mental illness

by

Solitary Confinement & Anti-Suicide Rooms

TW: sh, suicide

The Strike examines how solitary confinement in California prisons strips people of basic humanity by removing stimulation, color, sound, and, most importantly, meaningful connection. The documentary shows how incarcerated men organized a hunger strike after years, and sometimes decades, of being trapped in small, bare cells where even a moment of conversation became a form of survival. Many describe how isolation pushed them deeper into despair rather than keeping them “safe,” and how the lack of basic human rights made their mental state deteriorate.

Read more: Solitary Confinement & Anti-Suicide Rooms

While watching The Strike, I was struck by how closely some of those experiences mirrored something I went through this past September. I was placed in an anti-suicide room for six hours completely empty, colorless, and silent. There was no stimulation, no clock, no comfort item, nothing grounding at all. I remember crying and begging the nurses just to talk to me for even a few seconds, and no one responded. I had to use a makeshift toilet, and the combination of isolation and humiliation ended up making me feel worse, not safer. Similar to what people in the documentary describe, my thoughts spiraled in that environment, and I began thinking of ways I could harm myself using the room around me.

The documentary helped me understand that what I felt was not “overreacting”. It was a human reaction to a dehumanizing environment. No one should have to die in order to have basic human rights, and it’s appalling that someone did in order for the government to take the incarcerated people seriously.

by

Stigma on Mental Illness

In my freshman year of high school when I was either 14 or 15 years old, my mom found out I had depression. Long story short it was through a situation that happened at school and they had to inform my mom about it. Let’s just say that things didn’t go the best. But for a backstory, I grew up in an Ethiopian household which included my mom, sister, and aunt. It is pretty common for most Ethiopian households to be religious, as religion is deeply rooted in the Ethiopian culture. Although my mom and family have always included me in our religious practices and have taken me to church since I was a kid. I have always felt conflicted when it came to our religion (but that’s a whole other story). But going back to high school, when my mom found out I had depression the school had recommended I get a therapist, which I did. The only thing is that since the second I had gotten the therapist, my mom was against the idea. She kept on telling me that therapy would not help me and would say something along the lines of “Just pray and you will feel better” or “Jesus will help you”. This honestly made me feel more of a burden and I felt that something was wrong with me and that I was causing my mom stress and suffering. So after a while of doing therapy and my mom’s persistence, I finally gave up on therapy.

Continue reading →
by

OCD isn’t really cute

OCD is like (and I apologize for what I’m about to do to some of you) The Game. Always there, but not a problem until it becomes a conscious thought. And then it’s on replay; like The Game, trying not to think of it only makes it worse.

Years ago, I was luckily “exited” from The Game. Although I’ve not seen this ever described as an “official” rule or solution to The Game, I choose to believe that one could be “exited”. Since The Game functions a lot like OCD does (at least, for me), it’s not some cute mind game that we all play together, it’s a reminder that my brain doesn’t work the same way everyone else’s does. I have a million little “The Games” I’m playing constantly in my head—if a pencil is turned toward me, if I notice it, it has to be turned away. If the “Best By” date has passed and I notice it, I have to throw it out. Well, I don’t have to, but my brain will make it seem like the end of the world if I don’t (and that’s on magical thinking, which isn’t as fun as it sounds).

Diagram by me!

There’s more, too: intrusive thoughts, which are not what TikTok makes them out to be; object personification, which leads me to hoarding, unable to give away anything because I fear it ending up trashed, abused, or unloved (which is of course made worse when coupled with ADHD and impulse buying). Like many others, I have to do things in equal measure to my body. If I chew my nails (as I have a bad habit of doing), I have to chew equally on both sides of my mouth, and then the whole nail has to be smooth, which often means I’m stuck chewing on my nails until it’s too painful to continue. Or I have to step on the stairs evenly, which might make me go back and walk back down the stairs if I wasn’t able to get enough steps on my left foot.

