"Everything is Different the Second Time Around"

I've spent a long time trying to figure out what I want to say in this post. I, for the most part, know who reads this and most of you I don't mind you knowing this. I'm still hesitant though. But, I know that this is related to stigma, and I shouldn't be ashamed of what's going on. As you probably all know, or have figured out I have depression. Pretty severe depression. I have moderate to severe persistent depressive disorder, recurrent severe major depressive disorder, and anxiety disorder unspecified. While that's only three diagnoses, it can be a lot to handle. Despite it all, I am grateful that I do not have it worse.

So, here's what you probably don't know. I've been to a psych ward. I've been in the psych ward a lot this year. Why this year and not before? I couldn't tell you. Maybe I'm getting worse. Maybe I'm accepting that I need help. Maybe I could have ridden it out, like I've always done before, but maybe not. Maybe going in saved my life, or at least a trip or two to the ICU. I don't know. It's hard to say for sure.

I call them part one, part two, and part three. And I might write more about them later. I spent half of February in the psych ward, on two separate occasions. I spent half of March in partial hospitalization, and I spent a week in April in the hospital again. In part three we joked a lot about how I should write a book. After all It's Kind of a Funny Story was written after a much shorter hospital stay. And I have way more experience than that.

The worst part is, my treatment team is not sure what to do with me anymore. I mean they weren't sure what to do with me before I went in all those times, but they thought we could work something out. But now the counseling center at my school says it's unethical to treat me. Because after all I've been through clearly they're not helping. I offered to switch to a new therapist at the counseling center but they say it's not enough. They don't think their level of care is good enough for me because of the hospitalizations and partial hospitalization.

I have started therapy with a new person. He, I guess, is more qualified. He specifically does DBT, dialectal behavioral therapy. I've seen him several times, and I do like him. I guess this therapy is replacing therapy at the counseling center. All I ask is that I can continue to see my psychiatrist, who I adore. In a few weeks I'm going to start a DBT group for two hours per week. I'm pretty nervous about that, but talking in groups is getting easier for me. And later this summer I'm taking a public communication class. Which just thinking about speeds up my heart and makes me want to cry. But as strange as it sounds (to me at least) I am getting better. I'm sure it's all the talking, not only in therapy, but in the groups in the hospital and partial. This has changed since I've written it. Like I said, I've been sitting on this post for months and months. I'm now taking organic chemistry two instead of public communication. But, I still have to take public communication eventually, so I decided to leave that in.

The title of this post comes from the song "You've Got Time" by Regina Spektor. It is, as many of you probably know, the theme song from Orange is the New Black. Which I watch. Just like everyone else who has Netflix and is (hopefully) above 18, which I'm sure stops no one. Despite the triggers it brings up in me, I pushed through it.

I chose that song quote because it accurately sums up my hospital experience. It really is "different" the second time around, especially for me. Part two I even made a friend. Who I still talk to a lot. Part three they called me the welcoming committee. And I wish I could know how my fellow psych patients are doing. I've talked to one person once from part three since I got out.

My dad said it must have been easy to talk to everyone because I felt better than them. My parents know about part three, and ONLY part three and partial, because of insurance reasons. But I told him we were all there for a reason. And I didn't feel better than anyone. And I really didn't. How could I? He then asked my reason and I replied to change meds, which is my story that I'm telling to my parents. And he was like why? And I said because I wasn't doing well. And he asked if I had bad thoughts. And I said yes. So he at least knows that. I hope my parents never find out how close I've been so many times - even this past weekend I had to lock myself out of my room. But as they said in part two "it is what it is." They even had a huge sign that said it in the group room.

Another thing has happened too. This is not something we want to be spread around. So if you know me in real life, please don't tell anyone you know. It is only half my business. My dad left my mom. That's right. My dad left my mom. It is a big shock because they weren't fighting or anything. He told us he's leaving because he wants a romantic relationship, something he and my mom were lacking. My baby sisters have seen him once this week. It's been really hard for all of us.

I'm not sure if I have anything else to say right now. I think I'm going to finally publish this post. I'm open to any questions you have about the hospital visits or my parents or anything else. If you have them leave a comment or email me at cassandra.cassandrascurse@gmail.com. If you get this in an email, just a reminder, do not reply to that email, because I will not receive it. I know a few of you need this reminder. Anyways, as always, thanks for reading.

Because That's How Grammar Works

I know I haven't brought mental illness up much since my fabulous post on stigma, but that's because I'm doing much better. We've finally found a medication, or medication combination that helps me a lot. Of course we've also found out I have other issues that were initially covered up. Because nothing can be easy.

