Sick: affected by physical or mental illness. The definition itself notes mental illness as a factor in being sick, yet the world associates sickness only in the physical form. Suffering from mental illness leaves those affected in limbo, a feeling of loneliness that not many can relate to.
Starting this blog, my intentions have been to open up lines of communication to those who suffer from mental illness. To be completely vulnerable in my words to help those who suffer silently. To try and give the world a glimpse into the life of a woman who suffers daily from mental illness, regardless of what people may think. This therapy that has helped me realize that I’m not alone, a feeling that has comforted me the past few months.
The hardest part of writing my posts is forcing myself to be as honest as possible. Vulnerability is extremely hard for me, I’ve done a great job at hiding my insecurities for many years. I tried to avoid the fact that I’ve thought about taking my own life, many many times. My illness has made me handicapped, crutched inside my mind. Always, with a smile on my face. That’s the silent killer, smiling outside while dying inside.
As suicide becomes the topic of conversation, most recently because of the deaths of Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain, more and more people are starting to realize that being sick does include mentally. Realizing that having the world at your fingertips does not exempt you from suicidal thoughts. As the death of any celebrity starts conversation, the stigma of suicide still lingers. A level of misunderstanding that may never be consoled.
As I may not have known Kate or Anthony, I knew Louie. A military vet who had incredible musical talent, yet suffered silently. We had conversations about our Post Traumatic Stress Disorders, a level understanding that most just could not relate to. Then came his last post, “I’ve got the noose around my neck and I’m about to jump.” Repeating that now still gives me chills. I was first to respond asking him to call me. Texts upon texts, never read. Calls that will always go unanswered. Lou is gone, succumbing to his illness and his unanswered cries for help. As much as I wish I could’ve done something, deep down inside I know that every mental disability is different. It takes the individual and the individual alone to help mend the broken mind. There’s nothing that I could’ve done to change his decision but lord knows I would’ve gave my limbs to have him here, healthy.
I’ll never forget being chastised for going to therapy. Being treated as if I was weird for seeking help of my disease. My episodes have lead me to very dark place, a place that haunts my existence every so often. To this day my depression cripples me, a single conversation or moment in time can take me back to that haunting location. As hard as I try to avoid it, it follows me like a shadow. A feeling that I despise, yet it consumes my soul when it wants. I became ashamed of my illness, with the perception of therapy making me different. Allowing others opinions to control me, an action that I refuse to partake in anymore.
I’ve been suicidal since I was a teenager. Obsessed with death, as a kid I remember imagining my own funeral. My depression had developed overtime and has become this unspoken unknown feeling that I refused to show, until now. I can no longer be ashamed of my disability, I need to be vulnerable. I need to be free of shame. I need to show the world my flaws, despite every attempt to conceal them.
If Louie’s death have me anything, it gave me the strength to expose my demons. Putting a face to the place that has made me contemplate death. I no longer fear my emotions, I have to accept them. For the sake of my kids, for the sake of my family, and most importantly for the sake of my life. If I can save one life by giving my soul through word, it will be all worth it. This writing thing gives me hope that I will be alright. I know that eventually another episode will come where I contemplate living but through the grace of God, I will overcome. I am a wife, a mother, and a human being suffering daily from mental illness. I am no longer suffering silently. I choose to suffer, out loud.