Big Tongue, Small Mind....RANT. RANT. RANT.....

XXXXXXXXX....WARNING>>>GORE AND FOUL LANGUAGE>>>WARNING....XXXXXXXX

I like Gene Simmons. His music isn't necessarily my go to music but I do like his brand. He is a very savvy intelligent guy. He happens to be in my uncle's favorite band. I am familiar with his work and I have even bought some of his merchandise as Christmas presents. That being said, I am woefully dumbfounded by some comments that he made on July 31 during an interview with Songfacts that are just coming to the surface. To be fair, this was a rather long and interesting interview and this is only a small blurb of many topics he discussed but here is the quote that has recently put him in hot water.


When asked if he still gets along with the original guys he answered the following:


No, I don't get along with anybody who's a drug addict and has a dark cloud over their head and sees themselves as a victim. Drug addicts and alcoholics are always: "The world is a harsh place." My mother was in a concentration camp in Nazi Germany. I don't want to hear fuck all about "the world as a harsh place." She gets up every day, smells the roses and loves life. And for a putz, 20-year-old kid to say, "I'm depressed, I live in Seattle." Fuck you, then kill yourself.
I never understand, because I always call them on their bluff. I'm the guy who says 'Jump!' when there's a guy on top of a building who says, "That's it, I can't take it anymore, I'm going to jump."
Are you kidding? Why are you announcing it? Shut the fuck up, have some dignity and jump! You've got the crowd.
By the way, you walk up to the same guy on a ledge who threatens to jump and put a gun to his head, "I'm going to blow your fuckin' head off!" He'll go, "Please don't!" It's true. He's not that insane.

You can read the article and interview yourself in it's entirety here:

http://www.songfacts.com/blog/interviews/gene_simmons_of_kiss/

When he received the negative attention he did apologize stating :

"To the extent my comments reported by the media speak of depression, I was wrong and in the spur of the moment made remarks that in hindsight were made without regard for those who truly suffer the struggles of depression. Somewhere along the line, my intention of speaking in very directly and perhaps politically incorrectly about drug use and alcoholics has been misconstrued as vile commentary on depression. Unkind statements about depression was certainly never my intention. I simply want to be clear that my heart goes out to anyone suffering from depression and I deeply regret any offhand remarks in the heat of an interview that might have suggested otherwise."

Now, I am happy he apologized but nowhere in that statement does he explain why his comments were wrong, leaving me to believe that maybe he doesn't understand why what he said was both damaging and completely insensitive. For me to accept his apology he would have to not only have educated himself on depression but also make an effort to educate everyone else that he made that comment to, on it as well. His apology to me speaks of backtracking and reeks of an ass covering fluff piece all people backpedal into when they say something inappropriate but have no idea why it is in fact, inappropriate. I would like to enlighten him and people that think this way about depression and other mental illnesses so bear with me and hold onto your hats girl's it isn't going to be pretty.

Mr. Simmons, I agree with you about your mother who suffered through a horrific event. The holocaust was absolutely horrible. I am not even sure there is a word to describe the horrors of that period of time. The crimes committed against innocent people were tragic and horrendous. I stand by that statement completely. Your mother must be a wonderful, courageous, and strong person to have lived through such, and I totally see where you are coming from at this point of your statement. However, your main issue is comparing your mother's traumatic life in the concentration camp to other people's traumatic life events and you can't effectively do that. All pain is pain and there is no comparison.  Who are you to act as if this mythical twenty year old from Seattle hasn't gone through enough pain to be suicidal? Are you the pain police?  Do you know his life personally? Maybe he was abused. Maybe he was molested as a child. Maybe he has no other family. Maybe he suffers from other mental illnesses. Maybe the horrors of his life are so profound to him that he doesn't know how to deal with them any other way than to beg for help as loudly as he can. Sure, he looks like a regular twenty year old from Seattle but then again, we all appear normal on the outside. The holocaust was caused by evil people, depression is caused by a chemical imbalance in our brains. There is no one to punish or hold accountable for the horrors of depression. So we end up not only feeling hopeless but also blaming ourselves for having depression in the first place. 