The thoughts are easiest to stop when you don’t even give them the chance to talk; you look away from what triggers the obsession, you walk away, leave the room, remove yourself from the trigger, and the voice doesn’t get the chance to talk. You look like a madperson when you literally plug your ears and say, “La la la!” loudly, but you do what you have to to block the thoughts from forming. Blocking them is hard, but resisting is harder.

It’s not fun talking about OCD, I know. I understand the looks of discomfort, fascination, scrutiny, disbelief when I talk about why I do what I do or the process of my thinking. It’s as crazy to you as it is to me. I know how alien it is to many; it’s clear from how I’m treated.

The Game is a reminder that I do not belong to the same world as everyone else; that I cannot escape this, even in the most normal of moments, even in elementary school games. That, at the end of the day, most people can decide whether or not they want to be a part of The Game, but I have a voice in the back of my head telling me society will literally collapse if I allow myself to exit The Game.

But someone exited me from The Game, so I don’t have to play it ever again. Years of therapy and learning how to cope with OCD have helped me learn that I can stop those thoughts on my own (most of the time; I’m still getting stronger).

If you’ve read through all this, I hope this helps you understand a bit more how OCD can work (and it can be more or less extreme than it is for me than it is for others). And, if you need to be exited from The Game too, consider this your official invitation to stop playing the game. I promise, nothing bad will happen.

by

I am medicated for mental illness (and that’s OK)

My entire life I have been hearing a narrative that antidepressants, (a category of drug that includes things like SSRIs, SNRIs, TCAs and MAOIs,) are intrinsically bad or indicate some kind of personal failure. People have used different arguments, saying that antidepressants never work or that they work too well and cause people to become emotionless robots. I’ve heard people imply that it’s insulting to even suggest medication as a treatment for mental health issues. Personally I disagree with these assertions and I would argue that the bad rap mental health medications get is born out of bad personal experiences, ableism and misunderstandings of how psychiatric medications are prescribed. (I am going to mostly talk about antidepressants here because that’s what I have the most experience with and knowledge of, but similar principles apply to other categories of medication as well)

I started taking antidepressants over a decade ago, as a treatment for a laundry list of mental illnesses and neurodivergences that started presenting from the time I could speak. I would have severe panic attacks and meltdowns on a daily basis, each lasting for hours at a time, complete with kicking, screaming, and endless sobbing. Eventually after several failed attempts at holistic treatments I was prescribed Citaloptam, an SSRI (a type of antidepressant), to help me manage my emotions and prevent panic attacks, as well as benzodiazepines to take as needed when my panic attacks became out of control. Prescription medication was not the first choice treatment from my doctors or parents, no one wanted to have to give a 9 year old benzos, but it was necessary in order to keep me safe, stable, and calm when I would otherwise be a non-functional mess. I would go on to try a dozen different meds before the age of 15 before settling on the cocktail of drugs that I’ve been taking for the last 5 years or so, which is a combination of an SSRI, an NDRI, and a medication classified as an antipsychotic that is also used to treat anxiety and depression. 

Of course, meds alone don’t cure mental illness, that’s not how that works. Therapy, in the forms of group therapies, DBT, CBT, and individual talk therapy have all been parts of my treatment regimen over the years, and they have helped me immensely. Gaining accommodations, correct diagnoses, and removal from environments that exacerbated my mental health issues were also important steps in my journey. But the antidepressants and other meds I took were instrumental because they lowered my baseline level of distress and made me capable of participating in my treatments and helped me be able to access the resources at my disposal. I cannot stress enough how much antidepressants have improved my quality of life.

