…until it affects them directly.

    Somehow there are so many stigmas attached to one single word that as a society in general we think that if we don’t talk about it, it will never affect us, while at the same time believing that talking about it actually increases the incidents of suicide; neither is true. Try to apply that same analogy to a physical illness such as cancer and it sounds like a ridiculous concept. Avoiding and or talking about cancer has zero relevance to whether or not you acquire the disease, so why is suicide any different. We have to wake up and realize that depression, anxiety, bipolar or BPD, for examples, are not mental health issues or problems, they are brain diseases and even injuries, and sadly suicide is often used to escape the pain that these diseases cause. Even by using the term “committed suicide”, it sets the undertone for archaic thinking, whereas saying that someone had a brain disease and died by suicide adds a whole new perspective to things, one in which perhaps we can focus on the reasons for death and not concentrate solely on the method.

    Where have we gone wrong educating our youth, and if it is not going to be a formal part of the education system then how do we, as a society reduce a stigma that is in itself perpetuated by the medical system.  At some point in time, most parents will have the dreaded sex talk with their kids, but how many will sit down and discuss suicide, and is that because we lack the education to do so, or simply because we have adopted the theory that speaking of it will instil ideas in our children. I have been suicidal nearly my entire life, and not once did someone else put the thought of acting on it in my head. For me, being suicidal is a symptom of my types of depression and just knowing that fact alone has saved my life countless times.

    The people who know best are not the ones writing the textbooks or prescriptions but instead those of us who have survived. You simply cannot even begin to describe the intensity of emotion that drives one to killing themselves, unless you have been suicidal yourself. It would be like trying to describe what it is like to have cancer without actually having it. You may think you understand, you may try to understand, but it is impossible, regardless of how much you “educate” yourself on the subject. So maybe it is up to us, the survivors to teach the masses, not from a textbook but from lived experience. I know that sharing my struggles with suicide has led to more people reaching out than I ever could have imagined. I may not have the answers to their problems, I do however have the empathy necessary to make people feel validated and less alone, and empathy is not learned through any textbook, it is acquired through life experience.

    I can’t save or help everyone, but the more I talk, the more others realize it is ok to do so. The more we survivors put ourselves out there, despite the fear of backlash and shame, the stronger we get and the number of lives we affect rises. If everyone talked about suicide with one friend, and those newly educated people tell one friend, sooner or later the stigma will have to be reduced. We, as a society cannot sit back and let these numbers increase. We must scream it from the rooftops as if our lives depend on it, because for many, it does. Silence is a killer.

     

     

  • A Moment in a Mind in Crisis

    TRIGGER WARNING…

    When I write my blogs, I usually choose a topic and attack it both personally and subjectively, and at those times, I am of relatively rational thought. By no means am I emotionally disconnected to what I write, I feel the words I put on paper in hopes you will feel them too. Today is a bit different. It is the first time I am trying to write a blog in the midst of a suicidal crisis, so my apologies ahead of time if my thoughts are as disorganized on paper as they are in my head.

    I certainly cannot speak for anyone but myself, but many people I have talked to have expressed feeling many things in common with how it feels to truly be in the middle of a crisis. Please understand that the last thing I want to do when my mind is attacking me with swords and daggers, is reach out to anyone, for a multitude of reasons. My suicidal brain does not have a single ounce of rational thought, meaning that I am fully enveloped in emotional thinking. The words that people say, or write, which might make sense at other times, no longer do. Instead those words of kindness and support bounce off of me like bullets on a Kevlar vest, which makes reaching out, seem somewhat futile. It becomes even more of a frustration that I can see these people trying to grab my hand before I fall, but my illness won’t allow me to reach all the way back; I fall just short of your grasp and continue to plummet to the bottom.

    Not only does asking for help require a great amount of strength and vulnerability, there is an intense sense of fear as well… fear of who to trust; fear of what is safe to say or who it is even safe to reach out to. For me, the fear of cops and being locked up in hospital far outweighs the fear of death, which makes talking about the subject even more precarious. I hesitate to call crisis lines because I cannot be completely honest without the threat of the police hanging over my head. The conversation then becomes very guarded on my end and if I can’t open up, then there is no point for me to continue talking, which leaves me feeling even more unheard and invalidated and just increases the depth of my suicidal thoughts.

