I'm doing new things and I am scared. I'm scared of not being good enough, scared of the struggle, and scared of failure. I am terrified of not being able to do new things and yet, everyday I am doing them. I might not always get through the new thing I am trying but I have been working really hard to try.
This year, I have been taking some risks I would have never done before. I am not going to lie, I am worried about not being able to do some of these things but I having nothing to lose. If you think about it, if I let my fear take over my life I am in the same boat as failing if I don't try. Nothing changes in my life if I am not willing to even go for it.
I am really, for the first time in my life, proud of myself. It seems crazy to say that out loud. That I am proud to simply be trying new things. I remember not to long ago that just leaving my house seemed like an insurmountable task. I mean, I still struggle to leave my home but I do it. I have to. OCD doesn't get to take anymore of my life than it already has.
I am really going for things this year. Small things, middle size things, and yes big things this year.And this year, I have lost some friends along the way but it is clear to me that personal growth sometimes means that you outgrow some relationships as well.
This year is all about positive thinking for me. I have to remain fighting my disorder and I need to put my mental and physical health over other things in my life even if it means I might lose a couple of people who claimed to be my friends. I have to keep walking, keep going for my dreams, and keep working on myself.
For those of you that followed my last few posts, I have lost weight. I am so proud of my slow but steady and most importantly, healthy weight loss. Something that is difficult with having suffered from both anorexia and a binge eating disorder. I have been working diligently with my doctor and I have been only doing what I am ready for in each step. I have never been so proud of myself right now. It has been very difficult but it has been worth it.
I also have quit smoking, drinking caffeine, and eating red meat.
My next step is to go out and sing in public again. I am not sure when I can do so but I am practicing. OCD tried to take away my singing and that is no longer acceptable to me. I am going to live this life the best way I can and the OCD is just going to have to step back because I am going for it. I want my life back and I am going to do everything possible to get it back even better than before.
Showing posts with label Mental health. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mental health. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 5, 2017
Tuesday, June 6, 2017
As Long As.......
We the walking wounded, the broken, the unhinged....we the forgotten, misunderstood, the ignored....we the sufferers, we are so much more than we give ourselves credit for.
We are human and as such are certainly not perfect and yet we blame ourselves for not being exactly that. We degrade ourselves for having mental illness, for our issues, and for the things we can not do.
We struggle to revel in what we can do, as if it weren't good enough. I am unable to work because of my mental illness but instead of beating myself up over it I choose to look at the things I am doing. I am still capable of other things. I just need to remember to celebrate my wins. Maybe I didn't get up enough energy to do all of the things around the house I wanted to but I did get out of bed. I did go for a walk. I did go outside and breathe in the sunlight. I let it anoint me with it's warmth. I let the breeze blow across my face. I let it dance in my hair and I allowed myself to remember that I am alive. I am not what my mind tells me I am. I am worthy. I am whole. I am just as important as everyone else.
It's okay not to be okay all of the time. It is fine as long as you keep trying to do what you can. As long as you hold onto your support groups. As longs as you are doing what you are supposed to be doing. There are no easy fixes to mental illness. Some days are going to be harder than you could ever imagine but some days will be easier. Some days will be not even an issue. Hang in there. You can do this.
Go outside and close your eyes. Hear the birds. Feel the sun on your face. Let the world surround you with it's noise. Let the light braze your skin. Breathe the world around you in. You are right where you are supposed to be at this moment. You are who you are supposed to be. You are strong. You are unique. You are a fighter. You can do this.
It is okay if you don't win every battle. It is fine if you can't do everything. No one wins everything and does everything they think they should. That is just a standard we hold to ourselves so that we can blame ourselves for not meeting an impossible standard. We are better than that and we are worth more than we give ourselves credit for.
I hope that you are remaining positive. I hope that you are celebrating you wins. I hope that when you look in the mirror you say only good things about yourself. I hope that you start to realize what a magnificent, unique, important person you all are to this world. Remember that.
Always, Neurotic Nelly
We are human and as such are certainly not perfect and yet we blame ourselves for not being exactly that. We degrade ourselves for having mental illness, for our issues, and for the things we can not do.
We struggle to revel in what we can do, as if it weren't good enough. I am unable to work because of my mental illness but instead of beating myself up over it I choose to look at the things I am doing. I am still capable of other things. I just need to remember to celebrate my wins. Maybe I didn't get up enough energy to do all of the things around the house I wanted to but I did get out of bed. I did go for a walk. I did go outside and breathe in the sunlight. I let it anoint me with it's warmth. I let the breeze blow across my face. I let it dance in my hair and I allowed myself to remember that I am alive. I am not what my mind tells me I am. I am worthy. I am whole. I am just as important as everyone else.
It's okay not to be okay all of the time. It is fine as long as you keep trying to do what you can. As long as you hold onto your support groups. As longs as you are doing what you are supposed to be doing. There are no easy fixes to mental illness. Some days are going to be harder than you could ever imagine but some days will be easier. Some days will be not even an issue. Hang in there. You can do this.
Go outside and close your eyes. Hear the birds. Feel the sun on your face. Let the world surround you with it's noise. Let the light braze your skin. Breathe the world around you in. You are right where you are supposed to be at this moment. You are who you are supposed to be. You are strong. You are unique. You are a fighter. You can do this.
It is okay if you don't win every battle. It is fine if you can't do everything. No one wins everything and does everything they think they should. That is just a standard we hold to ourselves so that we can blame ourselves for not meeting an impossible standard. We are better than that and we are worth more than we give ourselves credit for.
I hope that you are remaining positive. I hope that you are celebrating you wins. I hope that when you look in the mirror you say only good things about yourself. I hope that you start to realize what a magnificent, unique, important person you all are to this world. Remember that.
Always, Neurotic Nelly
Thursday, March 30, 2017
Always...
My Grandmother was also a severe OCD sufferer. She was proud of my blog. She wanted me to keep going, to keep fighting, to keep reaching out to people. She believed in me, always. Since childhood when she would say goodbye to me, she would say to me to be a good girl. I have always responded with,"always". It was our thing and since she is no longer walking beside me here on earth I want to dedicate my blog to her. She believed that we should never live our lives in silence and fear. That we should always look to the light. That we should look out for each other and so because of this, I will be signing off my blog from now on with my response to her as I always did when we said goodbye. This for you Grandma. I miss the hell out of you but I will be good. Always.
------
The plants have started to grow from the hardened ground again. The buds are forming on the tree tips. The frost has melted away to reveal the yellowed grass underneath. Rebirth. Refresh. Regrowth.
I feel the dredges of seasonal depression leaving my body. The clouds have lifted. The sun has come out to play with me again. I am reborn of the Spring. I am the phoenix that rises from the ash or at least I was telling myself that I was, anyway.
And then I read twitter...
Sigh.
Again, there is this debate over whether we should use the term PureO to describe some OCD symptoms. Medical professionals tend to be uncomfortable about the word. They feel it connotates a false narrative about our symptoms and complicates the diagnosis of OCD. "It can give people the wrong idea since it stands for purely obsessional"
If there is one thing I have learned about OCD, it is that it is always complicated and has always given people the wrong idea.
I am a PureO and I don't care what the "medical professionals" feel about the term I use to describe the hell I live in. I am sorry if it feels like the label that many of us use is somehow lacking in description. No actually, I am not sorry at all. I live it and you don't. I refuse to be shamed into submission.
The doctors help us. I know that they are important but how can they tell me how to describe my own mental illness that I have had for 34 years? Their years at college do not trump three decades of living with this disorder. I appreciate them. I respect them. I am simply asking that they respect how we choose to describe our torment (those of us that use this term).
Being a PureO is just a sub name of OCD. Anyone who claims to be a PureO knows this. And even though we suffer from OCD, our symptoms often are excluded, overlooked, and misunderstood.
We are firmly aware that we suffer from OCD. It is a way to describe to others what we go through. Yes, we compulse too but the difference is that you will never see it. Why is it so wrong to be able to hold on to a label that makes us know when other people that suffer like we do have the same symptoms? If anything I think it reaches out to people who suffer from this particular symptom of OCD to realize that they do have OCD. If counting isn't your thing but saying mental mantras are, you might not know that you have OCD at all. Many of us are not afraid of milk like Monk on television. What about those of us that do not fit the typical stereotype of an OCD sufferer?
Honestly, and this might make some people mad at me for saying but I would have rather stayed the way I was when I outwardly compulsing rather than how I am today. The obsessions have taken over my life in a way that they had not previously. This is just my opinion, being PureO is harder for me than were the more common OCD symptoms I used to have. Both of them are absolute hell and steal away bits of your life but being a PureO with the harm fears, the sexual fears, the mental images that are like some fucked up horror movie you can't turn off- yea, no. I hated the compulsions and the torture they created and the humiliation doing them in public created, but the torture of my mind and absolute fear I was turning into a monster made me long for the familiar. Every OCD sufferer has intrusive thoughts but PureO's have them in full force and mentally compulse to try a quell the anxiety. Trying to describe these obsessions, these disgusting horrid intrusive thoughts, to others is beyond terrifying and people oftentimes misunderstand that the thoughts are not wanted and that you will never act on them. It becomes a sickening taboo that keeps you sick. Being a PureO has been my hardest challenge. To say otherwise would be a blatant lie.
We made this label and maybe just maybe someone should consult people that actually have the mental illness before they make a decision on our behalf. I mean, really, who is it hurting? People that don't understand OCD?......Please. A label like this isn't going confuse them any further if they can't even bother to do a simple google search on what we go through as OCD sufferers. I mean, is this mental illness about us and what we go through or about other people who don't have it but have no problems with judging the people that do?
I refuse to use a different term to describe what I go through. Popular or not, it is how I live. I will not sanitize that or wash it clean to make other people less uncomfortable. My life is not a wall that needs to be white washed, painted, or prettied up. It is what it is. Ugly, hard fought, strong, fearless surrounded by anxiety, and a conundrum of craziness that I battle every single day. I will not be told to pipe down or use a term that, I feel, lessens what I go through or in my mind, inaccurately describes my current symptoms. I defy that notion. I refuse to do it and I am unapologetic about it. Deal with it. I know I sure as hell am.
I have OCD. I am a PureO. You don't have to like the term I use but that makes it no less descriptive to what I go through. It makes it no less truthful to how I feel. It makes it no less meaningful to me...
Whatever mental illness you have or mental event you are going through right now, you are worthy. You are heard. Your life is important and meaningful. You are one of us. Be kind to yourself. You matter more than you will ever know. You are not alone.
Always, Neurotic Nelly.
------
The plants have started to grow from the hardened ground again. The buds are forming on the tree tips. The frost has melted away to reveal the yellowed grass underneath. Rebirth. Refresh. Regrowth.
I feel the dredges of seasonal depression leaving my body. The clouds have lifted. The sun has come out to play with me again. I am reborn of the Spring. I am the phoenix that rises from the ash or at least I was telling myself that I was, anyway.
And then I read twitter...
Sigh.
Again, there is this debate over whether we should use the term PureO to describe some OCD symptoms. Medical professionals tend to be uncomfortable about the word. They feel it connotates a false narrative about our symptoms and complicates the diagnosis of OCD. "It can give people the wrong idea since it stands for purely obsessional"
If there is one thing I have learned about OCD, it is that it is always complicated and has always given people the wrong idea.
I am a PureO and I don't care what the "medical professionals" feel about the term I use to describe the hell I live in. I am sorry if it feels like the label that many of us use is somehow lacking in description. No actually, I am not sorry at all. I live it and you don't. I refuse to be shamed into submission.
The doctors help us. I know that they are important but how can they tell me how to describe my own mental illness that I have had for 34 years? Their years at college do not trump three decades of living with this disorder. I appreciate them. I respect them. I am simply asking that they respect how we choose to describe our torment (those of us that use this term).
Being a PureO is just a sub name of OCD. Anyone who claims to be a PureO knows this. And even though we suffer from OCD, our symptoms often are excluded, overlooked, and misunderstood.
