Speaking Out

Christmas was a strange holiday--probably the best I've ever had, but strange.  I wasn't sure how to what to write about, or how, but a comment on a previous post, and Christmas Eve is making me want to touch on the subject of how open I am about mental illness, both online and in real life.

I do not hide the fact I am mentally ill online.  It's not a matter of attention whoring, it's simply because reading about others' experiences have helped me, and writing about it helps me.  I also hope maybe sometimes someone sees this blog and feels a little less alone in their depression.  But being open online and in person are totally different things, I've realized.

When I was in the ER after my suicide attempt, I spoke to my ex boyfriend.  I told him why and what happened, and last week I found out he took it upon himself to tell someone I know.  It was perhaps the most betrayed I have ever felt, in my life.  My mental illness is a personal thing, and one thing I have the power over is who I tell, and how and when I tell them.  And while I have told nearly everyone I know, I still pick and choose, I am careful about how I explain, and what I explain.  I still haven't told anyone I'm Borderline, even.  MDD, I figure, is enough to let people know for now.  BPD is trickier to explain, and harder to accept.

This Christmas Eve, I faced my mother's side of the family for the first time since my hospitalization.  The uncle who I am moving in with knew, of course.  As did my one aunt, who had originally offered to let me stay with her when I was discharged.  My other uncle asked stilted questions about school, and we stared awkwardly when I said I had dropped out.  Later, he would apologize profusely to my mother, "I didn't know something was wrong.  I'm sorry, she's talking to N now."  N. is my aunt, his wife.  She took it upon herself to pull me aside and tell me break ups were hard and she had a hard time growing up, too.  I took it upon myself to get highly offended and state "I have depression.  I live in an abusive household.  This is not about a break up."  I didn't even want to talk about "growing up being hard"--I take care of my parent's finances, I fix my house, feed/take care of myself.  Just because I am living with my parents and unable to work or attend college does not mean I am not an adult.

To be fair, N. meant well.  She did not mean to insult, but I was surprised she didn't understand more, being that she is a nurse.  I have realized people tend to have to a few basic reactions:

The Accepting, "I'm Here For You" Reaction:  Surprisingly, this is the reaction most of my friends have had.  My one friend started crying and told me to call her if I needed anything.  A few began to understand my isolation, and risky behavior.  Other simply smiled and went along with my need to have a good time and forget about things.  Just because I'm sick doesn't mean I want to dwell on it all the time.  And mostly, offline, I don't.  This is the most surprising reaction, and the one I am most grateful for.  When people respond with this, I know they're worthwhile.

The Awkward Reaction:  "I don't know what to say" is the favored term for these people.  They stare a little, and start treating you different.  They feel the constant need to mention your illness and ask if you need to talk (which is different from saying "I'm here if you need me").  They pressure.  They push.  They don't say it, but you can tell they somehow see you different, as broken.  Strangely, one person who reacted this way had a mental illness too.  It was as if somehow, due to my suicide attempt and hospitalization, I became contagious.  My crazy would sink into her crazy.  This is probably my least favorite of reactions, because while they mean well, they make things worse.

The Bob the Builders:  These people think they know more about your illness than you do.  They think they can "fix" you.  No matter how you explain the illness, they insist they know better.  "Why did you like the hospital?  It was a prison!" suggests one.  "If you met the right man you wouldn't be sad!" insists another.  Most of these tend to be men.  Most of these want to date me.  Nothing better than a hot crazy chick who needs a hug and some dick to be fixed, right?  They lecture about the mental health system, or refuse to understand it's a chemical imbalance.  Sometimes they try to relate by retelling their group therapy experiences and how I'd be better off without my psychiatrist (who I love).  They don't understand that I need group therapy, that I need the five people who work on my mental health case (I have a doctor, a therapist, a case worker, a social worker, and another therapist), and that without mental health system I would be dead or comatose.  They don't understand that I do not remember the month leading up to my hospitalization or that these people legitimately help me.  I am "fixable" but I can't be fixed through the path I currently travel.  Only they can fix me.

The "Pity Me" Reaction:  This reason is why I will never tell my paternal grandmother about my illness.  The moment I did, it would not become about me.  My grandmother would call all her friends and regale them with stories about her "broken granddaughter", about how I can't sleep or eat and I was in the hospital.  About how I can't attend school or work full time because of my illness.  "Isn't it so sad?" she would ask, and I would become a spectacle.  Her little bit of Sunday gossip so her friends look at her with sad eyes and say "I'm sorry about your Anu.  It must be so hard for you", never mind the fact she has told me before I am a disappointment for how I live my life.  In some ways I think this is what I became to my ex.  "Feel bad for me, the girl I broke up with is clearly crazy.  Isn't it so good I got away from her?  My life is so much better now!" and then people agree, make him feel good for hurting me.  I become another reason for a pity party.

That said, I refuse to lie about my illness.  I refuse to feel the shame a lot of people feel about having a mental illness.  I am sick, but I am not broken.  I am not messed up, and I do not need to be fixed, especially by someone else.  Any fixing and changing I do, I do for me, by myself--sometimes with the help of a therapist.  So many people I met in the Acute Partial Program I was in, told their families, every day, they were going to work.  But me?  I won't lie.  I'd rather educate, and if someone wants to think less of me for it, then I know they don't belong in my life.

I spent six years hiding my depression, and feeling ashamed at how I felt--because I didn't know why.  But I have answers now, and I know I don't have to do this on my own.  And if I can change the way one single person feels about mental illness, or can help someone feel better about their own, then I consider speaking out worth it.  I know a lot of the group sessions offered in my county are run by people who have mental illness and became successful and want to help others with their illnesses--one day I am going to be one of those people, just you wait.