    Pure raw emotion comes through me in fear, in anger, in frustration and desperation. The darkness is so present I can hardly see my hand in front of my face. The tears flood my keyboard as I search for the right words to describe the pervasive thoughts that invade my mind with the force of an army, and the resilience and strength it takes to put up any sort of fight. This is nothing short of a war; a fight for my life, with battles occurring not only daily, but hourly as well. There is no fairness on the battlefield, it is a matter of surviving in any manner possible, or dying, and the impulse for the latter is like a magnet drawing me closer and closer.

    The fear of facing another day with this amount of pain has become far worse than the fear of death.  My emotions feel like nerve endings, firing off electrical impulses every few seconds, and the thought of ending that is what my emotional brain sees as the rational thing to do. During these times there is a small, rational piece of me, always fighting to have its voice heard, but feeling like it is being drowned out by a loudspeaker. The thoughts of feeling peace, even if it has to be through death, become forefront in my mind, as during these times, I truly can see no other way out. The thoughts of suicide become omnipresent, al l consuming and comforting to my emotionally shattered mind, but despite the utter despair of days of crisis, I am still here somehow, trying my best to explain a moment in a mind in crisis, in hopes that others who have hit this level of despair feel less alone, even if only for a minute.

     

     

  • Post-Outing Hangover

     

     

    A few weeks ago, I took myself completely out of my comfort zone and attended a Mental Health event that was hosted by a good friend of mine. The speakers were all people I either knew or were familiar with and the 100 or so attendees were all people dealing with or supporting someone with mental health issues. The anxiety building up to the event worsened as each day approached, but somehow, I managed to pull myself together enough to leave my house and make the long trip by myself. I had arranged to meet a friend there, and basically paced up and down the hotel hallways until he and his daughter arrived. The deal was I would be left alone for as little time as possible in order to attempt to keep my social anxiety at bay, and they kindly made that happen for me.

    As the night progressed and the speakers each went through their stories, my anxiety began to calm. It was almost a surreal feeling to be in a room, surrounded by people who all have similar thoughts, behaviours and illnesses. Aside from the soccer field, this environment was one where I actually felt like I fit in, and finally wasn’t the oddball in the room. As I listened to these people I admire, their stories resonated with me and I realized that in one way or another we were all connected. We had all come together to fight one thing, the horrendous stigma of mental health. I was even lucky enough to connect with a few twitter friends, in hopes of maybe developing a friendship outside of online social media.

    All in all the night went well. I was able to take down my guard a bit, and remove part of my mask. It was the end of the night and the saying goodbye that immediately started to bring me down. I know I will see some of these people again, but having severe abandonment issues makes saying bye a very triggering and emotional moment. I pushed these feelings aside and tried to focus on all things I was grateful for that evening and made my way home, proud that I had the courage to go in the first place.

    Waking up the next morning, it felt like a tsunami of emotions flooded me. It was as if the night before had been merely a dream and reality was not only slapping me in the face, but punching me in the gut as well. It was waking up back in that uncomfortable, self-deprecating mind of darkness, where the thoughts are so pervasive it takes all of my energy to stop myself from sinking to the bottom of the pit. The reality of knowing that the safety and security I felt among people was just for a few hours that night, and not something that is in anyway a part of my daily life. It is the fear of not feeling that way again. It is the thinking that I didn’t deserve to feel that way in the first place; the questioning of whether I let my guard down too much or if I showed too much behind my mask.

    This phase, which I call “post-outing hangover”, completely nullified the emotions from the night before, and for me, this often happens in a matter of minutes. My brain reinforces all the negative talk that runs constantly through my mind, and before you know it I am digging myself out of yet another black hole. It is awful second guessing everything I said, did, or didn’t do, wondering what social behaviours were displayed properly, or if I was as transparent as I feel. I sometimes feel that because my mind is so full of self-hatred I believe that everyone can see the emotions I am feeling…as if they can see that I am depressed, or insecure, or as if I have projected those feelings onto them, thereby increasing my anxiety and sense of insecurity. It is a vicious cycle that I have yet to get a full grasp on.

    I am pretty isolated right now, for a variety of reasons, so going out in itself is a task, never mind if it involves anyone outside my closest circle. The thought of going to an event or even a lunch date becomes a process of weighing the benefits of going versus the detriments of post-outing hangover. I have an event coming up in two weeks, and although I am fully committed to going, I will say, I am dreading the emotional letdown of the following day as I know it is coming, but I have yet to figure out how to stop it. So this time, I think I will try to shove down that anxiety and those insecurities and just enjoy the night. I am looking forward to this and am hoping that the more I go out, the easier it will become, and perhaps the following day I will be better equipped to handle the tsunami of emotions. I hope to sit with them, and then let them go and concentrate on the moments I enjoyed instead.