We are firmly aware that we suffer from OCD. It is a way to describe to others what we go through. Yes, we compulse too but the difference is that you will never see it. Why is it so wrong to be able to hold on to a label that makes us know when other people that suffer like we do have the same symptoms? If anything I think it reaches out to people who suffer from this particular symptom of OCD to realize that they do have OCD. If counting isn't your thing but saying mental mantras are, you might not know that you have OCD at all. Many of us are not afraid of milk like Monk on television. What about those of us that do not fit the typical stereotype of an OCD sufferer?
Honestly, and this might make some people mad at me for saying but I would have rather stayed the way I was when I outwardly compulsing rather than how I am today. The obsessions have taken over my life in a way that they had not previously. This is just my opinion, being PureO is harder for me than were the more common OCD symptoms I used to have. Both of them are absolute hell and steal away bits of your life but being a PureO with the harm fears, the sexual fears, the mental images that are like some fucked up horror movie you can't turn off- yea, no. I hated the compulsions and the torture they created and the humiliation doing them in public created, but the torture of my mind and absolute fear I was turning into a monster made me long for the familiar. Every OCD sufferer has intrusive thoughts but PureO's have them in full force and mentally compulse to try a quell the anxiety. Trying to describe these obsessions, these disgusting horrid intrusive thoughts, to others is beyond terrifying and people oftentimes misunderstand that the thoughts are not wanted and that you will never act on them. It becomes a sickening taboo that keeps you sick. Being a PureO has been my hardest challenge. To say otherwise would be a blatant lie.
We made this label and maybe just maybe someone should consult people that actually have the mental illness before they make a decision on our behalf. I mean, really, who is it hurting? People that don't understand OCD?......Please. A label like this isn't going confuse them any further if they can't even bother to do a simple google search on what we go through as OCD sufferers. I mean, is this mental illness about us and what we go through or about other people who don't have it but have no problems with judging the people that do?
I refuse to use a different term to describe what I go through. Popular or not, it is how I live. I will not sanitize that or wash it clean to make other people less uncomfortable. My life is not a wall that needs to be white washed, painted, or prettied up. It is what it is. Ugly, hard fought, strong, fearless surrounded by anxiety, and a conundrum of craziness that I battle every single day. I will not be told to pipe down or use a term that, I feel, lessens what I go through or in my mind, inaccurately describes my current symptoms. I defy that notion. I refuse to do it and I am unapologetic about it. Deal with it. I know I sure as hell am.
I have OCD. I am a PureO. You don't have to like the term I use but that makes it no less descriptive to what I go through. It makes it no less truthful to how I feel. It makes it no less meaningful to me...
Whatever mental illness you have or mental event you are going through right now, you are worthy. You are heard. Your life is important and meaningful. You are one of us. Be kind to yourself. You matter more than you will ever know. You are not alone.
Always, Neurotic Nelly.
Sunday, March 19, 2017
What I have Learned...
I have learned to hate lilies. The smell of them will always take me back to a small half darkened room in tiny nowhere Texas where my grandmother lay, her face puffy in death. A small room we drove fifteen hours,one way, to sit in and look at the one person in this world that made me a better person.
I sat there in silence trying to understand how the world could go on when someone so wonderful had ceased to be with us any longer. How can people smile and go about their days? How does one prepare for this strange anomaly? That the world for some can be completely shattered and yet for the rest of the world it is as if it never happened....The world has no moments of silence, no sounds of wailing. The sun still rises, the birds still sing, the world still continues as it did the days before.
I remember being told we needed to eat dinner after the funeral. I thought of how preposterous that sounded. We were going to eat and yet my grandmother was lying in some drawer somewhere like precious holiday china, unable to ever eat again. How horrific. How bizarre.
I let hot tears sting down my face as we drove across the Texas border to go back home. I felt I was leaving her behind. Her body not yet cremated. I felt like I was abandoning her. How do I explain such utter nonsense to myself? How am I not supposed to feel like I left her there in that place, alone?
I am dead inside. I want to feel something but my mind has shutdown. I am currently on auto pilot.
I yearn to self destruct.
I would drink myself into a stupor but I can not stand the taste of alcohol. I want to do what I used to and eat my feelings. One cookie at a time. I want to drown my emptiness with food. Fill my stomach with acid and grease. But alas, as a diabetic, I can not do that. I want to smoke cigarettes until I can't breathe anymore.....but I quit a month ago and Grandma would be so disappointed if I picked one up again. Hell, she would be pissed if I did any of these things.
So, I am here writing these things out. Pretending that it helps to type away my misery, which I can assure you, is still completely there. Maybe, in time, this will be helpful. Not today, but maybe tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next.
I have no idea. I have no answers. I am uncertain of the truth right now.
I want to be inspiring and leave meaningful words and hopes for you all but I am afraid that right now any words I have are choked back with tears. Any meaning they may have had seems to have died away with the birth of my grief. Any feelings I have have been buried deep in the heart of Texas where I last said good bye to my Grandmother.
I miss her so much sometimes it feels like I can't breathe.
I hope someone tells me this shit gets better over time because it really doesn't feel like it's getting any easier.
Anyway, I hope you all are doing better than me right now and I hope you all are having a great weekend. Hopefully, my next post will be less morose and macabre. Till then, Neurotic Nelly.
I sat there in silence trying to understand how the world could go on when someone so wonderful had ceased to be with us any longer. How can people smile and go about their days? How does one prepare for this strange anomaly? That the world for some can be completely shattered and yet for the rest of the world it is as if it never happened....The world has no moments of silence, no sounds of wailing. The sun still rises, the birds still sing, the world still continues as it did the days before.
I remember being told we needed to eat dinner after the funeral. I thought of how preposterous that sounded. We were going to eat and yet my grandmother was lying in some drawer somewhere like precious holiday china, unable to ever eat again. How horrific. How bizarre.
I let hot tears sting down my face as we drove across the Texas border to go back home. I felt I was leaving her behind. Her body not yet cremated. I felt like I was abandoning her. How do I explain such utter nonsense to myself? How am I not supposed to feel like I left her there in that place, alone?
I am dead inside. I want to feel something but my mind has shutdown. I am currently on auto pilot.
I yearn to self destruct.
I would drink myself into a stupor but I can not stand the taste of alcohol. I want to do what I used to and eat my feelings. One cookie at a time. I want to drown my emptiness with food. Fill my stomach with acid and grease. But alas, as a diabetic, I can not do that. I want to smoke cigarettes until I can't breathe anymore.....but I quit a month ago and Grandma would be so disappointed if I picked one up again. Hell, she would be pissed if I did any of these things.
So, I am here writing these things out. Pretending that it helps to type away my misery, which I can assure you, is still completely there. Maybe, in time, this will be helpful. Not today, but maybe tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next.
I have no idea. I have no answers. I am uncertain of the truth right now.
I want to be inspiring and leave meaningful words and hopes for you all but I am afraid that right now any words I have are choked back with tears. Any meaning they may have had seems to have died away with the birth of my grief. Any feelings I have have been buried deep in the heart of Texas where I last said good bye to my Grandmother.
I miss her so much sometimes it feels like I can't breathe.
I hope someone tells me this shit gets better over time because it really doesn't feel like it's getting any easier.
Anyway, I hope you all are doing better than me right now and I hope you all are having a great weekend. Hopefully, my next post will be less morose and macabre. Till then, Neurotic Nelly.
Thursday, February 2, 2017
Willful....
If given the option to be willfully ignorant or willfully indigent, I choose to be willfully defiant.
I am willful. I am one intrusive thought away from becoming the hillbilly hermit, the troll underneath the bridge, or the creepy castle recluse in some antiquated children's book..... Sometimes, it takes pure will power to just live. I have to fight or this disorder will take over and I will be damned if I am going down without swinging.
Am I willful? You fucking bet I am. Willful, spiteful, ravenous. with a stubbornness that burns stoic and impertinent. I am the loudly whispering insolence that only comes with a mindful defiance that burns itself with embers so hot it has etched itself in to the recesses of my soul. A spider like web of pure pigheadedness and sheer inflexible iron-will. I will myself out of bed in the morning. I will myself to brush my teeth. I will myself to leave the house and go to my appointments. I will myself to shower, shave, to brush my hair. I will myself to cook dinner and to eat. I will myself to walk outside and feel the sun on face. I will myself to help with homework, to do laundry, to talk to strangers. I will myself to sleep after an exhausting day of doing things I did not want to do.
I am not going to be told what I can and can not do. Not by my own disorder and not by anyone else. I am not afraid to stand up for myself anymore.
I was being willful when I disagreed with was a friend who claimed that I was privileged for being only mental ill. I was being willful when I told her that I refuse to accept that something that has ruined my life should ever be called a privilege. I was being willful when I told her to go fuck herself when she continued to argue with me as if she had any idea what hell my life has been.
I earned this dysfunction with hard work. Before this dysfunction was me being unable to function at all. My life may be screwy but it is now a life because of pure stubbornness.
Yeah, I'm willful walking past those who choose to be ignorant with my gaze held forward and my head held high. I am not ashamed to be me anymore and the likes of supposed friends aren't going to change that. I accept no one in my life trying to tear me back down where I used to dwell. I will not go quietly into the night. I will scream, yell, claw, grab, and scratch my way back into the light. I am not a whisper but a sonic boom. I will not be unheard.
I want to live. I want to taste the snowflakes on my tongue. I want to feel the breeze in my hair. I want to go out of my house and be out of my house which is both exhilarating and yet terrifying all at the same time and I am doing it one day at a time... unapologetically, unabashed, unashamed, unafraid.
Because I am willful, therefore I am strong.
This is my life and I will carve it out as best I can with whatever shitty tools I find along the road. I will claw at it with my bare hands if need be. I will tear out chunks with frozen fingers and broken skin. I will carve out my life regardless of pain, discomfort, or complication. That could be the "crazy" in me, or my red hair talking, or just that I am very much my grandmother's granddaughter in that way. I am busy carving my life out, with lopsided shovels, broken down spades, plastic forks, and tarnished silver spoons.
Yes, I am willful....and there is dirt under my fingernails again.
Neurotic Nelly
Friday, January 20, 2017
Wow Just Wow...
I am not really a supporter of the media and Hollywood. I have issues with what I can only describe as hypocrisy.
The way they present people with mental illness is defaming and misguided and has been such for decades. I have a hard time being supportive of a community who is certainly not supportive of people like myself.
Hollywood has claimed to have made it's cause to fight for minorities, the underprivileged, and the supposed ignored. They complain about how women are treated and paid in the arts. They even talk at award shows about how disabled people were referenced by outsiders with passion and frustration. But when it comes to depictions of the mentally ill coming out of their own camp, they are strangely silent. They have a lot to say and a lot fingers to point at others but where is the outrage when it comes to how they portray us?
In the last twenty years Hollywood has put out maybe four movies that have represented mental illness and stigma with dignity and compassion. The Hurt Locker, The Aviator, Silver Lining's Playbook, and A Beautiful Mind were some of the most representative movies of the plight of people that suffer from mental illness released to date. In that same twenty years, they have released countless movies where those of us that suffer from mental illness are presented in a magnificently misinformed way, steeped in stigma, and left to boil over on the stove with a side of bullshit that only some place like Hollywood could fashion.
Hollywood does not usually depict us at all but most of the time when they do it is as mentally ill maniacal murderers, creepy stalkers, or the cruel dangerous monsters that maim and rape. I just have to ask where is the outrage for that? Where is the shame for participating in the stigma spreading of our disorders for profit?
How can Hollywood be pissed about a man being made fun of for a birth defect and yet not be pissed about it's own people making movies that end up perpetuating a belief that ends up killing people by making them afraid to get help? A belief and representation that hurts so many by labeling them with false presentations?
This....this is what they stand for? They will stand for everyone else and be mad for everyone else and yet remain silent when it is about mental illness that they actively contribute to. Really? Wow, just wow.
I was horrified to see a movie trailer today called Split. It depicts a person with multiple personalities abducting women and scaring them.
First off, the actual diagnoses for that is called DID or Dissociative Identity Disorder. If you are going to make some big bullshit movie about it, at the very least get it's name right.
The thing is, DID is not something that makes you a serial killer or mass abductor and honestly, I am beyond irritated about this movie.
Lets be honest, There is no other disability that Hollywood would allow to be used to imply dangerous behavior.
This movie would never be called "Wheels" and imply that a man was a phsyco murderer because he was in a red wheelchair.
