No pic to go with the blog today, sorry.

Today was a rough one.

There’s this idea in popular media that chronic mental illness can be ‘cured’. Cured herein meaning done, over, out of your life. Totally resolved, for good. The girl gets sick, she gets sicker, she does regrettable and morally shady things, she hits rock bottom, she has a revelation, she gets better. The End. She falls, she flips her situation, she flies off into the sunset. Fall, flip, fly. (The funny thing is that the vast majority of people I know who create art, specifically film, have mental health concerns of their own…so they really should know better as an industry, no?)

Very few stories approach the idea that nothing is going to stop you from falling down again. And Again. and a couple more times, too. A Star Is Born got pretty close to the reality of the situation, but keep in mind that not all people who are unwell end up dying. Lots of us persevere, which is the harder thing to do. I’ve seen people fade away into themselves and ultimately end their lives, and I don’t want that to be my story. It’s not something I idolize or romanticize, and frankly, that took me a while to learn. Suicidality; the social work term for the mental or physical act of preparing to end your life, is something I have learned to live with. It’s a neighbor I’ve had for many years, since I was fairly young, and it used to be a raucous asshole, parties every night, trash on the lawn, you can only imagine. Nowadays, it comes over to borrow sugar or have a cup of tea, looks around for a bit as if seeking a reason to stay, and I politely and firmly show it to the door. But it comes back, because we live close by, and frankly, Suicidality is one lonely son of a gun.

Okay, so are you suicidal now, my dear loyal readers want to know. Short answer, No. I’ve had a very rough day with hard core anxiety leading to a wee baby panic attack and almost crying on a zoom staff meeting (and if that’s not emblematic of quarantine, I don’t know what is). I gritted my teeth and sniffled in my office and I made it to 5pm before rushing home to the animals and couch. Those teeth-gritting hours were painful and loathsome. I just wanted to run home and go to bed and fall into a dreamless sleep. Because dealing with my brain chemistry, my cramping stomach and clenched jaw, my feelings of utter uselessness and worthlessness, my embarrassment and shame at holding back tears in a goddamn staff meeting until it was my turn to speak, all of it, made me want to just fade away. I didn’t want to end my life, but I was pretty done having life pick on me until I cried.

I wanted to control how I felt. I want to control how I feel now writing this, worried it’ll scare my readers. I’ve made an absolute point of telling you all most of the scary stuff, even when no one asked, and even though it’s no one’s business but my own. I’ve written for years about my body and it’s weird little habits. I’ve tried to be brave and share what I can, and hopefully this honesty has been refreshing for you all. Sometimes, my dear brain and her antics are frightening, and I wouldn’t want to keep that part to myself. That’s how people die. I don’t want that at all.

I am safe, and I feel loved, and I’m not in the darkest place I’ve ever been. It’s certainly not a bright spot in my year so far, but still. Safe. I fought for myself today and I won. But there are battles every day, and this one was exhausting. I could have walked the dog and gone to bed by now, despite how much evening I have left; instead, I wrote this. I feel its important to share that not everyone who has active, chronic suicidality ends up dying, they survive with it. It’s not gone, it’s not ‘cured’. For me, it’s something that peeks in the window and occasionally knocks. I’m the sort of person that lets it in to talk for a while. Then, as before, I show it the door.

Don’t worry for me, dear reader, I’ve dealt with this before, and I know what I’m doing. That shouldn’t imply I never ask for help, either. I know that asking for help is hard, even harder when you feel like the universe is caving in, but help is very, well, helpful. I have a few friends I can, some family I can rely on, and I’m lucky that way. Keep in mind, however, there is always someone who can listen.

Be well, loyal reader. Tomorrow is another day.

National Suicide Prevention LifelineHours: Available 24 hours. Languages: English, Spanish. Learn more

800-273-8255