I would like you to think about how much pain it takes to make someone to not want to live anymore. I would further like you to think about the fact that addicts, which you so despise, usually become addicts to suppress such agonizing things such as mental illnesses, physical pain, abuse issues, and feelings of self degradation and worthlessness. No one wakes up one morning and says," Today I want to become a drug addict." That life is neither fun nor noble. No one purposely chooses to end up with a needle in their arm in some dark scum covered alley smelling of urine and unwashed body odor.

As to the comment about holding the gun next to a suicidal person's head, let me be real with you for a minute. My great uncle decided to end his life by blowing his brains out all over the ceiling. Do you really think that if you had popped up beside him right before he pulled the trigger and put a pistol to his head he would have begged for his life? In what world does that make any fucking sense? And sadly, my great uncle wasn't loudly protesting what he was going through, although we all wish he had been. Maybe we could have saved him or gotten him help if we had known this was where he was at mentally. Or at the very least we would know why he felt killing himself was the only way out, we still don't know why and because he is not here to tell us that, we never will.

Or since you are obviously so knowledgeable about suicide and other people's pain maybe you could have been there to tell him simply to cheer up. Maybe your pep talk with a gun would have made him change his mind and my great grandparents could have ended up walking in and seeing him sitting there reading a newspaper and smoking a pipe rather than opening up the door and stepping in his brain matter....what do you think? Possible??? 

Or you could have also applied this logic to my mother the second before she swallowed a bottle of prescription pills when she was 31. You could tell her that just because she was raped from the age of seven to the age of eighteen by her father who was the community preacher, that her pain isn't as bad as your mother's so she should just quit her bitching. It doesn't matter that she suffers from Depression, Bipolar, and PTSD. Since you know all about pain and suicide and who has the right to be miserable or not, you could save us all from ourselves and our own "pity parties" before it is too late. We want you to stop us before we become too victim like for your taste, because your opinion seems to be the only one that matters.

You see Mr.Simmons, suicide isn't about attention grabbing, or pity, or unfounded misguided jealousy. It isn't about what you have or don't have, or what horrid God awful things have happened in your life, or if you were born into a perfectly wonderful family with no issues. Suicide is the final act of immense desperation. An act to simply end unbearable agony and hopelessness. As you said," He'll go, "Please don't!" It's true. He's not that insane." you have made a great misjudgment. At that exact moment in time when he/she is ready to step over that threshold and commit suicide, they are just that insane and make no mistake, they are victims.  Victims of a disease that kills more people than AIDS, car accidents, homicides, or prostate cancer. But hey, what do I know? Maybe after losing one family member to suicide and almost losing my own mother to it, I am just a tad bit sensitive on the matter. Well, then I am just so very sorry to have to put a damper on your ignorant way of thinking.

Apparently, Mr. Simmons has never had to live with depression or known anyone in his circle of loved ones that has suffered from it. Apparently, he has never had to deal with the ragged, open, gaping wound left behind from a loved one's suicide. Well, good for him, I wish that we could all be so lucky. I wish that none of the 30,000 American families each year never had to know what it is like finding your loved one dead on the floor in a pile of empty pill bottles, or bleeding from the wrists, or after shooting themselves in the face, or after suffocating themselves with car exhaust, or see their broken bodies after jumping from a building, or God forbid finding them hanging from a belt wedged between the closet door and the door frame...... 

We are all victims of this disease whether we suffer from it or not Mr. Simmons and I think it would be more wise to understand that.

Neurotic Nelly

It Doesn't Have To Be That Way...

Crumpled paper on the ground. Broken. Damaged. Wilted. Ignored. Devoid of all hope, all joy, all recognition. A stranger looking back from the mirror. Wasteland. Winter's icy fingers caressing your tear streaked face. Frozen in place. Haunted. Afraid. Ashamed. Muted. Alone.....

This is what it feels like to suffer from mental illness. And it doesn't have to be that way.

Guilty. Dysfunctional. Lost. Less than. Worthless. Pathetic. Unlovable. Untreatable. Loser. Ugly. Bad. Fractured. Failure. Baggage, A Burden. Stupid. Invisible. Forgotten...

This is what we think about ourselves. And it doesn't have to be that way.

Pain. Agony. Misery. Sadness. Anger. Frustration. Loneliness. Fear. Anxiety. Fatigue. Loss. Lethargy. Stigma. Judgment. Abandonment. Grief. Paranoia. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear....

This is what we go through. And it doesn't have to be that way.