It would never be called "Dresses" and infer that the character was dangerous because he was transgender.
That would be inappropriate and wrong.
It is the also just as inappropriate and wrong to make movies about the mental illness community and labeling them dangerous simply because of that diagnosis.
There is nothing else that receives the unfair and biased damning that Hollywood does to the mental illness community for entertainment purposes and profit.
Movies are exciting. I get it, and I know that statistics aren't but that doesn't make them any less right. When the facts show that mental illness sufferers are twice as likely to be victims of violence rather than to cause violence, one would think Hollywood would get a new script and leave us out of the killer/slasher/murderer roles.
And I am sure people will say that I am just being over sensitive to it but I live this life under the full weight of the stigma that movies like these help promote and propagate so yeah, I may be a tad bit fucking over sensitive about it.
I am angry and I don't even suffer from DID.
I am angry that in 2017 we are still fighting to end stigma so we can save people that need help but are too afraid to get it because of how they will be looked at, judged, and treated. I am angry that in 2017 movies are still being made making us all out to be dangerous maniacs when something as simple as a google search could prove how inaccurate that draconian thought is. I am angry that is 2017 and people will go see this moronic film call it horror and then go home to their normal lives and not think about the struggle someone with actual DID is going through. What everyone with the moniker of being mentally ill goes through daily. As we try and do the best we can with stigma and misrepresentations all around us not only just blindly being accepted but also being actively promoted as entertainment. Especially, by the very people who claim to be tolerant and understanding of everyone's hardships, that is unless you are mentally ill I guess. I suppose when you struggle with mental illness it is not important or, at the very least, not as important as movie ticket sales.
Wow, just wow.
Neurotic Nelly
The way they present people with mental illness is defaming and misguided and has been such for decades. I have a hard time being supportive of a community who is certainly not supportive of people like myself.
Hollywood has claimed to have made it's cause to fight for minorities, the underprivileged, and the supposed ignored. They complain about how women are treated and paid in the arts. They even talk at award shows about how disabled people were referenced by outsiders with passion and frustration. But when it comes to depictions of the mentally ill coming out of their own camp, they are strangely silent. They have a lot to say and a lot fingers to point at others but where is the outrage when it comes to how they portray us?
In the last twenty years Hollywood has put out maybe four movies that have represented mental illness and stigma with dignity and compassion. The Hurt Locker, The Aviator, Silver Lining's Playbook, and A Beautiful Mind were some of the most representative movies of the plight of people that suffer from mental illness released to date. In that same twenty years, they have released countless movies where those of us that suffer from mental illness are presented in a magnificently misinformed way, steeped in stigma, and left to boil over on the stove with a side of bullshit that only some place like Hollywood could fashion.
Hollywood does not usually depict us at all but most of the time when they do it is as mentally ill maniacal murderers, creepy stalkers, or the cruel dangerous monsters that maim and rape. I just have to ask where is the outrage for that? Where is the shame for participating in the stigma spreading of our disorders for profit?
How can Hollywood be pissed about a man being made fun of for a birth defect and yet not be pissed about it's own people making movies that end up perpetuating a belief that ends up killing people by making them afraid to get help? A belief and representation that hurts so many by labeling them with false presentations?
This....this is what they stand for? They will stand for everyone else and be mad for everyone else and yet remain silent when it is about mental illness that they actively contribute to. Really? Wow, just wow.
I was horrified to see a movie trailer today called Split. It depicts a person with multiple personalities abducting women and scaring them.
First off, the actual diagnoses for that is called DID or Dissociative Identity Disorder. If you are going to make some big bullshit movie about it, at the very least get it's name right.
The thing is, DID is not something that makes you a serial killer or mass abductor and honestly, I am beyond irritated about this movie.
Lets be honest, There is no other disability that Hollywood would allow to be used to imply dangerous behavior.
This movie would never be called "Wheels" and imply that a man was a phsyco murderer because he was in a red wheelchair.
It would never be called "Dresses" and infer that the character was dangerous because he was transgender.
That would be inappropriate and wrong.
It is the also just as inappropriate and wrong to make movies about the mental illness community and labeling them dangerous simply because of that diagnosis.
There is nothing else that receives the unfair and biased damning that Hollywood does to the mental illness community for entertainment purposes and profit.
Movies are exciting. I get it, and I know that statistics aren't but that doesn't make them any less right. When the facts show that mental illness sufferers are twice as likely to be victims of violence rather than to cause violence, one would think Hollywood would get a new script and leave us out of the killer/slasher/murderer roles.
And I am sure people will say that I am just being over sensitive to it but I live this life under the full weight of the stigma that movies like these help promote and propagate so yeah, I may be a tad bit fucking over sensitive about it.
I am angry and I don't even suffer from DID.
I am angry that in 2017 we are still fighting to end stigma so we can save people that need help but are too afraid to get it because of how they will be looked at, judged, and treated. I am angry that in 2017 movies are still being made making us all out to be dangerous maniacs when something as simple as a google search could prove how inaccurate that draconian thought is. I am angry that is 2017 and people will go see this moronic film call it horror and then go home to their normal lives and not think about the struggle someone with actual DID is going through. What everyone with the moniker of being mentally ill goes through daily. As we try and do the best we can with stigma and misrepresentations all around us not only just blindly being accepted but also being actively promoted as entertainment. Especially, by the very people who claim to be tolerant and understanding of everyone's hardships, that is unless you are mentally ill I guess. I suppose when you struggle with mental illness it is not important or, at the very least, not as important as movie ticket sales.
Wow, just wow.
Neurotic Nelly
Thursday, December 15, 2016
I Dwell There No Longer...
I have dwelled in the shadows for so long I can accurately describe the taste of darkness.
Musty dampness with a hint of mothballs.
I have lived in the recesses of my mind to the point where I know ever mark on the walls, every dent, every scratch, every happenstance pen mark.
I have treaded what seems to me like oceans of guilt and shame. I have drunken so much water while trying to keep my head above it's waves that the salt content has etched into my esophagus like finely frosted glass panes .
Surely that is why when my anxiety flows away from me, I am unable to speak. It is why I do not utter a sound lest my glass throat shatter.
I have absorbed those oceans through my skin and that is why my tears are salty and why there is so many of them able to fall in one setting.
That must be why.
I know what it is to live but be lifeless. To exhale but not be really breathing. I know how badly soap stings when it seeps into the dried hardened cracks of overly washed hands.
I know what it is like to be so exhausted just breathing seems like a monumental task. To be so tried that one can not sleep. To pray to dream about something other than what is going on in my life. To dream of being someone else. Someone more whole.
But I also know what the sun feels like on my face. I know what warmth feels like. Like a hundred million tiny glimpses of light beaming on me from the clouds. I know how little condensation drips when the light of life thaws your soul.
I know what it feels like to laugh. Like the coziest fuzziest hairs on your favorite blanket touching naked skin. The prickles of glee penetrating my consciousness.
I know what happiness is and I cling to those moments like a buoy to a person in the act of drowning.
I know what life can be and what it will be. It will be hard. I will always tread water. I will cry myself to sleep some days. But other days I will laugh too. I will hold on. I will keep going. I will overcome. I may lose battles with this mental illness but I will not lose myself.
I am no longer bothered by other people's stigma. They have not lived as I. They do not understand me and that is okay. I no longer allow other people's judgments bother me. Stigma can only control you if you have fear of it and I am not afraid.
For I dwell there no longer....
Musty dampness with a hint of mothballs.
I have lived in the recesses of my mind to the point where I know ever mark on the walls, every dent, every scratch, every happenstance pen mark.
I have treaded what seems to me like oceans of guilt and shame. I have drunken so much water while trying to keep my head above it's waves that the salt content has etched into my esophagus like finely frosted glass panes .
Surely that is why when my anxiety flows away from me, I am unable to speak. It is why I do not utter a sound lest my glass throat shatter.
I have absorbed those oceans through my skin and that is why my tears are salty and why there is so many of them able to fall in one setting.
That must be why.
I know what it is to live but be lifeless. To exhale but not be really breathing. I know how badly soap stings when it seeps into the dried hardened cracks of overly washed hands.
I know what it is like to be so exhausted just breathing seems like a monumental task. To be so tried that one can not sleep. To pray to dream about something other than what is going on in my life. To dream of being someone else. Someone more whole.
But I also know what the sun feels like on my face. I know what warmth feels like. Like a hundred million tiny glimpses of light beaming on me from the clouds. I know how little condensation drips when the light of life thaws your soul.
I know what it feels like to laugh. Like the coziest fuzziest hairs on your favorite blanket touching naked skin. The prickles of glee penetrating my consciousness.
I know what happiness is and I cling to those moments like a buoy to a person in the act of drowning.
I know what life can be and what it will be. It will be hard. I will always tread water. I will cry myself to sleep some days. But other days I will laugh too. I will hold on. I will keep going. I will overcome. I may lose battles with this mental illness but I will not lose myself.
I am no longer bothered by other people's stigma. They have not lived as I. They do not understand me and that is okay. I no longer allow other people's judgments bother me. Stigma can only control you if you have fear of it and I am not afraid.
For I dwell there no longer....
Thursday, December 1, 2016
Kindness Week...
I wanted to do something kind in honor of this being national kindness week but that is kind of hard to do when I haven't left my home since three days before Thanksgiving. I can't very well open doors for anyone or compliment people as I sit on my couch watching mind numbingly boring television. It's hard to be kind to others when you are shut in. I mean, I am kind but I am kind of like a hermit too.
I was thinking about kindness week last night and I thought about all of those times all I needed to hang on or to make my day less shitty was one kind word. And just how powerful one kind word can really be. My act of kindness will have to come from my blog this week and I wanted to share something I really believe in.
Be kind to yourself. With all the negative self talk, all of the stigma that surrounds our diagnoses, with all of the self doubt, be kind. Say something kind about yourself once a day. It doesn't have to be prophetic. It doesn't have to be deep. It can be a simple as," Well, I have decent hair today."
One kind word to ourselves can mean a lot. Especially, since many of us go weeks, months, sometimes even years without hearing one nice thing.
Kindness week doesn't have to mean only being kind to others. We need to also remember to also be kind to ourselves. We deserve it too.
So be kind to others, try to lift them up. Be helpful if you can and also be kind to you too. I know it isn't easy. We can sometimes be our worst enemy. We tend to be harder on ourselves than others are on us. We tend to judge ourselves way too harshly. So, be kind.
Tell yourself how worthy you are, how beautiful, how unique. Tell yourself how you are loved. How you are heard. Tell yourself how strong you are, how intelligent, how remarkable. Tell yourself these things even if you don't yet believe them. Just because you can't see it doesn't make it any less true.
Tell yourself what a good person you are. Because you are good person. Be proud of all of your accomplishments even if they seem small to you. Celebrate your wins. Be kind to yourself.
I think of how strong all us are, how amazing, how determined. I think about how different and yet supportive we all are. How brave. I think of us as magnificent in spite of our challenges.
And although today hasn't been stellar and I feel kinda crappy, I am going to be kind to myself this week too. Even if it means I have to tell myself that I am beautiful whilst sitting in my bathrobe with coffee stains on it. Because I need to hear I am beautiful sometimes just as all people do.
So in honor of kindness week : I am unique and all of you are unique too. I am strong just like all of you are strong. We are worthy. We are important. We matter. And if I am beautiful than you are all beautiful even in your coffee stained robes on a not so stellar day when you feel like crap.
Be safe, and be kind, and have a great weekend my friends.
Neurotic Nelly
I was thinking about kindness week last night and I thought about all of those times all I needed to hang on or to make my day less shitty was one kind word. And just how powerful one kind word can really be. My act of kindness will have to come from my blog this week and I wanted to share something I really believe in.
Be kind to yourself. With all the negative self talk, all of the stigma that surrounds our diagnoses, with all of the self doubt, be kind. Say something kind about yourself once a day. It doesn't have to be prophetic. It doesn't have to be deep. It can be a simple as," Well, I have decent hair today."
One kind word to ourselves can mean a lot. Especially, since many of us go weeks, months, sometimes even years without hearing one nice thing.
Kindness week doesn't have to mean only being kind to others. We need to also remember to also be kind to ourselves. We deserve it too.
