Spade Their Feelings

"You must have been in a place so dark you couldn't feel the light, reaching for you through that stormy cloud" - Rascal Flatts "Why"

The frozen air stung my lungs as I gasped in a shallow breath and let out another loud sob. I was 17, and I was performing my version of personal abuse. Each morning I would go out to warm up my car before I drove to school, or at least that's what my parents thought. In reality I was sitting in the front seat of my car, sobbing, as the neighborhood around me remained frozen in the pre-dawn moments before the day started. 

Every day I would listen to the Rascal Flatts' song Why on repeat, and I would do the heaving crying that I couldn't risk at home, for fear someone would hear me, and I would have to explain myself. I couldn't risk that. I couldn't do that. At 17 I didn't know anything except that something was wrong with me. Something inside of me was broken and defective, and the pain of it was slowly suffocating me to the point of praying for death. 

The song Why was the only thing at that point that was keeping me from ending my life. It talks about what it feels like to be someone left behind after a suicide, wondering "was there anything I could have said or done". I would listen to that song on a loop, reminding myself that if I killed myself I would leave my mom behind to ask those questions. I would leave my baby brother behind. 

Those three musical minutes were the only thing that could clear my head enough to see that my suicide could hurt other people more than it could help them. And for months I performed my daily ritual of sobbing in my car, pulling myself together on the seven minute ride to school, so that by the time I got there I could hide my puffy red eyes with some makeup, and no one would ever know.   

People describe suicide as selfish, and shame victims for the emotional wreckage they leave behind. I can understand that, but as someone who has attempted suicide, and who has spent years dealing with mental illness, please let me show you the view from this side. Someone who is suicidal is looking to escape the agonizing physical and emotional pain they experience, but more often than not they are also trying to spare the people they love from having to deal with the tangled mess of land mines that surround mental illness. 

I can't speak for Kate Spade, or her thoughts, struggles, or fears. But as more information comes out, and as she is publicly and privately mourned and scrutinized in the media, please know that she was likely not trying to hurt her family, or thinking about her daughter growing up without her. Kate Spade was probably trying to spare her daughter wondering why her mom was always crying, or why she didn't laugh as much anymore. She probably wanted to spare her daughter from wondering if there was something she had done wrong to make her mother not love her anymore. 

Mental illness isn't easy, or selfish, or easy to understand and untangle. It's hard to ask for help because we're scared of being judged, or becoming a burden on the people we love. Suicide can seem like the only way to end our suffering, and end our reign of tyranny and unhappiness we drag our loved ones through. People need love and understanding and the judgement and shaming have to stop. We can't ask people to ask for help if we aren't able to create a caring, open environment for them to ask from. 

"This old world really ain't that bad of a place. Oh why, there's no comprehending and who am I to try to judge or explain. Oh, but I do have one burning question. Who told you life wasn't worth the fight? They were wrong, they lied. Now you're gone and we cry. 'Cause it's not like you to walk away in the middle of a song.

Your beautiful song

Your absolutely beautiful song"

PMS - Pissed at Medical Systems

When I was 16 years old my mom had to come to my high school and bring me a new pair of jeans. She had to do this because in under two hours I had bled through an extra strength pad, my underwear, and a pair of jeans, to the point that there was a small puddle of blood in my seat in class. There is nothing more humiliating than having to experience that, and to this day when I'm menstruating I have panic attacks over whether or not I'm bleeding through multiple layers of protection and clothing.

Ever since that day in high school, when I was enduring a six month long menstrual cycle, I've taken birth control. Not only does it regulate my body and hormones, but it helps to decrease the intensity of my depression, and it allows me to control the suffering I endure at the hand of my period.

Is this info making you uncomfortable? Do you not like having to think about cramps, bloating, and immense amounts of blood? Well guess what, I don't like having to fight for my right to access birth control, and I certainly don't like that for women who don't have insurance, birth control can cost nearly $200.

I'm currently still in the middle of a nearly month long battle of trying to get access to my birth control. First, my pharmacy changed my birth control without my consent. Last time this happened the change in formula sent me into a comatose depressive episode. Next, the pharmacy claimed they had no idea what I was talking about, claimed they had no record of my correct birth control (which I had been filling there for a year). They tried to pin the screw up on my doctor, which backfired when I mentioned the doctor they referenced hadn't been my doctor for over a year. Finally, I had to make an appointment with my doctor, drive nearly an hour to his office, and waste his time so that he could write out a new prescription for a medication I'd been on for nearly ten years.

I go to a new pharmacy, while suffering physical and mental discomfort that is indescribably unbearable thanks to my period. The new pharmacy informed me that my birth control wasn't covered by insurance. Because of the severity of my period I'm on a form of birth control where I only suffer my menstrual cycle once every three months, instead of every month. So despite that fact, and my medical history, and the specifically written prescription from my doctor, they pharmacist said I couldn't have 3 months worth of birth control unless I planned on paying $160 for the other two months.

Still the wrong birth control. Still the wrong information. Still frustrated and exhausted.

To put in clearly, this is some utter BULLSHIT. Why is it easier to get viagra or hydrocodone than it is to get birth control? Why is it cheaper? Why aren't men judged for their little blue pill, when I'm judged and condemned for taking birth control? Why is it harder to get this harmless, helpful medicine that I've been on for years and that I need to get through every day life, than it is to hire a freaking hitman?

Maybe I'm a bad millennial, but I think we should be focusing more on getting women fair and affordable access to medical treatment, and less arguing about whether or not Bruno Mars is black enough to sing his music.

Stop Self-Shaming

This morning I was standing in my kitchen making coffee, and honestly feeling bad for myself. I lost my job a few months ago, and finding a new one has been an impossible task so far. I've slowly watched my hard earned savings account wither away and I get to psych myself up to go fold sweaters for not enough money an hour.