  • My Anti-Depressant Withdrawal in a Nutshell

    pills for blog

     

    I have always been leery of mental health medications. Between the advertisements and the paper insert with the three reasons it may work, and the 150 possible risks ranging from nausea and headaches to blurry vision, tremors and death. The true irony being the warning that anti-depressants can actually increase suicidal thoughts and actions…isn’t that why I am going on them in the first place? A friend of mine always reminds me that we must try anything possible if we truly want to get better, so despite my reluctance, I hopped on the medication bandwagon just over two years. I tried well over a dozen SSRI’s, SNRI’s Tricyclic’s, and mood stabilizers, both new and old school until we found something that seemed to be lessening some of my symptoms and so I stuck with that, finally comfortable with the side-effects. Well that lasted about six months and then my depressive symptoms came back in full force, so once again, off to search out the latest and greatest medication that will help me “recover”.

    I don’t have a psychiatrist as I am on yet another year long waiting list, so both the introduction and maintenance of my meds are reliant on my family GP and myself…and I have found it not only helpful, but necessary to educate yourself as much as possible on what you are adding into your system. I went and requested to try Effexor as I had both heard and read that it has had positive effects on many people, at which point my family GP did point out that it is one of the hardest to come off of and will require a low and slow weaning process. I brushed it off thinking that is what they tell you with all anti-depressants anyway and that this could not be much different.

    I started with the lowest dose at 37.5mg and slowly increased to 75mg and was not feeling much better, so knowing the minimum clinical dosage is 150mg I made the jump straight up. I figured since the drug had been in my system for a while that doubling the dosage would be fine, so I got a prescription and started the increase. I really didn’t notice much change at first, other than increased “brain fog”, a few more headaches and some nausea, all which I knew to expect thanks to the 10 page warning insert. I managed these side effects for the next few weeks until they just became part of my daily being.

    About three months into the higher dosage, I felt my mood plummeting at a rapid rate and no matter what coping techniques I used, the deeper I sank. I found myself not only living in my usual passively suicidal set of mind, but also burdened with extremely active thoughts and plans. I know my moods well and felt that this was definitely enhanced by the medication increase. I also developed some digestion issues which required me to take a medication that has a bad reaction with Effexor, but it was highly recommended to me by the gastroenterologist to get on these new meds as soon as possible, which would require me dropping off Effexor a lot more quickly than recommended. Now I have dropped cold turkey off of cocaine and Benzos , so in my mind, it could not be worse than either of those had been, either physically or emotionally.

    So, picking and choosing between my mental health and physical health, I dropped the Effexor from 150mg to 75mg. The first few days seemed manageable and then suddenly it felt like I was slapped in the face by an emotional brick wall. My emotions were bouncing by the minute, with no control and no direction. I could not stop crying, whether someone said something good or something bad, I was in tears. My suicidal ideation went from high to rampant and fit right in with the rapid cycling of my moods. I felt like the last piece of my rational mind was now gone, and my survival was based solely on instinct. These dangerous and pervasive thoughts would not leave my mind, be it day or night, and quickly became all-consuming. I wondered how I would survive without that tiny piece of rationality that has kept me going all these years. I kept reminding myself it was the withdrawal of the medication enhancing the thoughts and that did not mean I could act on them, despite my often impulsive behaviour.

    So, I am now about 3 weeks through withdrawal and although a few others have noticed a decrease in the amount of mood swings, the intensity of them is so bad I fail to recognize anything good. My brain fog is starting to decrease slightly, but it still feels like my brain is on a spinning top, non-stop. I am still crying over nothing and everything and find myself angry and frustrated a lot of the time, with or without reason. My suicidal ideations have not ceased or even lessened, I do however, feel slightly less impulsive, like maybe a small part of my rational brain is coming back towards the surface.

    I think I am struggling with the question of how I will know that the drug is out of my system completely. It has been a long time since I have only been on two medications and I frankly don’t remember what it feels like to be off them. My mood swings are often rapid and enhanced due to my BPD anyway so where lay the line drawn between the two. I realize it is just a matter of time and the withdrawal will be over but in the meantime, each hour seems like a day; each emotion feels like it is burning through my skin, each tear leaving a scar on my face. All I can do is hold on, and hope that these enhanced feelings are primarily from the withdrawal and that my BPD is not that far out of control again. I hope that the worst of it is over now and in the near future I may balance out again.