So be kind to others, try to lift them up. Be helpful if you can and also be kind to you too. I know it isn't easy. We can sometimes be our worst enemy. We tend to be harder on ourselves than others are on us. We tend to judge ourselves way too harshly. So, be kind.
Tell yourself how worthy you are, how beautiful, how unique. Tell yourself how you are loved. How you are heard. Tell yourself how strong you are, how intelligent, how remarkable. Tell yourself these things even if you don't yet believe them. Just because you can't see it doesn't make it any less true.
Tell yourself what a good person you are. Because you are good person. Be proud of all of your accomplishments even if they seem small to you. Celebrate your wins. Be kind to yourself.
I think of how strong all us are, how amazing, how determined. I think about how different and yet supportive we all are. How brave. I think of us as magnificent in spite of our challenges.
And although today hasn't been stellar and I feel kinda crappy, I am going to be kind to myself this week too. Even if it means I have to tell myself that I am beautiful whilst sitting in my bathrobe with coffee stains on it. Because I need to hear I am beautiful sometimes just as all people do.
So in honor of kindness week : I am unique and all of you are unique too. I am strong just like all of you are strong. We are worthy. We are important. We matter. And if I am beautiful than you are all beautiful even in your coffee stained robes on a not so stellar day when you feel like crap.
Be safe, and be kind, and have a great weekend my friends.
Neurotic Nelly
Thursday, October 20, 2016
Truth and Perceptions....
I have a new hobby and it is taking over my life.
I have spent countless hours refinishing old furniture, lately. Some people would complain but I like that it has made me obsessive or rather that my obsessive disorder is triggered on it because if I am sanding and staining and scrubbing things beautiful, I am not obsessing about getting some rare cancer from inhaling Scandinavian sheep farts.
I kid, but the reality of my dysfunction can be literally exhausting. I am afraid of every pain, every ache, every fleeting moment. I am terrified of things getting contaminated or tainted. I am frightened of every day life. My brain makes me worry. If my side hurts I may have liver cancer. If my head hurts it could be a tumor. A rash could mean something nefarious and scary. The gum under the table could give me Hepatitis. And even though I know this is all bullshit my mind makes up, it changes nothing for my anxiety.
And as much as I would love to, I can not turn it off. I can't stop thinking about it. The only thing I can do is distract myself when that same old broken record with the same old shitty song starts replaying in my head over and over and over again.
Being me can be so very tiring.
Days, weeks, months are filled with excessive worry. People see me as someone who has her shit together. I try so very hard to present myself that way but the truth and perception are two very different things.
The truth is that I have battled this mental illness for thirty three years. I know nothing else. It has stolen so much of my time and resources. It has ruined relationships. It has made my life hell.
But I refuse to be macabre and morose about it. I refuse to stay silent in the shadows and be ashamed. It is not me being brave it is me trying desperately to survive under it's clutches. And I will survive because I am not someone who gives up. I can't afford to be or this illness would take everything from me and I am not going down like that.
Which leads me to my point of this post:
Last weekend someone threw this table out to be picked up by the garbage truck. It was rough, dirty, and damp. It looked like it had went through hell and back and possibly a house fire and a war zone with angry bat wielding leprechauns. Someone had felt that it's ugliness meant that nothing beautiful was underneath the years of it's mistreatment and bad style choices. They overlooked it. They counted it to be less than. But I could see it for what it really was. Something that just needed some tlc. It just needed someone to see it for what it truly was, strong underneath all of it's ugly.
I saw myself in that piece of furniture. A little warped, some ugly bits on the outside, thought of as less than what I am worth at first glance because not everything about me is pretty to behold or easy to deal with. But under all of that distraction and dysfunction I am sturdy. I am more beautiful and strong than I ever thought possible.
Under the layers of paint and pain I am still me, still real, still a solid force to deal with. Maybe that is why this table, so casually discarded, moved me so much. Because I could see, even if no one else could, that this table was way more than just trash.
Refinishing this table delighted me. It healed me with every scrape of the paint chisel, with every piece of sandpaper, with every brush stroke of stain. Every moment of saving this table felt like me saving myself. Weird, I know.
A little sanding, a little stain, and a little bit of soapy water and viola.....
How could something so beautiful and sturdy as this be considered as garbage?
So, I am going to keep at it and keep refinishing the furniture I find discarded because of perceived flaws. I will make them beautiful again. And every time I bring something back to it's original beauty I will be reminded that deep down we are all beautiful underneath too. Despite our flaws and in spite of our supposed "ugly". Flaws don't make you weak, hideous, nor does it make you expendable. We are beautiful.
Truth and perceptions, people....truth and perceptions.
Neurotic Nelly
I have spent countless hours refinishing old furniture, lately. Some people would complain but I like that it has made me obsessive or rather that my obsessive disorder is triggered on it because if I am sanding and staining and scrubbing things beautiful, I am not obsessing about getting some rare cancer from inhaling Scandinavian sheep farts.
I kid, but the reality of my dysfunction can be literally exhausting. I am afraid of every pain, every ache, every fleeting moment. I am terrified of things getting contaminated or tainted. I am frightened of every day life. My brain makes me worry. If my side hurts I may have liver cancer. If my head hurts it could be a tumor. A rash could mean something nefarious and scary. The gum under the table could give me Hepatitis. And even though I know this is all bullshit my mind makes up, it changes nothing for my anxiety.
And as much as I would love to, I can not turn it off. I can't stop thinking about it. The only thing I can do is distract myself when that same old broken record with the same old shitty song starts replaying in my head over and over and over again.
Being me can be so very tiring.
Days, weeks, months are filled with excessive worry. People see me as someone who has her shit together. I try so very hard to present myself that way but the truth and perception are two very different things.
The truth is that I have battled this mental illness for thirty three years. I know nothing else. It has stolen so much of my time and resources. It has ruined relationships. It has made my life hell.
But I refuse to be macabre and morose about it. I refuse to stay silent in the shadows and be ashamed. It is not me being brave it is me trying desperately to survive under it's clutches. And I will survive because I am not someone who gives up. I can't afford to be or this illness would take everything from me and I am not going down like that.
Which leads me to my point of this post:
Last weekend someone threw this table out to be picked up by the garbage truck. It was rough, dirty, and damp. It looked like it had went through hell and back and possibly a house fire and a war zone with angry bat wielding leprechauns. Someone had felt that it's ugliness meant that nothing beautiful was underneath the years of it's mistreatment and bad style choices. They overlooked it. They counted it to be less than. But I could see it for what it really was. Something that just needed some tlc. It just needed someone to see it for what it truly was, strong underneath all of it's ugly.
I saw myself in that piece of furniture. A little warped, some ugly bits on the outside, thought of as less than what I am worth at first glance because not everything about me is pretty to behold or easy to deal with. But under all of that distraction and dysfunction I am sturdy. I am more beautiful and strong than I ever thought possible.
Under the layers of paint and pain I am still me, still real, still a solid force to deal with. Maybe that is why this table, so casually discarded, moved me so much. Because I could see, even if no one else could, that this table was way more than just trash.
Refinishing this table delighted me. It healed me with every scrape of the paint chisel, with every piece of sandpaper, with every brush stroke of stain. Every moment of saving this table felt like me saving myself. Weird, I know.
A little sanding, a little stain, and a little bit of soapy water and viola.....
How could something so beautiful and sturdy as this be considered as garbage?
So, I am going to keep at it and keep refinishing the furniture I find discarded because of perceived flaws. I will make them beautiful again. And every time I bring something back to it's original beauty I will be reminded that deep down we are all beautiful underneath too. Despite our flaws and in spite of our supposed "ugly". Flaws don't make you weak, hideous, nor does it make you expendable. We are beautiful.
Truth and perceptions, people....truth and perceptions.
Neurotic Nelly
Thursday, October 13, 2016
Hang In There....
You are not broken. Maybe, there are some chips on the surface. Maybe, you are a bit tattered around the edges. Maybe, you lean a bit to the side. Maybe right now, it feels like your life is a raging inferno of garbage and it is all falling down around your head. Maybe, the debris field of all of the things you think you have lost is all you can see.You might be different, unique, unwell, depressed, repressed, upset, scared, or complicated but you are not broken. Hang in there.
Being us is never easy. We know this. The people that love us know this. Life is complicated. Mental illness is complicated. We can be complicated. Hang in there.
I know that sometimes we get exhausted. The fall into bed face first, fully clothed, and reeking of last night's dinner and disappointment kind of exhausted. It happens. People have shitty days, shitty weeks, shitty months. I once had a whole shitty year. Things can always get better. Hang in there.
On some days we feel completely alone. It can feel like not another soul on the face of this planet understands how you feel.
It can feel like no one gets you, knows your struggles, or can comprehend the pain you are in. You are never alone. We all feel this way on occasion and we do understand you. Hang in there.
People care about you. They do, even if you are unable to see it. Sometimes our illness can block out all of the good things in our lives or can skew our perceptions and view of life making us unable to see the good. Sometimes we can not see the love other people have for us or we mistake it for pity. Sometimes we convince ourselves the blatant lie, that they would be better off without us because we are a burden. There are people in your life that look up to you, that love you, that care more for you then you would ever guess and they do not see you as anything but the person they care for. They do not consider you a burden and they don't want to lose you. You are loved. Hang in there.
Hang in there, the world is a vast place and you have an important role in it. You are important. You are worthy. You are unique. You are loved. So, please hang in there because you matter.
You matter to all of us. We are all in the same boat and by boat I may mean a shitty, moss covered pirate ship with torn sails, marooned on a sand dune full of rotten coconuts with no elected captain and no real sense of direction but we are making the best of it. We stand up for each other. We know how you feel. So, hang in there.
You are worth it.
Neurotic Nelly
Friday, September 30, 2016
Porch Opossums, Flower Pots, and Mental Illness......Oh My
I have an inside/outside cat. We have, on occasion, put out cat food for him. Problem being that we have discovered that he doesn't actually eat the outside food. The food bowl would empty but the cat would not be the one emptying it. It was like a bizarre magical trick until a few days ago. That is when we saw it.
Neurotic Nelly
We have an opossum.
Smallish but getting bigger everyday. It has taken over our porch at night. It has become fearless. It doesn't really care if you see it, as long as you don't get too close. Last night, that bastard broke one of my flower pots and stood there defiantly licking his fur on my outside bench. Clearly, it is not afraid of me or my outside cat, or my flower pots.
It made me think about mental illness, which is probably some sort of mental problem in itself, actually. How it takes what it wants. Slowly it feeds off of your fears or stress, especially in the night. How it becomes brazen in it's symptoms. How fearless it is when stealing little bit of your life away. How it has no issues knocking over your flower post and watching you whole world turn upside down. It isn't afraid. It is defiant. It is a little bastard and before you know it, it makes claims on your porch without your permission or knowledge.
And what do we do? Usually, we blame ourselves for something we did not ask for. We get scared. We worry about stigma and sometimes that worry gets in the way of the help that we need. We keep it secret a lot of the time. We struggle with sense of self worth. We hurt.
But, I think what we need to realize is that just like the porch opossum, we are not responsible for mental illness befalling us. It is just something that happens. It is not our fault nor does it say anything about who we are as people. It does not label us. I t does not lessen our worth.
There is no need to blame ourselves for something we have no control over. And there are many things to help people with mental illness. There are therapies, medications, groups, and treatments that have been helpful for most mental illnesses. There are people that understand. there are people that know what living under the stigma of mental illness is like and there are people who care.
Honestly, mental illnesses aren't even that rare. Much like finding an opossum eating out of your garbage can, lots of people have encountered it. The current statistics prove that 1 in 5 people in the US will have some sort of mental illness in their lifetimes. That isn't a small number. In fact, you probably know someone affected by mental illness right now. So, there is nothing to be ashamed about when you break down the sheer amount of people that suffer with you. Why we treat it like some majestic rarity is really beyond me. Clearly it is neither majestic nor a rarity at all.
That is the Point that I am making, I think. Mental illness should not be seen as a weakness or weirdness. It should be treated and looked upon the same way as any physical illness is. And until it is, we should keep fighting the stigma, keep helping ourselves, and keep being proud of how much we have been able to accomplish. Because having a mental illness is hard and we should be proud of every single time we win against it. No matter how small that win may be. It is still a win.