Yesterday I went to the psychiatrist and these are a few conversation clips....

him: *googles something I said that he didn't know about a drug*
him: you're right, you're right
me: *cracks up*
him: *looks questioningly*
me: I was going to say 'see, I'm not crazy,' but then I realized well, I am in here

him: allergic to latex?
me: yeah
him: drugs?
me: *looks down at the three brand name drugs I had just been given in the office* um... yes...
him: okay, okay. allergic to any drugs?
me: oh, no

Today, on my abnormal test I finished my essay with "I made-up for the run-on sentence in the beginning of this essay with making lots of short sentences at the end. Because that's how grammar works."

This is for the same teacher who put something about people excreting oxycontin on the exam. Our only other test had the same mistake on it. Admittedly we had a different teach then. But that's beside the point.

Anyone have any fun doctor stories? Exam stories? (oxymoron, I know)

The Stigma

Hey guys,
I know it's been awhile. I'm a bit behind on my blog reading, but I'm trying to catch up. I've been watching an unhealthy amount of Dexter dealing with a roommate situation and doing copious amounts of physics. I know some of you know details but for those of you who don't - it boils down to the stigma of mental illness (and some people just being horrible but that's not what I'm going to talk about, this time). This roommate put me down repeatedly and called me weak for doing possibly the strongest thing I've ever done - getting help.

If you think mental illness doesn't have a stigma - then you are probably contributing to it. And you are hopefully lucky enough to never have to experience being sick in this way. (Aside: I'm going to use quotation marks to add in what "you" say. It's probably not what any of you would actual say but that's how I think.) "But two of my best friends have been on antidepressants for years" (you say, see?) "and I still think you're wrong." Well, there are different levels of severities. And I'm not saying that antidepressants are over prescribed (I totally am) but the stigma still exists. It's not okay to stare at someone in a wheelchair, but it's okay to shoot dirty looks at "crazy" people and mumble about how they should be locked up. Words like "psychotic" are spat out like poison. And no one's supposed to hang out with people who are "not quite right in the head" or "insane." Why? Because it might rub off? Last time I checked hallucinations, compulsions, and panic attacks are about as contagious as cancer. For example, people claim it's because of old movies that they think ECT is horrible. But people who haven't even seen the movies feel the same way. When the facts are... oh wait... they have none.

And then, after all that, people decide that it must be fun or easy. We just don't want to deal with things. We made it up. We just want attention. The truth? All we want is to be normal. While you're thinking about how easy it is to stay in bed all day, we're thinking about how easy it must be to be like everyone else. How easy it must be to know that you're seeing the same thing as everyone else. How easy it must be not to freak out over something that isn't scary. How easy it must be to go about life without knowing that in a second everything could change and you could be completely incapacitated with no one to help you.

Others only seem to see two types of mental illness. Those who have "completely lost it" and those who are pretending, enviable because they can get out of things. They don't see how truly desperate these people are to escape. I've tried to find experimental treatments, trials, to join from horse tranquilizers to brain surgery. "That's ridiculous - you don't need that, don't be silly, you're just a little sad." Well, you don't understand, you can't understand, what it's like for something to always be there. And that's okay. I envy you. And I really hope you don't envy me. Because there is no one I would wish a severe mental illness on. Because it doesn't just stop. It doesn't take breaks no matter what is going on. And it's always there. No matter what.

This stigma affects the people who actually suffer from these conditions. Especially because after awhile - we start to believe it's true. We believe we must be faking. We believe that maybe we should and could just "snap out of it." We believe that we are weak for getting or accepting help. So on top of everything else, we put off getting help, and hide our conditions. We don't want anyone else to know because they might think we are weak. We don't want to accept to ourselves that we are that weak and couldn't just deal with stuff on our own like everyone else. The disease lies to us and on top of that we have others agreeing with it. And so it's hard for us to decide which voice to listen to. Who is right. Especially since we know everything could change it in a second.

This is what happened to me and this roommate. I believed her. She was saying, confirming, the things I was already thinking. While other voices protested, I just couldn't believe them. I wasn't that bad. There were tons of people who waited more time to get help and were therefore worse than I was. I was faking it. I was over exaggerating. I was needy. I was weak.

I know these things are not true. I know that those who are close to me and care about me are correct. I know it. I try to believe it. And I try not to listen to the negative forces in my life, both external and internal. But it's hard.That is something I think everyone can agree on, mental illness or not.

This is my take. I use "we" meaning people suffering with mental illness, but this is only my reality. There are exceptions. I know there are others who feel the same as I do, but just because someone is mentally ill do not assume that this is how they feel. Because we are not all the same. But at the same time, we're really not all that different from everyone else. Don't be afraid of us. Don't make assumptions. Treat us the same way as you would treat someone with diabetes. Diabetics may need special medication or watch what they eat. But it would be silly not to talk to someone because s/he were a diabetic, right? And it would be just as silly not to talk to someone because s/he had a mental illness.


On a completely different note, I started running with one of my roommates last week. And by started running I mean I went twice with her. And then once by myself, where I guess I did too much too soon because I injured myself a little. But as soon as I feel completely recovered and find the right insoles for my shoes, I plan on going back to it. Maybe a little slower this time.