You see, we are afraid. We are afraid to be judged. To be abandoned. Forgotten. We are afraid of being told we are not good enough. That we don't matter. We are afraid of the sideways glances, the snide mumbles whispered quietly under your breath, the wary eyed looks from strangers, the mistrust. We are afraid of being ostracized and stigmatized yet again by people that don't understand, can't understand, or simply don't want to understand.

We feel alone. In a room crowded with people. We are the odd man out, the recluse, the sore thumb that rises above everyone else. The oddity, the abnormality, the freak. As the crowd cajoles and laughs and parties we are the person standing awkwardly alone in the corner trying to figure out how we could possibly measure up to all of the normal people having a perfectly normal time. And we judge ourselves for lacking to understand just what it is that makes us so damn odd. We hate it. We feel out of place. We feel wrong and obtruse. Our palms get sweaty and our mouths become dry.We hate the silence that accompanies the fear that allows us to concentrate on the loud thumping of our hearts that have risen in our throats, threatening to choke away the very air we breathe. We look around at all of the smiling faces and instead of feeling like everyone else, we feel broken and less than. Like tarnished silver in a room full of polished gold. And we don't understand why we can't feel shiny and new too. Why we can't smile like everyone else. You know, a real smile that actually meets the eyes. Not the forced smile we paint on our faces everyday to make it appear everything is just fine. Just fine. We are always just fine....to everyone else....except deep down....we know different.

Deep down we want to tell someone that we are not Just Fine. We want to reach out for help. We want to yell and scream from the rooftops that we are anything but just fine. We want to be understood and accepted. We long to be consoled and held and be told that we are not alone. That we are not broken. That we are not forgotten. That our pain is not invisible. We want to broadcast the truth. We want to explain, that not all wounds are visible. Not all illnesses are "physical". Not everyone is just fine, no matter how much they pretend to be...That we are the walking wounded, the mentally scarred. We are the people that live fractured lives, smiling fractured smiles, telling fractured lies, pretending to be whole. We are not whole. We don't even remember what whole is anymore. And it doesn't have to be that way.

We are not the scary monsters that lurk in the shadows waiting to swallow your children up. We are not the deranged ax wielding maniacs of the movies. We are not the dangerous violent caricatures media paints us out to be and we would tell you that....if you would only listen.....and not be frightened. Not be alarmed. Not be terrified to be in the same room with us...or worse yet, ashamed to be seen with us.

I keep reading the words MENTAL ILLNESS NEEDS LESS TALK AND MORE ACTION, and I am confused. Dumbfounded. Uncertain. Yes, there should be more action. More money funneled down into the system to help us. More beds open to receive those of us that have reached the thin red line of sanity. Those who are no longer sure what reality is or if they even want to stay in reality at all. There should be better resources, better coverage, and more doctors and staff. We should not be treated as criminals because no one knows what to do with us and locked in a jail cell because there is simply nowhere else to put us. All the beds are full. There is no room to hold us. There is no place for us to go in emergencies. There should be more action. To help us. To save us. To treat us...but how can there be more action if there is no talk to go with it? 

How can there be understanding if there is no dialogue to explain what mental illness is like? What we feel. The issues we deal with. The fear that mitigates everything we do. How can we help ourselves if we remain silent? Mental illness isn't the killer. Not by itself anyway. The real killer, the real murderer in our lives is silence. The fear of what others incorrectly think mental illness says about us as a person, the fear of being judged and abandoned, the fear of the wary eyed glances and shifty stares.  The fear of the stigma keeps us silent. The silence keeps us sick. The sickness makes us feel alone and broken. The brokenness slowly kills our soul, our self worth, and our resolve to keep going. The silence corrupts our ability to speak out and get help. It prevents us from supporting each other. It stops our ability to network and inform. It kills our belief in hope. And hope is the most important tool that we have. Hope for a new tomorrow. Hope for a new day. Hope that we can get better. Hope that we are going to have more good days than bad. Hope that we can live free of discrimination and judgment by others. Hope that somehow, somewhere there will be a better understanding of us and all that we go through. That we will one day be viewed like everyone else and not be feared or looked upon as violent offenders, when most of us are neither violent or offensive. If we do not speak, then our voices remain muted. If we do not open the conversation then no one will ever know that we are not just fine. That we are suffering. That we are in pain.