I am strong. You are strong and we can do this. We can tell the mental illness opossums of the world that flower pots be damned we are not afraid to fight back and get help. That we are worth it. That we matter. Because we do and our minds and porches are not something we are just going to give over without a fight.
Neurotic Nelly
Thursday, September 8, 2016
I'm Back and Hopefully Better....
Well, I have recovered....sort of. Apparently while going to my doctor's office for a checkup I contracted what can only be described as the flaming gungamo.
I have no idea how it happened. I used hand sanatizer. I avoided direct contact with other patients. I kept my hands in my pockets. All of my OCD germ tactics to stay safe.
I was going to write but I was ill in bed coughing up a lung and wishing my ears didn't feel like I was trapped underwater.
The first day I awoke to the feeling one would have if they had swallowed razor blades. Thinking I had Strep throat I went to the Urgent Care. Spoiler alert: it was not strep throat.
I was given antibiotics. The pharmacist tried to pander their flu shots to me while I waited in line looking and feeling like a snot zombie. I was not amused.
The second day, I felt as if angry bat wielding leprechauns had attacked me in my sleep. My head hurt. My sinuses were flaming balls of lava. My eyes refused to focus. I had what I like to call congestion stupidity, where the facial pressure makes you unable to concentrate. The pressure triggered my vertigo which allowed me to spend the day bumping into everything and falling over as if I was drunk. It was fantastic....sarcasm.
The third day, I wanted to die. There was clearly no relief or hope in sight. I wasn't sure if I was going to make it and I was not entirely convinced I wanted to. The urge to crawl instead of walk from the couch to the bed to the bathroom was becoming more of a need rather than a desire. I don't remember much about it except whimpering sounds that I realized where coming from me as I laid rolled in a cover, scrunched into a ball, with kleenex shoved into my nostrils. I woke up choking from the chest congestion. I woke up unable to breathe from my whole face. I woke up having to blow my nose....I slept too much but none of it was long term bouts of rest. It was like a bad ironic joke and the punchline was clearly me at this point.
Thankfully, the third day was the worst and I was up and running on the fourth day. It has been twelve days since.
I now still cough but not as much as before and I don't sound like I have peanut m & m's shoved up nose. So, that's a plus. I did, however, pass it on to both of my children. This is truly the gift that keeps on giving.....sorry kids.
That being said, I am in a way better mood than usual. Probably from my new found ability to breathe through both of my nostrils at the same time. Nose breathing is great, isn't it?
Other than being sick, I have nothing really to talk about. I am thankful to be back to my old crazy self. I am happy to be on the mend. I am still confused as to how I caught this bug in the first place but I am happy it is mostly over.
So, here's to you guys. I hope to write a better post than this for next week. I am hoping all of you are feeling well, and are having good days. If you are not, please just remember that even in the darkest of hours daylight is only around the corner. Just hang in there. You matter. You are important. You have insurmountable worth. You are heard.
Until next week guys,
Neurotic Nelly
I have no idea how it happened. I used hand sanatizer. I avoided direct contact with other patients. I kept my hands in my pockets. All of my OCD germ tactics to stay safe.
I was going to write but I was ill in bed coughing up a lung and wishing my ears didn't feel like I was trapped underwater.
The first day I awoke to the feeling one would have if they had swallowed razor blades. Thinking I had Strep throat I went to the Urgent Care. Spoiler alert: it was not strep throat.
I was given antibiotics. The pharmacist tried to pander their flu shots to me while I waited in line looking and feeling like a snot zombie. I was not amused.
The second day, I felt as if angry bat wielding leprechauns had attacked me in my sleep. My head hurt. My sinuses were flaming balls of lava. My eyes refused to focus. I had what I like to call congestion stupidity, where the facial pressure makes you unable to concentrate. The pressure triggered my vertigo which allowed me to spend the day bumping into everything and falling over as if I was drunk. It was fantastic....sarcasm.
The third day, I wanted to die. There was clearly no relief or hope in sight. I wasn't sure if I was going to make it and I was not entirely convinced I wanted to. The urge to crawl instead of walk from the couch to the bed to the bathroom was becoming more of a need rather than a desire. I don't remember much about it except whimpering sounds that I realized where coming from me as I laid rolled in a cover, scrunched into a ball, with kleenex shoved into my nostrils. I woke up choking from the chest congestion. I woke up unable to breathe from my whole face. I woke up having to blow my nose....I slept too much but none of it was long term bouts of rest. It was like a bad ironic joke and the punchline was clearly me at this point.
Thankfully, the third day was the worst and I was up and running on the fourth day. It has been twelve days since.
I now still cough but not as much as before and I don't sound like I have peanut m & m's shoved up nose. So, that's a plus. I did, however, pass it on to both of my children. This is truly the gift that keeps on giving.....sorry kids.
That being said, I am in a way better mood than usual. Probably from my new found ability to breathe through both of my nostrils at the same time. Nose breathing is great, isn't it?
Other than being sick, I have nothing really to talk about. I am thankful to be back to my old crazy self. I am happy to be on the mend. I am still confused as to how I caught this bug in the first place but I am happy it is mostly over.
So, here's to you guys. I hope to write a better post than this for next week. I am hoping all of you are feeling well, and are having good days. If you are not, please just remember that even in the darkest of hours daylight is only around the corner. Just hang in there. You matter. You are important. You have insurmountable worth. You are heard.
Until next week guys,
Neurotic Nelly
Thursday, August 11, 2016
Don't Be An Idiot.....
Words can not accurately describe how annoyed I get when I hear someone say that they believe that religion is a mental illness.
Mental illness is not something you pick. It is not a belief system. It is not a decoration that is worn around the neck like a talisman. It is not a side effect of religion nor is it a choice. It is not Voodoo. It is not a sign of demons. It is a chemical imbalance in your brain. It is a very real physical illness located in your cerebral cortex.
One can not simply choose to not have mental illness and turn away from it. One can not switch one's mental illness for another one that they think better suits them. Mental Illness does not work that way because it is not a choice.
Some people do not like religion, but to compare it to something that has no bearing on class, race, gender, or belief systems is ridiculous. It is ignorant and anyone that repeats such drivel looks ignorant while spewing idiotic bullshit to the masses to try and make themselves look hip and different.
To claim that religion is a mental illness is to make the words "mental illness", something that can be picked and chosen to label anything that other people don't like because it upsets them, confuses them, or makes them uncomfortable.
Calling something that isn't a true mental illness a mental illness is wrong and hurtful. It promotes the ignorance and stigma that we put up with on a daily basis. It makes our diagnoses seen as not a medical condition but a word to damn anything that is not thought of as acceptable or understandable. It takes our diagnoses and the lives that we live and minimizes the struggle we go through and understates the triumphs that we accomplish.
If you don't want to believe in a religion, that is your choice, but do not use our diagnosis as a label for your decision to not believe. Because a chemical imbalance and a choice are not the same thing.
Don't be an idiot. Please educate yourself.
Neurotic Nelly
Neurotic Nelly
Mental illness is not something you pick. It is not a belief system. It is not a decoration that is worn around the neck like a talisman. It is not a side effect of religion nor is it a choice. It is not Voodoo. It is not a sign of demons. It is a chemical imbalance in your brain. It is a very real physical illness located in your cerebral cortex.
One can not simply choose to not have mental illness and turn away from it. One can not switch one's mental illness for another one that they think better suits them. Mental Illness does not work that way because it is not a choice.
Some people do not like religion, but to compare it to something that has no bearing on class, race, gender, or belief systems is ridiculous. It is ignorant and anyone that repeats such drivel looks ignorant while spewing idiotic bullshit to the masses to try and make themselves look hip and different.
To claim that religion is a mental illness is to make the words "mental illness", something that can be picked and chosen to label anything that other people don't like because it upsets them, confuses them, or makes them uncomfortable.
Calling something that isn't a true mental illness a mental illness is wrong and hurtful. It promotes the ignorance and stigma that we put up with on a daily basis. It makes our diagnoses seen as not a medical condition but a word to damn anything that is not thought of as acceptable or understandable. It takes our diagnoses and the lives that we live and minimizes the struggle we go through and understates the triumphs that we accomplish.
If you don't want to believe in a religion, that is your choice, but do not use our diagnosis as a label for your decision to not believe. Because a chemical imbalance and a choice are not the same thing.
Don't be an idiot. Please educate yourself.
Neurotic Nelly
Neurotic Nelly
Thursday, July 28, 2016
I Know Who I Am....
I know who I am.....
Many people in my life have told me that they thought I was very good with my OCD. That I seem to be dealing well.
Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.
They truly have no idea.
It's an act of sorts. You see what I allow you to see. You hear what I allow myself to say. There are certain OCD fears, I have told no one, and may never open up about. No one knows unless I let them in. I have mastered the mask I plaster on my face to appear to the masses as a normal human being.
I am an actress of my own life. I smile when I feel like shit, I seem awake when I am exhausted, I lie to you when you ask me if I am okay. One can not look at me and know how damaged I really am.
That is the hell of it.
There is no sign upon my forehead identifying me as OCD. As a PureO there are no compulsions to show as proof.
I have had people I know tell me I talk about it too much. As if I can just turn it off like water from the tap. Like it is optional to be obessive compulsive. Like if I ignore it, it will go away.
I get it, talking about it is boring and uncomfortable. One should try living with it for thirty two years and see how uncomfortable it really is.
OCD is hell. It is the hardest thing I have ever done. It is the hardest thing I will ever do and I do it everyday. It is not something I glorify being. It is not something that I would wish on anyone. It is not something I would ever be proud of.
But I am proud that I am still fighting. That I remain as honest as I can be about it. That I keep trying even on days that I damn well know I will lose. I am proud of being strong in the face of the horror that OCD inflicts on my daily life.
I know who I am....
It might not be enough for some, to be just someone with OCD fighting to live as normal and happy a life as possible, but it is enough for me. I am proud of being who I am despite of this disorder that has single-handedly tried to take over my life. This disorder that tries to steal my life away from one fear at a time. This disorder that has made my life hell. I am proud. I know who I am.
Not just with this mental illness but in spite of it. I am a good person, a kind person, a sensitive person. Maybe to some that isn't enough. Maybe it isn't enough that I can not work. Maybe it isn't enough to them that I am unable to be more productive in their eyes. Maybe it is isn't enough that I am not always on the same page as everyone else and I don't do what everyone else does when they do it. Maybe it isn't enough for them but then again they do not live with what I do. They don't have to deal with this.
I will tell you a little secret, most people have no idea who they really are....
So, I guess I have that. With struggle comes truth and with hardship comes knowledge. And when you fight just to get out of bed in the morning to face a day you know will be full of grief and fears, you find who you really are.
I know who I am....
And if I am not enough for them or they judge me because I am different, fuck 'em. I don't really need them in my life anyway.
I have spent way too much of my life blaming myself and I refuse to let anyone make me feel like I am nothing. I know who I am and I am more than enough.
Many people in my life have told me that they thought I was very good with my OCD. That I seem to be dealing well.
Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.
They truly have no idea.
It's an act of sorts. You see what I allow you to see. You hear what I allow myself to say. There are certain OCD fears, I have told no one, and may never open up about. No one knows unless I let them in. I have mastered the mask I plaster on my face to appear to the masses as a normal human being.
I am an actress of my own life. I smile when I feel like shit, I seem awake when I am exhausted, I lie to you when you ask me if I am okay. One can not look at me and know how damaged I really am.
That is the hell of it.
There is no sign upon my forehead identifying me as OCD. As a PureO there are no compulsions to show as proof.
I have had people I know tell me I talk about it too much. As if I can just turn it off like water from the tap. Like it is optional to be obessive compulsive. Like if I ignore it, it will go away.
I get it, talking about it is boring and uncomfortable. One should try living with it for thirty two years and see how uncomfortable it really is.
OCD is hell. It is the hardest thing I have ever done. It is the hardest thing I will ever do and I do it everyday. It is not something I glorify being. It is not something that I would wish on anyone. It is not something I would ever be proud of.
But I am proud that I am still fighting. That I remain as honest as I can be about it. That I keep trying even on days that I damn well know I will lose. I am proud of being strong in the face of the horror that OCD inflicts on my daily life.