    Please remember this is only my experience and each person will react individually to their medications and withdrawals. This has not changed my mind on the benefits of mental health medications, it has taught me the valuable lesson that weaning off slowly, when at all possible is definitely the safest way to go.

     

     

  • Will I Ever Know Who I Am?

     

    who am i blog

     

    I don’t like mirrors. I avoid them whenever I can. It’s not just the fact I am insecure about how I look, it’s more that I catch myself staring intently, looking for any speck of what used to be me; the me that used to have friends; the me that used to be somewhat social; the me who wasn’t afraid of everything. I stare even deeper to try and reach a piece of the confidence I had playing soccer but it had never really carried over to other areas of my life, so it, along with everything else is either buried or gone. Instead I see the reflection of a shell of a person; a lifeless being with shadows of trauma below my eyes. I am starting to forget who I was, pre-illness, if there was such a time.

    My sexual abuse started when I was a baby, in multiple foster homes, and continued over the years until I was 14. I had multiple abusers, all outside the home, none of whom were family, but as I think back over the years I, realize some were only teenage boys themselves. It makes me wonder if there ever was a pre-illness me, or was I traumatized so young that I never stood a chance not to be sick. Perhaps my pre-illness self is just a collection of memories I have formed, pictures I have seen and stories I have been told. Maybe I have gathered all this information and processed it in order to make some sort of sense of what happened and why.

    I have an old wooden hope chest in which I keep important things from my past. There is a lot of stuff from my mom when she was alive, assorted photo albums, the odd knick-knack and all my soccer awards. Once in a while I will have a peek, and look at the awards and medals and letters to try and remind myself that I was good at something, very good in fact, from a very young age until I stopped playing a few years back. I see my name on the certificates, I see the team photos with the trophies and I know that playing soccer was my passion yet I cannot feel the emotions that should come along with the situation. I see me smiling in the pictures, but I see a darkness and heaviness in my eyes every time. I long to remember these moments of apparent happiness, but even more than that I long to feel them because maybe that would help identify who I was back then and point me in the direction of who I am now.

    The eyes that glare back at me in the mirror now have lost their sparkle and have that medicated haze; the effort it takes to smile, is almost not worth it. It is almost like I see myself as a jigsaw puzzle with the main pieces missing, so you will never be able to see the entire picture but spend hours trying to figure it out. The problem with trauma is that we often bury it so deep to block out the pain that we lose any good memories that came around that chunk of time. My brain does not have a day or two blocked, it has months and years of forgotten memories and with each chunk of time that is lost, it feels like a piece of me is lost as well. I wonder if I will ever remember who I was, or have these illnesses stripped me of those memories and emotions forever.

    I spend so much time trying to figure out who I was I don’t know who I am currently but maybe the key is not locked somewhere amongst the traumas of the past, maybe it is to be found in the here and now. Perhaps it is not so necessary to figure all that out; perhaps my time is better spent figuring who I am now and who I want to be going forward. Maybe, just maybe, everything from the past does not require an explanation, just acceptance. If I focus on the present, maybe I will find those missing puzzle pieces and become a whole picture.

     

  • Why Did I Freeze

    frozen

     

    Trauma comes in a multitude of types, forms, variances and degrees. No one person’s trauma can be experienced the same as another’s, nor can it be compared. The biology of our bodies react the same, prompting us to prepare for danger through fight, flight or freeze, but our emotional responses, however similar they may be, will never be the same. Even if we experienced the exact same trauma, simultaneously, surviving an accident for example, our brains are wired to see the world differently, and therefore we process information and react based on our individuality.

    For a “healthy” person, the emotional response would be somewhat in accordance to the situation, and the body’s physiological response would naturally rebalance itself. The hormones that flood our body in response to trauma would, in an appropriate time, return to the levels that keep us balanced. We would then be able to process the event in both a rational and emotional manner, until it makes enough sense to satisfy our needs and allow us the ability to both live and thrive in the future.