Not to mention, if we do not speak up then we can not correct the grievous mistakes that have been perpetrated against us. The bias, the discrimination, the incorrect preconceived notions, the misconceptions, and false fears. We can not teach the world that mental illness is not the thing of beasts or the creator of violence. It does not make us scary, dangerous, or evil. How do we teach the public that mental illness is a physical misfiring of the brain waves?  A malfunction of the cerebral cortex? How can we show the world that mental illness is not just a way to seek attention or something that is just in our heads? How do we explain that mental illness is no different than diabetes, or HIV, or a birth defect except that it is located in our brains? How do we get more support and understanding if we simply cease to speak about it? If we hide behind fear and stigma? If we allow the silence to rule our lives and slowly strangle the fight away from us?

We don't have to feel this way.  We don't have to remain miserable. We don't have to be scared or lonely. We don't have to believe the self hate and self deprecation that we have told ourselves for years. We don't have to be afraid to reach out for help, or to support each other, or even to speak about why we are not just fine. We do not have to remain muted and suffer in silence like our parents, our grand parents, and all of those that suffered before us. We do not have to live in shame and be ashamed of what we have. We do not have to live in fear of stigma and judgment and misconceptions, but to do that we have to stop being silent.  You can not teach if you do not speak. You can not explain if you have no voice. We can not change the world by action alone. We have to open the conversation first. We have to be willing to lay it all out on the line and be honest. We have to stop saying that we are just fine when we aren't. We have to put down the paper dolls and toy trains and stop pretending. We have to realize that we are only forgotten and invisible if we allow ourselves to fade away into the darkness by accepting the stigma. By ceasing to speak out. By remaining willfully silent. We have to stop allowing the stigma to dictate our lives. We are not tarnished silver. We are not broken people. We are not crumpled paper on the ground. We are good, decent, strong human beings and we matter. We are valid and the only way other people will understand that is if we stand up and start talking about it. There is nothing shameful about asking for help. The is nothing shameful in standing up for yourself and there is nothing shameful in having a mental illness. 

That saying shouldn't be MENTAL ILLNESS LESS TALK AND MORE ACTION it should say MENTAL ILLNESS MORE TALK AND MORE ACTION. Because we deserve both the right to get better help and the right to talk openly about why we need that help. Without fear of judgment. Without fear or retaliation. Without fear of being misunderstood or discriminated against.

We all suffer. Some of us are more open about it, some of us are more private about it but none of us should suffer in silence. It doesn't have to be that way and it shouldn't be that way either. 

Neurotic Nelly

And So It Begins....

Often times when I talk about living with my disorder or my mental illness I refer to the fact that I have lived with this albatross for over thirty years. Sometimes, I am dumbfounded as I say it aloud and hits me like a barbell to the chest. I have dealt with this for longer than most couples stay married. If it were a career choice instead of a mental illness, I would already have payed into my retirement fund and be living off of it ( probably somewhere in Florida wearing hideous, dark blue denim, high-water pants with an elastic waistband, dark black wrap around sunglasses, and  that little old lady red visor hat old people wear in bingo halls). If it were a prison sentence I would probably be out by now (depending on my crime).  If it were calculated by dog years, I would have suffered for over 112 years. You get the picture...it's a long time.

I wanted to talk about how OCD has affected my life. How it has changed over time, the pain, the struggles, the frustrations of what I have gone through as well as the many different symptoms I have had, but I realize that it would take more than one post to fit thirty years of this.....mental haunting into words. I want to be honest. I need to be honest. This is not just my blog but my confessional. My priest. My window to the world that I look out from and I so desperately want to just let it all out. Hang the dirty laundry and let it dry. Release the haunting and be free to finally be brutally honest not just about the more "comfortable" symptoms most of us willingly talk about but also the really bad ones. The ones none of us share because it makes us feel dirty, bad, sick, and so very very alone. So, I am taking that first shaky step with wobbly knees and unsure footing with this first installment of how it all came to be, how it all began, how it all started.....And so it begins.