I know who I am....
It might not be enough for some, to be just someone with OCD fighting to live as normal and happy a life as possible, but it is enough for me. I am proud of being who I am despite of this disorder that has single-handedly tried to take over my life. This disorder that tries to steal my life away from one fear at a time. This disorder that has made my life hell. I am proud. I know who I am.
Not just with this mental illness but in spite of it. I am a good person, a kind person, a sensitive person. Maybe to some that isn't enough. Maybe it isn't enough that I can not work. Maybe it isn't enough to them that I am unable to be more productive in their eyes. Maybe it is isn't enough that I am not always on the same page as everyone else and I don't do what everyone else does when they do it. Maybe it isn't enough for them but then again they do not live with what I do. They don't have to deal with this.
I will tell you a little secret, most people have no idea who they really are....
So, I guess I have that. With struggle comes truth and with hardship comes knowledge. And when you fight just to get out of bed in the morning to face a day you know will be full of grief and fears, you find who you really are.
I know who I am....
And if I am not enough for them or they judge me because I am different, fuck 'em. I don't really need them in my life anyway.
I have spent way too much of my life blaming myself and I refuse to let anyone make me feel like I am nothing. I know who I am and I am more than enough.
Thursday, July 7, 2016
What It Has Done...
Talking about mental illness to the masses is hard. It is hard to deal with it's misrepresented preconceived notions and it is hard to deal with the media's silence. We are often times villainized or sanitized but very often totally ignored.
That being said, because my diagnoses is severe Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, I do not necessarily deal with as many of the violent misconceptions other mental illness diagnosis come with.
Many people have the incorrect idea that OCD is somehow less life changing or devastating than it actually is. We can blame many things for this but the biggest issue is the idea that OCD is inherently about organization and cleanliness. Leaving people to use the term OCD for things that are not actually OCD and that is a problem. Because if we desensitize the diagnoses to being more about how a person likes their morning coffee, we are saying that it is not a scary, upsetting, life altering mental illness. And it minimizes the very real , very terrorizing issues people that actually suffer from OCD face.
Make no mistake, I do not want to limit people's discussions on OCD. I have no issue with people using the term OCD. I just want people to know what it actually stands for and the disorder it describes. I want open debates. I want people to ask me about OCD. I want people to learn. I want us all to educate each other.
OCD has devastated my life. People see me as a happy go lucky thirty six year old house wife. I am, in essence, an anxiety ridden thirty six year old hermit. I tell people that I am a house wife but I do not tell them the reason I am a house wife has nothing to do with my dreams of being a stay at home mother. The reality is that because of my severe OCD I was unable to finish high school. I was then unable to attend college and I am currently and have always been, unable to hold down a job. I say I am a house wife because I do stay at home and take care of my home and children but I do not go into the details that I do this because I am unable to do anything else. I am for lack of a better description, unemployable.
I had dreams of graduating high school and my grades were very good. My panic attacks made my attendance extremely poor. I had high hopes of trying to get into Julliard. I wanted to sing on Broadway. I am talented enough to do so. I could have graduated and at the very least tried out, but this disorder prevented me from being who I thought I could be. Instead of me trying out for a musical college, I struggled to leave my home. Instead of me making plans for my future, I became unable to be in crowds of people without having panic attacks.
Those options were torn away from me. Not in one fell swoop like other disorders but by little bits and pieces over time. One tiny fear after another. Anxiety attacks on replay over and over again .
This disorder has damaged my relationships. It has made me hard to understand and harder to live with. I am under no illusions that being married to me is a cake walk. I know better. I know how stressful it is to live with someone who is almost constantly stressed out. I am afraid. I am afraid of everything, all of the time.
It has made me unable to do things that other people do on a daily basis without ever thinking about it. I have issues going to public places. I am unable to take medications to help because my OCD is medication resistant.
I am a thirty six year old hermit, with no diploma or higher education, who does not drive, who is too unreliable to employ, and who can not even make doctor appointments on the phone without fending off a panic attack. That is my reality. That is what OCD has done to me.
We can discuss semantics and pretend that I have made a go of it and accomplished a great deal despite my anxiety but the reality is still reality and it has been my reality for thirty two years. I do not make excuses or shy away from the truth that this disorder, my disorder, has effectively unabashedly and irrevocably changed my life.
OCD comes with extra baggage. The kind of baggage you don't see on television or movies. The kind of ugly sludge green, hard plastic, Bakelite luggage no one wants to claim at the baggage check because it is unbelievably heavy and embarrassing to be seen with. It comes with hesitations and freak outs. It comes with phobias, panic attacks, devastating intrusive thoughts, and mental or physical compulsions. It comes with sexual, blasphemous, or harm fears. It comes with suicidal ideologies and avoidance behaviors. It comes with triggers and life altering consequences.
And yes, I am doing well for someone that lives with severe OCD but let's not pretend that it hasn't shaped the person I have become because it has.
It marks the things I do on a regular basis.
I cannot deal with certain things like germs, contaminations, or other people breathing on me or touching me. My life has become a life of avoidance. I avoid, it is the hallmark of what I do.
This is the reality of what OCD has done to me.
I strive to continue to work on it. I strive to be better accepting of all that comes with having a mental illness. I am happy to be where I am today even if it isn't what I thought I would achieve when I was younger. I actually enjoy being a stay at home mom.
I do have family and friends and a fantastic support system. I do have really good days. I do know that I do not suffer alone. There are many people who suffer from OCD.
I am not bitter about how my life has been affected but I refuse to be obtuse and pretend. OCD is hard. Shit happens.
I also hold on to being proud of the things that I can do and the small victories I am able to achieve. Waking up and getting out of bed on a bad day is a feat. Taking a shower after I get out of bed on a bad day is a victory. Walking outside amongst other people and interacting with them after I have taken that shower, after getting out of bed on a bad day is a fucking act of heroism. I don't need the things I can do to be big to be proud of them. I just need to acknowledge that I did them and because I have done them, I get stronger from it.
Victories do not have to be big. They just have to be victories.
Neurotic Nelly
That being said, because my diagnoses is severe Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, I do not necessarily deal with as many of the violent misconceptions other mental illness diagnosis come with.
Many people have the incorrect idea that OCD is somehow less life changing or devastating than it actually is. We can blame many things for this but the biggest issue is the idea that OCD is inherently about organization and cleanliness. Leaving people to use the term OCD for things that are not actually OCD and that is a problem. Because if we desensitize the diagnoses to being more about how a person likes their morning coffee, we are saying that it is not a scary, upsetting, life altering mental illness. And it minimizes the very real , very terrorizing issues people that actually suffer from OCD face.
Make no mistake, I do not want to limit people's discussions on OCD. I have no issue with people using the term OCD. I just want people to know what it actually stands for and the disorder it describes. I want open debates. I want people to ask me about OCD. I want people to learn. I want us all to educate each other.
OCD has devastated my life. People see me as a happy go lucky thirty six year old house wife. I am, in essence, an anxiety ridden thirty six year old hermit. I tell people that I am a house wife but I do not tell them the reason I am a house wife has nothing to do with my dreams of being a stay at home mother. The reality is that because of my severe OCD I was unable to finish high school. I was then unable to attend college and I am currently and have always been, unable to hold down a job. I say I am a house wife because I do stay at home and take care of my home and children but I do not go into the details that I do this because I am unable to do anything else. I am for lack of a better description, unemployable.
I had dreams of graduating high school and my grades were very good. My panic attacks made my attendance extremely poor. I had high hopes of trying to get into Julliard. I wanted to sing on Broadway. I am talented enough to do so. I could have graduated and at the very least tried out, but this disorder prevented me from being who I thought I could be. Instead of me trying out for a musical college, I struggled to leave my home. Instead of me making plans for my future, I became unable to be in crowds of people without having panic attacks.
Those options were torn away from me. Not in one fell swoop like other disorders but by little bits and pieces over time. One tiny fear after another. Anxiety attacks on replay over and over again .
This disorder has damaged my relationships. It has made me hard to understand and harder to live with. I am under no illusions that being married to me is a cake walk. I know better. I know how stressful it is to live with someone who is almost constantly stressed out. I am afraid. I am afraid of everything, all of the time.
It has made me unable to do things that other people do on a daily basis without ever thinking about it. I have issues going to public places. I am unable to take medications to help because my OCD is medication resistant.
I am a thirty six year old hermit, with no diploma or higher education, who does not drive, who is too unreliable to employ, and who can not even make doctor appointments on the phone without fending off a panic attack. That is my reality. That is what OCD has done to me.
We can discuss semantics and pretend that I have made a go of it and accomplished a great deal despite my anxiety but the reality is still reality and it has been my reality for thirty two years. I do not make excuses or shy away from the truth that this disorder, my disorder, has effectively unabashedly and irrevocably changed my life.
OCD comes with extra baggage. The kind of baggage you don't see on television or movies. The kind of ugly sludge green, hard plastic, Bakelite luggage no one wants to claim at the baggage check because it is unbelievably heavy and embarrassing to be seen with. It comes with hesitations and freak outs. It comes with phobias, panic attacks, devastating intrusive thoughts, and mental or physical compulsions. It comes with sexual, blasphemous, or harm fears. It comes with suicidal ideologies and avoidance behaviors. It comes with triggers and life altering consequences.
And yes, I am doing well for someone that lives with severe OCD but let's not pretend that it hasn't shaped the person I have become because it has.
It marks the things I do on a regular basis.
I cannot deal with certain things like germs, contaminations, or other people breathing on me or touching me. My life has become a life of avoidance. I avoid, it is the hallmark of what I do.
This is the reality of what OCD has done to me.
I strive to continue to work on it. I strive to be better accepting of all that comes with having a mental illness. I am happy to be where I am today even if it isn't what I thought I would achieve when I was younger. I actually enjoy being a stay at home mom.
I do have family and friends and a fantastic support system. I do have really good days. I do know that I do not suffer alone. There are many people who suffer from OCD.
I am not bitter about how my life has been affected but I refuse to be obtuse and pretend. OCD is hard. Shit happens.
I also hold on to being proud of the things that I can do and the small victories I am able to achieve. Waking up and getting out of bed on a bad day is a feat. Taking a shower after I get out of bed on a bad day is a victory. Walking outside amongst other people and interacting with them after I have taken that shower, after getting out of bed on a bad day is a fucking act of heroism. I don't need the things I can do to be big to be proud of them. I just need to acknowledge that I did them and because I have done them, I get stronger from it.
Victories do not have to be big. They just have to be victories.
Neurotic Nelly
Thursday, June 23, 2016
OCD Explained By Fairytales ....
I have been dealing with some massive writer's block lately and it is annoying me. It has caused me to struggle in writing posts like I would like too these last few weeks. My mind is completely left me. I hate having nothing to post. So, I decided that instead of beating myself up trying to force myself to write when my mind refuses to cooperate, that I would just share one of my best and most read posts from a couple of years ago. I believe in this post and I feel it represents how I feel right now. I hope you all like it....
OCD Explained By Fairytales by Neurotic Nelly
Have a great weekend guys and I promise to be back and writing something new next Thursday!
Neurotic Nelly
OCD Explained By Fairytales by Neurotic Nelly
Have a great weekend guys and I promise to be back and writing something new next Thursday!
Neurotic Nelly
Thursday, June 9, 2016
Staying Positive...
Staying positive doesn't mean pretending to be happy all of the time. It doesn't mean stuffing down your feelings and ignoring what is going on your life. It simply means knowing that things might be going really badly right now, but things will get better at some point.
That is how I get through my bad days. I remember that I also have good days. That these bad days will not last forever. My depression will ebb away, my OCD will calm down, I will not always feel completely emotionally inept.
Sometimes, I still feel defeated but I know that there are times that I feel victorious. I feel vindicated. I feel healthy. Those days are what get me through the gloom and doom. Those days are my inspiration to keep going, keep fighting, and keep staying positive.
Staying positive to me is knowing that I matter, that I am worth the fight, that I am unique, and I am loved. It means knowing that I am not what my mental illness tries to tell me I am. I am better than that, worth more than that, and I refuse to listen to my mental illnesses's lies.