    For a traumatized person, the world is already seen with a tainted view. It is, for us, a dangerous and scary place where we have been victimized, brutalized and left to protect ourselves. It is a world where there is no room for the emotional brain, only for the instinct of survival. Yes we still get the hormonal signals to fight flight or freeze during the trauma, the difference being is our system never really balances back out. Long after the trauma, our bodies are still secreting those hormones and we are constantly living in a stage of hyper or hypo vigilance. This is not only true of those with PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder), but it is the truth to the millions of other victims of trauma. The past does not get resolved and filed away in an orderly manner, but instead it settles itself smack dab in the present.  Even though the trauma has stopped occurring, the resulting effects have become so deeply ingrained in the way we think, that they affect our every thought and move in the present. We may have “moved on” because time has passed but parts of us are literally and physically stuck in those moments of trauma. We are constantly on the edge or overly aware. We are worried about abandonment. We fear trust and the act of getting close to someone.

    I have been abused in numerous ways. Sadly most did not allow for flight or fight so the next survival instinct kicked in… to freeze, which I did, like a deer in the headlights. I wanted to fight but was physically unable to, and God knows I wanted to run but my legs seemed paralyzed and there was nowhere to go. So time and time again, for years and years I just froze, put my mind in a different place and tolerated the abuse. I remember being angry at myself all the time for being too afraid to run, being too weak and too meek to fight back and too afraid to speak and have no one listen. The abuse finally ended in my early teens and I continued to go about my life as if nothing had happened, but with a dark cloud of anger hanging perilously over my head and the thing about deep seeded anger is it generally gets turned inward long before it is expressed outwardly.

    Over the years, this anger eats away at your mind, heart and soul. This sense of being hyper vigilant becomes a part of your very essence. It feels like it is no longer a choice, but an innate and ongoing reaction, which exhausts you to your very core. Not only is my mind stuck, but my body is too. The same stress hormones that were released every time trauma occurred have slowed down but never stopped. My body is releasing hormones to keep me constantly alert based on the traumas of the past, regardless of the fact we are in the present. So effectively, my body lives in the present with constant biological reactions from the past.

    There are no pills, or easy solutions. There is no “putting the past behind you” and moving on. Even if you think you have put it behind you, your body will remind you that it is still there.  It will remind you with mysterious physical ailments, or flashbacks triggered by something as simple as a specific noise or smell, and it won’t stop until it is faced head on and dealt with in one form or another. The body and mind are one, and healing can’t occur solely on one part of us, both aspects need to be addressed in order to try to heal from the trauma.  The mind needs to be able to communicate with the body to let it know there is no danger or threat in the present and the feelings that are occurring are just trauma responses, or our survival instincts kicking in again. We can however try to focus on the present moment through mindfulness or breathing techniques, both which keep us focused in the present instead of allowing our bodies and minds to think we are trapped in the past. With time, practice and training, we can rewire the obscure way we see the world, and replace it with a version in which we are in control and feel safe and secure.

     

     

  • Honored by The Mighty Anthony Bourdain

    A quick hello to my readers and a thank you all for following me and taking the time to read my blog. I want to share something a little different with you this week, in light of the events of suicide that occurred this week. I hope that not only will you read it, and let the information sink in, but that you will share it with as many people as you can. The more people that access this at a time of crisis, the more opportunities to save lives.

    Thank you again,

    Jody xxx

    https://themighty.com/2018/06/anthony-bourdain-i-want-to-die-jody-betty/

  • The Stigma of Mental Health

    The statistics are eye opening.  One in three girls and one in six boys will experience some form of severe trauma during their childhood which, in most cases,  may be the precursor to the one in three that will be affected by mental illness. There was a time, not too long ago, when not only was it uncommon to know anyone dealing with a mental illness but it certainly would never happen to you, or anyone in your family. Anything mental health related was not only swept under the carpet, but pushed down the stairs and locked in the basement, and the problem with that is, it always seems to sneak back up to the main level.  The stigma and bias against those with a mental illness has always been, and despite all the progress we have made in many areas of humanity, becoming less judgmental and more empathetic have never been at the forefront.

    I would like to say that I am not a statistic, but I am one of the one in three.  I experienced multiple traumas throughout my childhood which opened the doors to a variety of mental illness diagnoses. I was told as a child that my feelings of being down were merely a part of growing up, and that is just the way some children were. The doctors and my parents both attributed it to the abuse I incurred pre-adoption, although at the time the details were somewhat unknown and basically said the past is the past, so leave it there and move on. So I did. I buried my past traumas as deep as possible, continued to downplay the present ones, and despite two suicide attempts, I continued on, attempting to fake any sense of normalcy. This pattern continued through my teenage years and was greatly exacerbated by the death of my mom when I was 19, and when I buried her, I also buried the trauma that came with her death. I survived through my twenties and into my thirties before having another suicide attempt and finally being officially diagnosed with depression and anxiety, but as with the rest of my life, I fell into the old habits and survival techniques which had kept me alive thus far.