My first vivid memory of an intrusive thought was around the age of four. My sister and I were playing outside. She, being two years older than me was my only real source of all things worldly. She was my Tom Brokaw of the news department and everything she said was taken as truth. After all, she was bigger and smarter. She was six. She told me that when you swallowed; the food, drink, saliva, whatever turned into blood as it ran down your throat. I was horrified. I hated blood and just the mention of the word made me feel faint. I am not sure how I reacted right after she broadcast this bit of news to me, but soon thereafter I started having issues with swallowing my own spit. I was afraid it was turning into blood and it scared me. I also started washing my hands, excessively. To the point my hands were cracking and bleeding. I became aware of how things were "dirty feeling" or "tainted" even when they appeared to be clean. Then the thoughts came. The ugly scary thoughts that turned my insides cold as ice. They made my palms sweaty and my heart jump in my throat. They showed me images of my parents suffering and dying in horrible ways. Car crashes, house fires, random crazy murderous burglars.....the most vile and scary things a kid could imagine and I was afraid it would happen to my parents, my friends, my aunts and uncles...ect. It made me think about death and the death of my loved ones, my pets, my friends, myself. It terrified me more than any boogeyman lurking in the closet or monster under my bed. It was the monster that lived under my bed, but I carried it everywhere I went. It lived in the recesses of my brain. It dwelled in the corners of my mind. It played in the shadows of my cerebral cortex. It left me unable to concentrate on anything else but the fear and the nauseous feeling it left in the pit of my stomach. I started to pray until it became a mantra. A mantra I said exactly the same way over and over and over and over, every time these images would pop up. I said them with tears in my eyes. I said them with my tiny fingers jammed so far into my ears that it hurt, while screaming "Shut up! Shut up!" over and over again. I hated the voice in my head but I didn't realize the voice was only in my head. I thought maybe others could hear it too. I didn't know it wasn't normal. All I knew is that no matter how hard I prayed, no matter how much I cried, no matter how loud I yelled it never went away. It never ceased. It never stopped. I said the mantra so often that after thirty years I still remember it verbatim. Most people have wonderful playful memories of the age of four and all of the innocence and laughter. All I have is the memory of : No No No, No No No, No No No No, No No No.

Soon the "No No No's" didn't work anymore and I resorted to slapping myself in the forehead. The pain made the intrusive thoughts waver. The shock of the slap gave me a instant relief but not for long enough. So I did it again and again. It got to the point that I would bruise my forehead from hitting it so hard, so often. When my slaps became not hard enough to shock the intrusive thoughts anymore, I started begging, pleading with my mother to slap me in the forehead. "Harder, Mom it has to be harder or the thoughts won't go away."

She took me to the doctor and he suggested it could be Obsessive Compulsive Disorder but they weren't treating children for it at that time and certainly not children that young. He suggested that they not tell me anything about it or draw attention to it and maybe it would go away on it's own....it didn't.

The washing became not enough to quell the anxiety and fear. Now it had spread into things like counting. One, two three, four...... Now I have to start over again....One, two three, four. I don't like even numbers. Four is bad, I need three. Why is there four when there should be three.....One, two, three, four.....

And onto touching things to make them even. You touched that part of your right  hand on the dollhouse. Now you have to make it even. Touch it in the same spot with your left. No, that doesn't feel the same. Touch it again. Touch it again. Touch it again. Touch it again. Touch it again. Do you want your parents to die? Then touch it again. Touch it again. Touch it again. Touch it again......

And finally it spread into checking. Are you sure you shut the front door behind you? I can see that it's closed but how do you know if it is closed all the way? It could be just halfway closed but not latched. Is it latched all the way? Turn around and jiggle the knob. Okay it's closed but are you sure? What if jiggling the knob knocked the door loose and it isn't really closed? Better go check it again. You don't want it to be open and something bad happen. Check it again. Are you sure it is really truly closed? Check it again. I am not convinced it's really closed. You may have knocked it loose. Check it again. And again. And again. And again.....

I was four and this had become my new reality. Not the reality of my friends who rode their bikes and played with their Barbie dolls carefree, but my reality. A reality where even if I rode my bike or played with my Barbie doll's my mind was sure to trick me. It was sure to plague me. It was sure to punish me relentlessly over and over again. It was sure to remind me that I was responsible for anything and everything that could possibly go wrong. It all depended on me. The future depended on my ability to touch things evenly, count correctly, have clean enough hands, and making sure the front door was closed and latched all the way. My family's life depended on it. It was a lot to ask of a four year old. And it continued that way with the guilt, shame, and anxiety of all  four compulsions until I turned ten. Then it changed into something else entirely. Something much worse....I became a PureO.