My post today is just a reminder that we are all better than our worst days. We are strong. We are important. We matter and we will get through this. We can stay positive and know that there are better days ahead, even if they seem far far away. They are there. They will come.
Here is hoping you all have a great weekend and are staying positive because each and every one of you is worth it,
Neurotic Nelly
That is how I get through my bad days. I remember that I also have good days. That these bad days will not last forever. My depression will ebb away, my OCD will calm down, I will not always feel completely emotionally inept.
Sometimes, I still feel defeated but I know that there are times that I feel victorious. I feel vindicated. I feel healthy. Those days are what get me through the gloom and doom. Those days are my inspiration to keep going, keep fighting, and keep staying positive.
Staying positive to me is knowing that I matter, that I am worth the fight, that I am unique, and I am loved. It means knowing that I am not what my mental illness tries to tell me I am. I am better than that, worth more than that, and I refuse to listen to my mental illnesses's lies.
My post today is just a reminder that we are all better than our worst days. We are strong. We are important. We matter and we will get through this. We can stay positive and know that there are better days ahead, even if they seem far far away. They are there. They will come.
Here is hoping you all have a great weekend and are staying positive because each and every one of you is worth it,
Neurotic Nelly
Tuesday, May 24, 2016
We Can Not Be Diminished......Rant....Rant...Rant
XXXX.....Language Warning and Possible Triggers.....XXXX
I read this Gawker article after reading the same story line on three different websites and I felt the need to share. Trigger warning on the article linked.
This, this right here is part of the reason I write what I write. Because people are ignorant and can do more damage than they realize. Because this sort of ignorance has to be put in it's rightful place (the trash can). Because we need positive articles and posts about mental illness survivors not knee jerk reactions to diagnoses by morons with access to a keyboard.
I am not even going to touch on what all this colossal twat face says in her poorly written article about the death of her "frenemy" with mental illness and what a blessing it was to her. She has no idea what she is talking about and her ignorance is nothing new to those of us who struggle to live in a world full of self absorbed idiots that think they have a talent for talking about something they have no fucking clue about. She is typical, she looks typical, her writing is typical, and her stigma inducing misconstrued attention seeking behavior....is typical. Big deal, she is old news.
I will, however, comment on the blog site that printed the piece, and their so called apology....
I apologize for an article that was posted here yesterday, entitled "My Former Friend's Death Was a Blessing.” I deeply regret the hurt that this article has caused and understand that it has perpetuated stigma and diminished the lives of people with mental illness. I am committed to immediately reviewing our vetting process to ensure that this experience has a positive influence on the ways in which we at xoJane present all women going forward. I appreciate all of you who took the time to let us know how you felt about this issue.
First of all, thank you for noticing that your article was not only offensive but damaging. Thank you for it removing after being told repeatedly how upsetting and stigmatizing it was. But don't ever make the mistake of thinking that an article written by a sniveling twenty something know it all who, in fact, truly knows nothing could diminish any of our lives because she is a fucking moron. You didn't diminish anything except the validation of a an online magazine many of us have never heard of and many of us will never read again.
You can not diminish the lives of strong, creative, unique, people and how dare you insinuate that this idiot could do so by a thoughtless article as if we were so damaged and have so little to live for, that it ruined our lives. It didn't ruin our lives, it pissed us off because once again we are having to fight against stigma from yet another place that in the year 2016 should absolutely fucking know better.
How dare you make a half attempt to say, "oops my bad" after letting such a completely inappropriate article headline your site. Something that says the death of a mentally ill person was a blessing. You did read her article before posting it right? I mean, that is what you do......
Why would it even be acceptable to post something like this? If we were talking about any other minority in place of the mentally ill you would have balked and never posted because you would feel like it was uncalled for. You would have been afraid of being seen as bigoted, intolerant, and prejudiced; but because it was just us that made it okay right?
You can't diminish us. We have already been stigmatized, lied about, cast aside, ignored, rebuked, insulted, and blacklisted. Do you really think your little corner of the web can really do anything that hasn't already been done to us for the centuries that mental illness has been unfairly punished, misunderstood, and demonized. Do you really?
Because I have got to tell you, as a mental illness suffer, I don't think that you hold that much power.
Her apology was a complete backpedal. I know that when I write something, some people may not like it. I don't cry about it. I stand by what I say. That is what real writers do.
She didn't care that she hurt real people or may have put real people in real jeopardy, she is concerned by the backlash she got in rejoicing in the death of someone she deemed to be less than. She then played the victim and blamed the reaction on the readers claiming that if they were that sensitive they should not read it.....
Because she, clearly the victim in not only her own stories but also apparently the backlash for them, is overwhelmed. Well, I am too. I am overwhelmed by her lack of compassion, for her self imposed self importance, and for her lack of respect for other people. I am also overwhelmed that you as a website that hosts blogs felt that this was perfectly acceptable....which you, clearly, must have or it wouldn't have been posted.
I think her rush to be relevant and edgy is pathetic and I think that your rush to gain click bait for yourself regardless of who it hurts in the process is contemptible.
I just hope that no one read her article or her equally full of shit apology, and ended up hurting themselves because that is what we are really talking about here. Not some stupid woman who has no idea what a real struggle in life is, but people losing their lives everyday. Good, decent, dearly loved people that commit suicide everyday because they feel less than, because they are told that they are a burden, because of shitty articles written by shitty writers who think they know all about mental illness from fucking facebook. It bothers me, that online sites like yours do not consider the wake of devastation they are allowing because they too want to be relevant. It is all about relevance in this world of self absorbance and self importance.
No one is really considering the loss those families feel. No one there, clearly, is considering the loss of the woman your writer complained about. No one is considering the reality that is living with a mental illness and just how fucking hard it is and just how fucking brave we are for doing it.
Writing a piece that slanders a dead woman that had mental illness is low. It isn't brave. It isn't informative. It is pathetic. It is inappropriate and it is wrong.
You want edgy, you want courage, you want spectacular then look at us. Cause we are not hiding in the shadows, we are not sitting on the sidelines or cowering under the bleachers. We do not back down from paltry articles like this, we do not break under adversity. That is all we have ever known. This "story" is no different than the drivel we are force fed everyday about how different we are or how someone can't look past themselves long enough to understand what we go through.
You want to know what is a real blessing?
Living..... Living when it is hard because we know that we are worth it. Fighting on the worst days when you are exhausted and broken and numb. Having real friends, unlike the writer of your article, that stick by us and help us and support us. Knowing that we are creative and wondrous human beings that are capable of so much. Seeing the beauty in this world and knowing that it is something that we too possess. Knowing how important we are because we are just important as everyone else. Standing up for ourselves in the face of stupid people, and God help us, there are so many that we seem to run into. That's living. That's a blessing.....something that your writer obviously has no idea about.
No, we don't back down when we read or hear about discriminatory fluff pieces like the one you posted but I will tell you what we actually do. We shine. We shine in the face of stigma, and lies, and petty people writing petty things while trying to seem not as petty as they actually are. We are better than that and we are better than them. We are the warriors of our own minds and some of the best damn people you will ever meet.
So, no, you didn't diminish us by posting that article. You diminished yourselves and whatever it is you claim to stand for.
That's all on you, bud....that is what your online site strived to be when you allowed her post to be on your page.
I don't want to say how badly you suck for that but, hey, if the shoe fits....lace that bitch up and wear it.
Neurotic Nelly
I read this Gawker article after reading the same story line on three different websites and I felt the need to share. Trigger warning on the article linked.
This, this right here is part of the reason I write what I write. Because people are ignorant and can do more damage than they realize. Because this sort of ignorance has to be put in it's rightful place (the trash can). Because we need positive articles and posts about mental illness survivors not knee jerk reactions to diagnoses by morons with access to a keyboard.
I am not even going to touch on what all this colossal twat face says in her poorly written article about the death of her "frenemy" with mental illness and what a blessing it was to her. She has no idea what she is talking about and her ignorance is nothing new to those of us who struggle to live in a world full of self absorbed idiots that think they have a talent for talking about something they have no fucking clue about. She is typical, she looks typical, her writing is typical, and her stigma inducing misconstrued attention seeking behavior....is typical. Big deal, she is old news.
I will, however, comment on the blog site that printed the piece, and their so called apology....
I apologize for an article that was posted here yesterday, entitled "My Former Friend's Death Was a Blessing.” I deeply regret the hurt that this article has caused and understand that it has perpetuated stigma and diminished the lives of people with mental illness. I am committed to immediately reviewing our vetting process to ensure that this experience has a positive influence on the ways in which we at xoJane present all women going forward. I appreciate all of you who took the time to let us know how you felt about this issue.
First of all, thank you for noticing that your article was not only offensive but damaging. Thank you for it removing after being told repeatedly how upsetting and stigmatizing it was. But don't ever make the mistake of thinking that an article written by a sniveling twenty something know it all who, in fact, truly knows nothing could diminish any of our lives because she is a fucking moron. You didn't diminish anything except the validation of a an online magazine many of us have never heard of and many of us will never read again.
You can not diminish the lives of strong, creative, unique, people and how dare you insinuate that this idiot could do so by a thoughtless article as if we were so damaged and have so little to live for, that it ruined our lives. It didn't ruin our lives, it pissed us off because once again we are having to fight against stigma from yet another place that in the year 2016 should absolutely fucking know better.
How dare you make a half attempt to say, "oops my bad" after letting such a completely inappropriate article headline your site. Something that says the death of a mentally ill person was a blessing. You did read her article before posting it right? I mean, that is what you do......
Why would it even be acceptable to post something like this? If we were talking about any other minority in place of the mentally ill you would have balked and never posted because you would feel like it was uncalled for. You would have been afraid of being seen as bigoted, intolerant, and prejudiced; but because it was just us that made it okay right?
You can't diminish us. We have already been stigmatized, lied about, cast aside, ignored, rebuked, insulted, and blacklisted. Do you really think your little corner of the web can really do anything that hasn't already been done to us for the centuries that mental illness has been unfairly punished, misunderstood, and demonized. Do you really?
Because I have got to tell you, as a mental illness suffer, I don't think that you hold that much power.
Her apology was a complete backpedal. I know that when I write something, some people may not like it. I don't cry about it. I stand by what I say. That is what real writers do.
She didn't care that she hurt real people or may have put real people in real jeopardy, she is concerned by the backlash she got in rejoicing in the death of someone she deemed to be less than. She then played the victim and blamed the reaction on the readers claiming that if they were that sensitive they should not read it.....
Because she, clearly the victim in not only her own stories but also apparently the backlash for them, is overwhelmed. Well, I am too. I am overwhelmed by her lack of compassion, for her self imposed self importance, and for her lack of respect for other people. I am also overwhelmed that you as a website that hosts blogs felt that this was perfectly acceptable....which you, clearly, must have or it wouldn't have been posted.
I think her rush to be relevant and edgy is pathetic and I think that your rush to gain click bait for yourself regardless of who it hurts in the process is contemptible.
I just hope that no one read her article or her equally full of shit apology, and ended up hurting themselves because that is what we are really talking about here. Not some stupid woman who has no idea what a real struggle in life is, but people losing their lives everyday. Good, decent, dearly loved people that commit suicide everyday because they feel less than, because they are told that they are a burden, because of shitty articles written by shitty writers who think they know all about mental illness from fucking facebook. It bothers me, that online sites like yours do not consider the wake of devastation they are allowing because they too want to be relevant. It is all about relevance in this world of self absorbance and self importance.
No one is really considering the loss those families feel. No one there, clearly, is considering the loss of the woman your writer complained about. No one is considering the reality that is living with a mental illness and just how fucking hard it is and just how fucking brave we are for doing it.
Writing a piece that slanders a dead woman that had mental illness is low. It isn't brave. It isn't informative. It is pathetic. It is inappropriate and it is wrong.
You want edgy, you want courage, you want spectacular then look at us. Cause we are not hiding in the shadows, we are not sitting on the sidelines or cowering under the bleachers. We do not back down from paltry articles like this, we do not break under adversity. That is all we have ever known. This "story" is no different than the drivel we are force fed everyday about how different we are or how someone can't look past themselves long enough to understand what we go through.
You want to know what is a real blessing?