    I managed to keep a roof over my head and although I cycled through quite a few, I always managed to have a job. I was active in soccer and had a social life with a pretty good circle of friends until my late thirties when slowly my depression started to take over. It slowly sucked my energy, my confidence and my social life down the drain. I felt little pleasure in the activities that used to keep me going, and I lost interest in life. Just trying to stay alive became a daily battle. The judgment rolled in and friends started to slowly dissipate as my depression took ahold of my life. I finally reached my breaking point about 18 months ago, lost my job and took a trip to the hospital to reach out for some help. I was refused admittance as I was not “enough of a threat” to myself or others, but they did put me in touch with a psychiatrist who then diagnosed me with Borderline Personality Disorder and Dysthymia to add to my depression and anxiety. Although I am not generally into putting labels onto people, in this case I found my diagnosis to be quite a relief. It provided not only an explanation to many of my behaviors but a sense that perhaps I was not alone in my battles.

    I thought maybe my diagnosis might be a relief for others as well, those who had to deal with my rapid and intense mood swings but the more I shared the news, the less my phone rang and the texts became fewer and further in between and within six months, I had lost my job, and all but a few friends. My family had already outcast me years ago, labeling me as troubled and once again, I found myself feeling so alone I could not rationalize a reason to go on. I wondered if I had instead been diagnosed with a physical ailment, would I have been judged or would I have had to face the same discrimination and bias. Sadly, the answer is no. Physical illnesses are socially acceptable and often come with a level of empathy, whereas mental illnesses are still treated like they are taboo, and if we just ignore them for long enough, perhaps they will simply go away. Unfortunately, that will never happen and with the rapidly increasing numbers of diagnosis, it seems society will have to finally deal with the reality that no one is immune. Just like cancer, mental illnesses have no discrimination or bias on who they affect. There is no culture, no religion, no gender or amount of money and fame that provides protection from mental illness. So think twice before you discriminate or walk away from someone who is affected, because chances are it will affect you, a friend or family member and the more open we are to acceptance the less we will judge.

     

     

     

     

  • The Complex Fear of Losing Your Therapist

    blog-fear

     

    I was 8 when I saw my first therapist. She was a social worker and had been assigned to me to find out if I had purposefully or accidentally taken the bottle of my Grandma’s blood pressure medication. I remember her fidgeting with a pencil the entire time she was questioning me about if I knew what death was, and how taking those pills could have killed me. I stayed quiet, nodding at all the appropriate times and within the hour it was determined that I had no idea what suicide was, therefore there could have been no intent in my taking the pills and I must not have realized that taking them could have caused irreparable harm. I remember my Mom yelling at me pretty much the whole ride home while I sat silently, tears dripping down my face because I had failed. I was still alive.

    Since my attempt was labeled an accident there was no follow up counselling, and although daily life continued on I felt the grip of the darkness, holding on tighter and tighter each day, and could not understand how nobody could notice. I was twelve when I slit my wrist, more a cry for attention than a true suicide attempt, but it worked and I was shipped off to therapy. They asked my mom if they could speak with me alone, and with her consent I trailed along behind the grey haired man with the thick rimmed glasses. I really don’t know what I expected from counselling, I just know that someone else had to help me get better as I was not succeeding on my own. I settled into the oversized chair as he crossed his legs and pulled out a note pad. He went through the basics of my past with me and then with the stern face of a school principal began to lecture me about cutting myself as a form of getting attention and that if I cry wolf too many times no one will ever help me. I zoned out for the rest of the session until he called my mom in the room to inform her that it was not an attempt, but a negative way to get attention. The tension on the car ride home was so thick there was no knife or sword in the world big enough to cut through it. I was yelled at, grounded and the subject was not mentioned again.