Neurotic Nelly

Next installment: http://neurtoicnellyocd.blogspot.com/2014/01/what-it-became.html

I Already Own It.....

It happened again. I'm not sure why and I will never really understand it, anyway. It's above my pay grade or above my head or above me somehow in some way that I am unaware of.

 Sometimes I think it's me. Maybe they can't handle my problems. Maybe I'm too screwed up. Maybe I said the wrong thing. Maybe I'm not good enough. Maybe I am too needy. Maybe I am too annoying. Maybe this is all my fault and this is all I deserve.....And then I realize I am too good for this shit and maybe that person is just an asshat and it has nothing to do with me at all.

Some people for whatever reason, can't handle things or run away from things, or are just, in general, not willing to be an integral part of your life.  They can't stand to be needed or wanted or there, so the turn away. They simply turn away from you.

This can leave gaping holes in your life. Deep gashes that refuse to heal. Infections that spread throughout your life like poison.

My "real" father, excuse me as I try not to laugh at that phrase, didn't want me. Well, he didn't mind I was around, just as no one knew I was his. Something he still does even though he admits I am his to my face. It's just everyone else's face that seems to be the problem.

Then the man that raised me turned away from me as well. It wasn't a loud, sharp, noticeable severing of a relationship. No, it has been a slow withering, a soft dying away. No matter how hard I try and reach out, he rebuffs me. He denies me the simple words such as I care, I am proud of you, or even I love you. It is beyond painful. I take it in and hold it. I cradle the pain close to my heart like a newborn. I cradle it like I have all of those times before, the many bundles of agony that have come before this one. I weep and agonize and ruminate. In essence, I find excuses for their behavior or ways to blame myself. Surely, the fact that this keeps happening to me is somehow my fault.

And then I get angry. Because I am worth so much more than that. I am worth so much more than paltry excuses and blaming. I am worth more than being ignored or unaccepted. I don't deserve that treatment, no one does.

The phoenix rises from the ashes. The tigress walks out of the jungle, the anger builds, and my self confidence refuses to be dinged and damaged yet again because two grown men can't play like adults. Two men  that should have been there in my life, can't stop being selfish and rude long enough to do so. How the hell is that my fault?

Some people in this life are too wrapped up in themselves or are totally oblivious to what is going on. They are not able to be who you need them to be or to do what you need them to do. Some are unable or unwilling to give you what you need and you can sit around beating a dead horse to try and get it, or you can pick yourself up off the floor and move on. You can cry in the corner and blame yourself, or you can see them for what they really are, turn aways. Those that run at the first sight of trouble. Those that bury their heads in the sand. Those that flee when times are hard. Those that turn away from you when you needed them most.

I have to take a step back from the pain and remember that I do not define my self worth from others. I would like their approval but I don't really need it. I would like their love and acceptance but I don't have to have it. It's painful not to be loved or accepted or even approved of, but it doesn't make me any less of who I am. Of who I strive to be.

 I am strong. I am ferocious. I am fierce, loving, and good. I am sweet and kind. I am sensitive, honest, and all the things I was taught to be. I am respectful and funny and completely loyal. I am great. I am a great person, no matter my issues and sometimes because of them. Because I understand things in way other normal people might not. Because I keep trying even after I get burned over and over again. Because I refuse to back down, quit, or give up. Because I feel and I refuse to pretend otherwise or hide the fact. Because I love, I breathe, and I cry. I am me.

 It has taken thirty four years to get to where I am now, to who I am now. And I'll be damned if I let someone else just come in and try to destroy the very best parts of me because they "feel" like it. I have scrimped and clawed for every ounce of self confidence I own. I have fought and battled for my sense of self worth. I have earned every stitch of this brownie badge of courage in therapy, because I have delved and looked into the deep, darkened, black places in my soul, no one else dared to tread. I have built up my own self esteem brick by brick, layer by layer, year after year. And that does not depend on who likes me or who accepts me. It depends on if I like me and if I accept the person I have become. So you see, although it hurts when others turn away from me, I don't need approval. I don't need their love.  I don't need their acceptance to be whole or their opinions for me to have self worth. I already gave myself that. I don't need to base myself on the reactions of others because what matters is how I  feel about myself. I don't need approval or acceptance or self worth from others, I already posses them. I already own them. Sometimes I need to be reminded of that...Sometimes I just need to remind myself of that..