Living..... Living when it is hard because we know that we are worth it. Fighting on the worst days when you are exhausted and broken and numb. Having real friends, unlike the writer of your article, that stick by us and help us and support us. Knowing that we are creative and wondrous human beings that are capable of so much. Seeing the beauty in this world and knowing that it is something that we too possess. Knowing how important we are because we are just important as everyone else. Standing up for ourselves in the face of stupid people, and God help us, there are so many that we seem to run into. That's living. That's a blessing.....something that your writer obviously has no idea about.
No, we don't back down when we read or hear about discriminatory fluff pieces like the one you posted but I will tell you what we actually do. We shine. We shine in the face of stigma, and lies, and petty people writing petty things while trying to seem not as petty as they actually are. We are better than that and we are better than them. We are the warriors of our own minds and some of the best damn people you will ever meet.
So, no, you didn't diminish us by posting that article. You diminished yourselves and whatever it is you claim to stand for.
That's all on you, bud....that is what your online site strived to be when you allowed her post to be on your page.
I don't want to say how badly you suck for that but, hey, if the shoe fits....lace that bitch up and wear it.
Neurotic Nelly
Thursday, May 19, 2016
I Am Not Ashamed...
There is a hashtag on twitter going around called #imnotashamed. It is a symbol to fight against the stigma that many of us face on a daily basis. When you live under the diagnoses of having a mental illness a great deal of emotions come with it. One of those is shame.
I am not ashamed. I used to be. I grew up being extremely ashamed of how different I was. How odd I seemed. How weak I felt. I grew up thinking that I was damaged. I was broken. I was worthless.
It was not my choice to be born with a mental illness. It is, however, my choice on how I perceive myself to be because of it. I perceive myself to be just as unique and important as everyone else.
When I was younger, I had delusions of my ability to control everything in my life. I felt that I had the power of willing myself into normalcy if I really wanted to. When I couldn't, I felt that it was my fault because I just didn't want it badly enough.
I blamed myself as if I had woken up one day and just decided to have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. As if I had ordered it as a side on my plate next to the eggs and hashbrowns. As if it were something you picked up by design.
I just couldn't understand that my mental illness was not my fault. That it was simply a misfiring in my brain.
I prayed relentlessly in the hopes that the bad thoughts would cease. When they did not I beat myself up because, clearly, I was doing something wrong. I wasn't praying right or hard enough. I was ashamed that I had failed to become normal even with my constant prayers.
As a child I thought that if I could just be the best little girl I could be, that the OCD would go away. If I did my best at school, if I tried my hardest to listen, if I was sweet and kind and always followed the rules the thoughts would simply vanish... but they never did. I thought that deep down I was a terrible girl, a bad person, a horrid child. I continued to strive to be what I thought good little girls were supposed to be but the intrusive thoughts did not vanish, no matter how desperately I tried to be good enough and I blamed myself for that too.
It took me years, literal years, to accept that my OCD was not the product of my failure as a person. That it was not a punishment for some unforeseen or long forgotten sin.
That it had never been my fault nor could I simply will it away with the good deeds and desperate prayers of a small naive child. I never had control of whether or not I would have this.
It simply is.
And with that acknowledgement I began to realize that shame has no place in my life because to feel ashamed would mean that I would have to accept the blame for having something I never asked for nor wanted to have to begin with.
The guilt is not mine to carry. The blame does not rest at my feet for this.
Living in shame just because I was born with a mental illness is no longer acceptable to me....and I rebuke any implication that says otherwise.
Mental illness does not define me as a human being. It does make me different in some ways but it does not in any way lessen my worth.
It has changed my life but it does not get to own it. It does not get to control everything. It is there but it does not outshine who I am as a person. It does not get to make me feel guilty and it will never again make me feel ashamed.
Because I am more than just a diagnoses and I am not ashamed.
If you are interested in the #imnotashamed hashtag look it up on twitter and read all about their fight against stigma.
Until next time, stay strong and be kind to yourself and never be ashamed.
Neurotic Nelly
I am not ashamed. I used to be. I grew up being extremely ashamed of how different I was. How odd I seemed. How weak I felt. I grew up thinking that I was damaged. I was broken. I was worthless.
It was not my choice to be born with a mental illness. It is, however, my choice on how I perceive myself to be because of it. I perceive myself to be just as unique and important as everyone else.
When I was younger, I had delusions of my ability to control everything in my life. I felt that I had the power of willing myself into normalcy if I really wanted to. When I couldn't, I felt that it was my fault because I just didn't want it badly enough.
I blamed myself as if I had woken up one day and just decided to have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. As if I had ordered it as a side on my plate next to the eggs and hashbrowns. As if it were something you picked up by design.
I just couldn't understand that my mental illness was not my fault. That it was simply a misfiring in my brain.
I prayed relentlessly in the hopes that the bad thoughts would cease. When they did not I beat myself up because, clearly, I was doing something wrong. I wasn't praying right or hard enough. I was ashamed that I had failed to become normal even with my constant prayers.
As a child I thought that if I could just be the best little girl I could be, that the OCD would go away. If I did my best at school, if I tried my hardest to listen, if I was sweet and kind and always followed the rules the thoughts would simply vanish... but they never did. I thought that deep down I was a terrible girl, a bad person, a horrid child. I continued to strive to be what I thought good little girls were supposed to be but the intrusive thoughts did not vanish, no matter how desperately I tried to be good enough and I blamed myself for that too.
It took me years, literal years, to accept that my OCD was not the product of my failure as a person. That it was not a punishment for some unforeseen or long forgotten sin.
That it had never been my fault nor could I simply will it away with the good deeds and desperate prayers of a small naive child. I never had control of whether or not I would have this.
It simply is.
And with that acknowledgement I began to realize that shame has no place in my life because to feel ashamed would mean that I would have to accept the blame for having something I never asked for nor wanted to have to begin with.
The guilt is not mine to carry. The blame does not rest at my feet for this.
Living in shame just because I was born with a mental illness is no longer acceptable to me....and I rebuke any implication that says otherwise.
Mental illness does not define me as a human being. It does make me different in some ways but it does not in any way lessen my worth.
It has changed my life but it does not get to own it. It does not get to control everything. It is there but it does not outshine who I am as a person. It does not get to make me feel guilty and it will never again make me feel ashamed.
Because I am more than just a diagnoses and I am not ashamed.
If you are interested in the #imnotashamed hashtag look it up on twitter and read all about their fight against stigma.
Until next time, stay strong and be kind to yourself and never be ashamed.
Neurotic Nelly
Thursday, May 12, 2016
It's Not Easy....
May is Mental Illness Awareness month.
What can I say that hasn't already been said....
It is not easy to be like us. It isn't easy to deal with the issues we deal with. It isn't easy to wrestle with things like stigma and ignorance. It isn't easy to get out of bed in the morning when you are depressed nor is it easy to to explain how you feel when you are Bipolar. It isn't easy to push through triggers when you have OCD or any of the many other anxiety disorders. It isn't easy to have Schizophrenia. It isn't easy to live with a mental illness. It's just not.
It's doable.....but not easy.
I want my blog to be uplifting, positive, sometimes humorous, and sometimes ranting but most of all I want my blog to be completely honest. I feel like a great many of the "discussions" about mental illness are sanitized, misconstrued, side swept, or only spoken about in the quietest whispers in the darkest of rooms and that needs to stop. Because, frankly, we deserve better.
Honesty is the only thing that can change the current system of misunderstanding. Mental illness is not another word for weakness. It is not an excuse. It does not make us any less important than anyone else. It should be talked about openly in a public form without bias or false pretenses. Without shame or guilt. Without nameless baseless fear.
Without that kind of honesty and openness, mental illness will always be regarded as someone else's problem. It will continue to be misrepresented by the media and underfunded in it's programs. It will remain in the shadows, silenced by those that do not understand. It will be muted by those that are afraid. People that need help will go untreated. People that could be saved will not be. Many individuals that will suffer will do so in silence. And why?
Because of stigma.
We fear how others will react to our diagnoses as if it were a label placed on a placard around our necks. We are afraid of being judged and to be seen as different. We are afraid of being thought of as less than or worthless or broken . We are afraid of being side eyed and talked about. We are afraid of being unjustly feared and unfairly ridiculed. We are afraid.....and we shouldn't have to live under that fear.
I wanted to write a post about understanding, support for each other, standing up to stigma, believing in your self worth, and hope. Because those are the things that really matter in this world full of misconceptions of who we are or what we can achieve simply because of a diagnosis.
I wanted to give a shout out to those of you who suffer like me and tell you to hold on and keep fighting. To hold your head up high because we are good people, strong people, magnificent people. I wanted to make sure that everyone knows how truly important they are to the world. Each of you are completely remarkable, unequivocally unique individuals that make a difference everyday just by being who you are. By fighting even though living with mental illness isn't easy. I wanted to dedicate today's post to the fact that we still get up everyday and try like hell. That is an amazing feat. That is the definition of inspiring.
No, living with mental illness isn't easy but that doesn't mean that we can't do it. It doesn't mean that we can't do it well and it certainly, doesn't mean that we are any less worthy, less capable, less lovable, less inspiring, less strong, or less important than anyone else. We are not less than, we are equal to.
I am proud of us. I am proud of me and I am proud of you. We are badasses, people. I hope you know that.
So, go look at yourself in the mirror, pat yourself on the back, and let yourself realize how spectacularly brave you are.
Happy Mental Illness Awareness month,
Neurotic Nelly
What can I say that hasn't already been said....
It is not easy to be like us. It isn't easy to deal with the issues we deal with. It isn't easy to wrestle with things like stigma and ignorance. It isn't easy to get out of bed in the morning when you are depressed nor is it easy to to explain how you feel when you are Bipolar. It isn't easy to push through triggers when you have OCD or any of the many other anxiety disorders. It isn't easy to have Schizophrenia. It isn't easy to live with a mental illness. It's just not.
It's doable.....but not easy.
I want my blog to be uplifting, positive, sometimes humorous, and sometimes ranting but most of all I want my blog to be completely honest. I feel like a great many of the "discussions" about mental illness are sanitized, misconstrued, side swept, or only spoken about in the quietest whispers in the darkest of rooms and that needs to stop. Because, frankly, we deserve better.
Honesty is the only thing that can change the current system of misunderstanding. Mental illness is not another word for weakness. It is not an excuse. It does not make us any less important than anyone else. It should be talked about openly in a public form without bias or false pretenses. Without shame or guilt. Without nameless baseless fear.
Without that kind of honesty and openness, mental illness will always be regarded as someone else's problem. It will continue to be misrepresented by the media and underfunded in it's programs. It will remain in the shadows, silenced by those that do not understand. It will be muted by those that are afraid. People that need help will go untreated. People that could be saved will not be. Many individuals that will suffer will do so in silence. And why?
Because of stigma.
We fear how others will react to our diagnoses as if it were a label placed on a placard around our necks. We are afraid of being judged and to be seen as different. We are afraid of being thought of as less than or worthless or broken . We are afraid of being side eyed and talked about. We are afraid of being unjustly feared and unfairly ridiculed. We are afraid.....and we shouldn't have to live under that fear.
I wanted to write a post about understanding, support for each other, standing up to stigma, believing in your self worth, and hope. Because those are the things that really matter in this world full of misconceptions of who we are or what we can achieve simply because of a diagnosis.
I wanted to give a shout out to those of you who suffer like me and tell you to hold on and keep fighting. To hold your head up high because we are good people, strong people, magnificent people. I wanted to make sure that everyone knows how truly important they are to the world. Each of you are completely remarkable, unequivocally unique individuals that make a difference everyday just by being who you are. By fighting even though living with mental illness isn't easy. I wanted to dedicate today's post to the fact that we still get up everyday and try like hell. That is an amazing feat. That is the definition of inspiring.
No, living with mental illness isn't easy but that doesn't mean that we can't do it. It doesn't mean that we can't do it well and it certainly, doesn't mean that we are any less worthy, less capable, less lovable, less inspiring, less strong, or less important than anyone else. We are not less than, we are equal to.
I am proud of us. I am proud of me and I am proud of you. We are badasses, people. I hope you know that.
So, go look at yourself in the mirror, pat yourself on the back, and let yourself realize how spectacularly brave you are.
Happy Mental Illness Awareness month,
Neurotic Nelly
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