After a minute I wagged my finger at myself. How dare I. I'm engaged to the most perfect man in the world, I have a loving family, and my life hasn't been too derailed by unemployment. I mentally scolded myself for the self-pitying moment when, all in all, my life is overall good.

As I stood listening to my coffee drip into the cup, I got mad at myself for an entirely new reason. How dare I! Its not a sin to be unhappy. Its okay to be unhappy about the unhappy parts of your life. We all have them, and its healthy to mope a bit over your morning cup of cinnamon dolce brew.

Taking a moment to let out your stress and frustration over the not so perfect stuff in your life does not take away from the great parts of it. We're all allowed to wallow a bit and feel down in the dumps. You can cry in the shower, and hit an extra snooze in the morning because you feel like crap. We all need those little moments.

Sometimes, allowing yourself to spend a few moments in a state of despair or sadness or pity can help you appreciate the blessings around you. Yes, I am unemployed and verging on broke and pretty depressed about it, but thank god I have a sweet man who makes me smile in spite of all of that. Finding something to laugh about feels a little bit sweeter.

So stop shaming yourself. Take a minute to be sad, then find a lot of things to laugh about.

Feminism, Terrorism, and Thin Mints

I have been told, on more than one occasion, that I am a terrorist to feminism. Um, a little harsh right? I earned this malicious moniker for a mildly ridiculous reason. My alleged 'sin' against the sisterhood of feminism is my utter, unadulterated love for babies. 

I have wanted to be a mom since I was a little girl, and I am so excited to have kids one day. I have no desire to be a mogul, or a CEO, or an activist. Room Mom is the highest title that I aspire to reach, and for some reason a lot of women seem to be extremely offended by this. 

Its like my dream isn't good enough, or ambitious enough and I'm a threat to the evolution of womankind. If my desire to push Girl Scout Cookies is going to topple the feminist movement, am I really the issue? How fragile is feminism if it can be taken down by a box of Thin Mints?

I will admit that I am unsure if I should be considered a feminist. I didn't go out for the Women's March, or the Women's Convention in Detroit. I don't do anything special on National Women's Day. However, I have been touched inappropriately by a male superior at work. I have been the victim of sexual assault. I've struggled to embrace my confidence and loud personality for fear that guys might not like me. I've experienced all of that and you know what? I'll be damned if my daughter ever has to go through the same thing. 

As a woman, I try to look at every other woman as a sister or a daughter. I try to spread love, give compliments, and build up the women around me. We do need marches. We do need to change laws and overthrow the outdated and offensive idea that PMS turns a woman into an unstable psychopath. But we also need to love each other on a daily basis.

We need to support one another whether your dream is to be on the PTA or in the Oval Office. We have to stop slut shaming each other, and hating each other for whatever crazy reasons we've dreamt up. We all need to love each other unconditionally, openly, and loudly. Once we embrace that, there's nothing that can stop us from changing the world.     

They Say When You're Broken the Light Gets In

I often write about mental illness in February, because it's the anniversary of my suicide attempt. Whenever I go to talk about my experiences with anxiety, depression, and suicide I always struggle with where to start...

18? When I finally told someone about my anxiety attacks and I was diagnosed with anxiety and clinical depression?

11? When I first started experiencing panic attacks that kept me from being able to sleep?

24? When I had to find a way to articulate to my fiance that sometimes, for no reason, I fear that he'll stop loving me because of my anxiety?

15? When my Papaw died suddenly and I was thrown into a deep struggle with severe depression and panic attacks?

16? When I could no longer deal with my crippling mood drops and panic attacks and I took as many pills as I could get my hands on, hoping to end the almost 2 year period of endless pain I could no longer bear?

My mental illness journey has been long, painful, and very difficult to cope with. Even at almost 25 years old, more than 10 years since I first began dealing with symptoms, I'm still learning how to live with depression and anxiety, because even though I've learned how to better cope with panic attacks, and even though I don't think about suicide every night, my depression and my anxiety disorder still affect me. 

I think the biggest lesson I've learned so far in my journey is the importance of openness and education. It wasn't until I was almost 18 that I discovered that depression isn't just a noun for being really sad. Depression is a medical condition related to the chemicals produced in your brain. Even after my doctor explained it to me, and even after seeing several therapists, and starting antidepressants, it took me several years to accept my situation. 

Had I known when I was 15 that I might be suffering from an illness, my life could have turned out very differently. I spent years thinking that I was broken, weak, and worthless. I thought I was defective. I prayed endlessly for strength, to be better. I wondered if all of my friends and classmates felt like this. Was this really just hormones? It couldn't be, could it? Was my best friend crying herself to sleep and in so much physical and emotional pain that she hoped she would die?

We need to make sure that our kids, these young people who are trying to grow in such a stressful world, know that its okay to not be okay. They need to know that there is nothing wrong with social anxiety, or being depressed. They can't control it. They are not weak. They are not broken. Just like someone with diabetes needs insulin, their body needs a little extra help to function at its best. 

Late at night, when I'm waiting for my xanax to kick in after a 2 am panic attack, or when I'm crying in the shower because something has overwhelmed me that day, I worry about my kids. I pray that my future kids never have to deal with depression, anxiety, ADHD, or any form of mental illness. I hope they're happy and healthy and never have to question their own sanity. But I will also make sure they know that if they ever need help, they will get it with no judgement. 

No one should ever feel so lost, alone, or helpless that they think the only way to ever escape their pain is by hurting themselves. No one should ever be too ashamed to ask for help, or fear judgement if they reach out to someone. We need to make it known that mental illness is not shameful. 

You're not alone. You're not broken. We're all here for you.