    Between then and now I have seen over 18 people, including social workers 20 years younger than me, psychotherapists fresh out of school, psychologists referring to Freud, and psychiatrists so disconnected from the real world, I have no idea how they continue to practice, aside from the fact that they can prescribe meds.  Many of these meetings only lasted a session; some went as long as six months, but I never found anyone that I actually connected with enough to be able to open up on an emotional level. I repeated my story over and over, telling it like it was a movie I watched last night, with complete emotional disconnection. I found myself unable to speak much at all when confronted with a male therapist, which accounted for over half the people I saw. The others were either lacking in compassion, or just lacking in practical knowledge and trauma education. Some of the sessions were straight out of books I have already read, which would piss me off because I am not a classic textbook anything. I am a person with an illness that needs appropriate guidance and support.

    I gave up the whole idea of therapy about 15 years ago when I found that neither therapy, nor self-help books had helped me at all, and I chose to accept the fact that I was far too damaged to be repaired in any way. Even a suicide attempt that I managed to escape being hospitalized was not enough of a wakeup call to reach out for help. I shoved everything to the back and pretended to function in society as much as possible, but the truth is I was drowning in depression and suicidal thoughts. The mask we wear in public shows a much different face than the one we wear at home. This act continued until three years ago, when the years of pain and pressure built up and I snapped. I went to hospital, mostly just to get in the system and after six hours of waiting and one hour of diagnosis, I left for home with a diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder, a prescription and three follow up appointments. I foolishly thought that since I now knew what I was dealing with, and had medication, it couldn’t take too long for me to feel better. Well after six weeks of meds that did nothing but make me sleep, and three follow-up appointments, not only was I not feeling better but I was horrified that after my last appointment, I was left alone to monitor my behaviour and meds with no support system at all. I was placed on a waitlist for a psychiatrist; however the average wait time was 11 months or more. It was at this point I realized I had to take things into my own hands.

    I educated myself about all types of meds and learned as much about Borderline Personality Disorder as I could. I ordered books and workbooks on both Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) and Dialectical Behavioural Therapy (DBT) and dove right into them, intent on both teaching and healing myself, and although they were educational, I was still emotionally disconnected. That is when I decided to try therapy again. I sent out about 50 emails to various therapists briefly explaining my story and my dire financial situation and received 49 rejections. There was a younger girl, maybe late twenties, early 30’s who had agreed to meet with me and discuss my situation, and although I was very sceptical, I vowed to attend the meeting, after all, what was the worst that could happen.

    I was greeted that day warmly and non-judgementally and the kindness in her eyes could not have been faked, and after our first appointment, she reduced her rate substantially and agreed to take me on as a client. We have met weekly or bi-weekly for the last three years. She was not intimidated by my BPD and the push pull factor attached to that. She not only brought out my feelings, but validated them and the pain that comes with them, and as luck would have it, she is a trauma focused therapist, so there was nothing I had to hold back anymore. The trust took me about six months to develop enough to delve into anything emotional. BPD is primarily an attachment based disorder and for me to open up required vulnerability, which means I have to test you to make sure you won’t abandon me, and she never did, despite the frustration I must have caused, she always made me feel validated and safe. Her office soon became my only safe space in terms of being emotional, and although I know things were kept professional, I could tell her care and concern was truly genuine. BPD makes me form attachments quickly, and she soon became “my person”…the only one I could be true to myself with and open up more than I had ever done before. It may not seem like it, but in the past three years, I have progressed in my healing quite a lot. She helped me in every way she possibly could.

    I had no intention of stopping seeing her. I figured I would be in therapy pretty much for life and expected at least a few more years with her in hopes to see some more progression, and that is when the other shoe finally dropped. She informed me she is moving away and not doing therapy for the foreseeable future, and although I know why she has to go, it does not lessen the feeling of abandonment and the extreme emotions that accompany it. I am terrible at goodbyes and cry at the thought of the upcoming day. I feel such an immense sense of loss it has left an empty pit at the bottom of my stomach. I feel lost, not knowing what to do or where to turn. The thought of starting this process all over again with someone else terrifies me. The fear of suddenly not having the only support I am true with is devastating, and I fear the depths my mind will sink to when the time comes. The chances are slim I am going to find another person I am this comfortable with that is both trauma informed and willing to cut their rates to the amount I can afford. I am afraid of losing all the progress I have made, afraid of no longer having that safety net and scared to be on my own.

    So the weaning off process begins in hopes to make the transition a bit easier for me, however, I have a feeling my BPD is going to drag me back to the depths of hell but this time I don’t have the proper resources to help pull me out. I truly am sad and lost and the future suddenly seems so uncertain. I will miss her immensely as to me, she is irreplaceable.

Design a site like this with WordPress.com
Get started