But that’s just my story, and my experiences are not universal. Not everyone needs meds, and meds don’t work for everyone, especially on the first try. If your mental health issues are mild, not severely impacting your day to day functionality, and not causing you significant distress, psychiatric medication may not be right for you. In that case maybe talk or behavioral therapies would be better suited for you. Even if medication is right for you, it’s quite possible or even likely that the first one or two or three that you try won’t be effective. (Often psychiatrists will cycle patients through several different SSRIs, despite the fact that they don’t work for everyone, before trying other forms of psychiatric medication. This is because SSRIs have been found to be the safest and least addictive type, as well as having the least significant side effects compared to the other types of antidepressants. The fact SSRIs have the fewest adverse effects make it an appealing first choice for doctors, but I digress.) Psychiatric medications are unfortunately not an exact science with a one size fits all solution.

But that doesn’t mean that antidepressants don’t work for anyone, in fact, for some people like me they are as necessary as any medication for any other kind of chronic condition. When people imply that the suggestion of antidepressants is bad, or that antidepressants never work and aren’t worth trying, it reinforces the stigma around them and mental illness in general. I fear that this narrative could prevent people from seeking professional mental health treatment, or cause people who are already on medication to feel bad about it, to hide that fact or stop taking their meds altogether. Taking psychiatric medications is not ‘taking the easy way out’ or a sign that someone hasn’t tried hard enough to treat their issues on their own, it’s a morally neutral act. Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

by

“F*ck your disorder”

Photo by Darya Sannikova on Pexels.com

A few weeks ago I had a difficult bipolar/autistic meltdown that spiraled me into a dissociative state. I say bipolar slash autistic because the criteria and symptoms for both disorders overlap so much that it is nearly impossible to tell them apart within my own body at this point.  I wasn’t able to attend some of my classes for two weeks because my mental state was feeling immensely guilty about using my accommodations. Every time I typed up another email to a professor, saying that I once again had to rely on my disability accommodations, I felt my chest tighten with anxiety and guilt, as if I was doing something wrong by needing my accommodations. I didn’t want my professors to think that I was lying to get out of class to go out with my friends. To be fair I did hang out with my friends and try and do stuff during the time I had class, but everything we did was an attempt to pull me out of the dissociative state I was in. As someone who has heard numerous times that they don’t look “autistic” or “disabled”, I am aware that this is a judgment that many pass on me, and I was aware that my professors may think that as well. Perhaps out of guilt, I sent an email to my professors, explaining that I had bipolar disorder and was struggling to pull myself out of a rough episode that left me unable to even read and comprehend the readings for any of my classes. Most of my professors answered with supportive statements, validating my disability and granting me as many extensions as I needed. One professor emailed me back, ignoring the fact that I had just opened up to him about my identity, and demanded I turn in my work within 48 hours, because the accommodation guidelines offered a 48 hour extension as an example guideline. Evidently, I was not able to get my work in, because I am not able to pull myself out of a dissociative episode on command; to make it worse, when I finally returned to class the following week he spoke negatively about bipolar disorder in class, leaving me stunned and panicked. I made the rather obvious assumption that I wasn’t his favorite student. Rather than fighting with him every step of the way, I decided to withdraw from the class, postponing my graduation from this December to May. I was devastated telling my parents that I would not be graduating as soon as they thought, and I was even embarrassed, knowing that if I pushed myself I could have made it through the class. But just because you can do something as a disabled person, doesn’t mean it is worth it. I was reminded in a somewhat blunt manner that not everyone will accommodate your disability, and sometimes it’s better to give up, then to fight for your right to take a class. 

The emotional labour it would have taken for me to fight with this professor every step of the way, just to most likely pass with a C in his class was not worth it for me. Personally, I am proud of myself for knowing my boundaries and how far I can push myself. He made me feel weak and made me hyperaware of how people view me as someone who is bipolar and on the sepctrum. 

Subtle ableism is so present in today’s world that it goes unnoticed by most, unless we are directly affected by it. For me, this was an example of direct ableism, someone who would do the bare minimum to accommodate my needs, and refused to do anything more. It was dehumanizing, but it also reminded me how lucky I am to not be faced with people like him, and ableist challenges on a daily basis. Our world was not made for disabled bodies, whether it’s expectations at work, to campuses being not accessible, to the general population applying certain stigmas to disabled people as a whole. As a physically abled person who is usually able to mask their disability in public, I don’t have to constantly worry how I will make it to class on time, or if the elevator will work today, or if I will be able to make it up the hill to my building for class, and that gives me a certain privilege. The dialectic of both being disabled and abled is an interesting limbo to live in. I can’t imagine how it would be if I had to worry about physical disability on top of my ever present mental disability, still, I can’t help but wonder if I would have been treated better by that professor if my disability had been more visible.

by

“You give really good, solid relationship advice.” “Thanks! It’s cause I’ve ruined all my relationships.”: Perhaps better off alone

A photo of the Andromeda Galaxy. A black background with many little, white dots of stars. The center is a large, oval warped into somewhat of a spiral of gray with a large glowing center.

Most people see being told they give good relationship advice and are very considerate to the other people in the relationship as a good thing, but I can’t help that it feels like the bane of my existence currently. It’s like I’m helping people study for relationships and communication 101 and they proudly show me their A with the attached “thanks to your help!” while I shuffle on with my F and backlog of assignments.

Continue reading →
by

“I’m okay”, “I’m tired”, “No worries!” and other lies I tell: An ode to my failing mental health

Image description: A vast, open ocean with mild waves, it's night and the sky is full of clouds, partially obscuring the full moon. (end ID).

2020 was a train wreck, a dumpster fire, the roller coaster we weren’t allowed to get off, and it doesn’t take much looking to realize everyone is fed up and burnout from the pandemic, over a year of condensed trauma (whether you or someone you knew got sick or not), incompetent people in power, social justice at the forefront of everywhere, up rooted and cancelled life plans, the world is a dart board with every inch covered in things that will decimate your ability to keep going. But 2021 seems to show that 2020 was just a prelude to what our everyday life will be like from here on out.

Content warning!! Candid mental health talk, sucide and suicidal ideation, and open talk about trauma responses (NO details will be given about the traumatic events).

Continue reading →
by

When Failure is Radical.

Affirmations from an unreliable drop out –

I have failed to work with a system that prioritizes productivity over personhood.

I have chosen moving forward over suffering

I will accept myself to spite a value system that does not want acceptance – but always striving for “better”. If I internalize it, that I am always striving for “better”, then I build a comfortable place for the belief that I will never be enough, to rest upon. Instead, I will build space within myself to be less than ideal. 

Continue reading →
by

Exposed (TW: OCD, Perfectionism, Bugs)

If anything has debunked the mind-body split for me, it’s living with OCD. My obsessions are felt as deeply as they are thought. Every day I physically feel my compulsions begging for my submission. In resisting them, my body is flooded with a deep, gnawing unrest.

The normalization of perfectionism convinced me that my OCD was good for me. I looked good on paper – but I see no paper in my skin, my blood, my brain, my bones. I have learned that to save this body, I cannot give everything my best. “Just right” can never be achieved so long as I am the judge. The goalpost moves too quickly to register.

Continue reading →
by

Queer Brokenness: Intersection with Mental Illness

feature-470x260

Image Source: http://trauma.blog.yorku.ca/2015/12/south-asian-queer-community-lacks-visibility/  (Artist – Jinesh Patel)

(Content and Trigger Warning: Self Harm, Suicide, Substance Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Intimate Partner Violence, Bullying)

.

.

I often find that mental illness and queerness aren’t addressed properly or constructively when talked about together. So often the public at large would have us believe that queerness is a result of mental illness or that mental illness is the result of queerness exclusively. With this in mind, the queer community will often push back on society’s behavior by talking about the two exclusively from each other, frequently ignoring all the ways mental illness intersect. That’s does not go to say that queerness is the result of mental illness or vice versa at all, but rather it shouldn’t be ignored that many people in the queer community go through both because of the way society has constructed and reacted towards queerness. For example, queerness has often been perceived as a deviant thing, it has historically been punished and worked against in a variety of ways. Continue reading →