Neurotic Nelly

Exposed and Vulnerable

I am dizzy. The world turns on it side and my palms start to burn and become sweaty. My mind races but my thoughts are disjointed. Nothing makes sense. I taste the faint flavor of copper in my mouth and I realize I have been biting my bottom lip until it is swollen and bleeding. Noises, a pen tapping, pencil chewing, conversations, bird's chirping, car horns beeping in the distance, the the mechanical humming of the air conditioner, the television blaring all mingle into a glorious background noise. I see people in the room with me stare with concern on their faces. Their mouths are moving but all I can hear is a soft mumbling falling from their lips. My heart races. I only hear it's rapid beat and my shallow breathing becoming more and more labored. I feel like I am running but I can see my arms and legs as I remain stationary. The world is closing in on me threatening to swallow me whole and I feel as if I am drowning. Something warm and wet runs down my face and neck and pools at my throat. It cools as the collar of my shirt becomes soggy and uncomfortable. I feel puzzled because I can not seem to mentally connect with what is running down my face until I reach up and touch it and realize I am silently weeping. Then a haunting noise comes to the forefront of the mumbling background. It grows louder as I try to concentrate on it over my heart pounding and loud breathing. It sounds like a wounded animal whimpering in pain. I try to pick it out of the jumble of noise. I need to find out where the hurt animal sound is coming from. I need to find out what is making that noise. Then the realization hits me full force. The sound is coming from me. I am whimpering. I am making that noise.

I am having a panic attack.

When people hear the word panic attack they tend to roll there eyes. How bad could a panic attack possible be, they may wonder. It is hard to describe the uncontrollable fear that swallows you up and threatens to leave you lying broken on the floor. It's terrifying. It's a realization that you can no longer control anything. Not your surroundings, not your situation, and certainly not your emotions. You lose the capacity to think, the capacity to grasp what is being said or done, and worse still the capacity to function while you are in the middle of one. Usually there is no warning before you are fighting to regain composure. For me panic attacks are like walking around with a gaping weeping wound that is trying to heal. When a panic attack comes it is as if the scab is ripped away and my pain is bleeding onto to the floor. My dysfunction is laid out for all of the world to see. They can see my fear, my despair, and my agony. Instead of being able to keep these parts of me private I am displayed in public like a freak of nature. Like an emotional wreck of nerves and tears. Like a bad low budget horror film where the acting is par at best and the special effects are crappy. I feel exposed and embarrassed. Embarrassed that I can not control the fear inside of me before it pours out of me like a broken water dish. It splashes onto all facets of my life and I am usually angry after it does. Angry with my mental illness. Angry with myself for not being able to do what for others seems to be so simple. Angry that I exposed my inner worst fears again, in front of not just strangers but also the ones I love. There are some things even I would like to keep to myself and my blubbering,  snotting, and agony is one of those things. That being said, I realize that I have an anxiety disorder and panic attacks unfortunately come with that diagnoses. It is a fact that I will suffer from these occasionally and if put in a situation that I find to be very anxiety producing there is a good possibility that I will experience one. I can not change how others perceive me when I have a panic attack. It is not my job to make them understand. It is my job to work through the panic attack as best as I can and move on to better things. Learning to not be embarrassed by them is a little harder but I am working on it. Having a panic attack is not a sign of weakness. It is, however, a sign that I suffer from a mental illness and like everything else that goes with that, I just have to learn to accept that I may have moments were I am more vulnerable than I would like to be. I may have moments when I am not as composed as I wish I were. It happens.  All I can do is try to limit the amount of stress I am under. All I can do is realize that some situations I can not change and if a panic attack happens I will be okay after it passes. I just need to breathe. Breathe and let it all come out. Only then can I pick up the broken shards of myself I have let fall to the ground and start to glue them back together.

Panic attack symptoms for everyone are different. The only common symptom in almost all panic attacks is a rapid heartbeat and the feeling of not being able to catch your breath. If you happen to be around someone experiencing a panic attack, please do not judge them. They are not weak. They are dealing with something that is so frightening to them that their body reacts without warning. You need to take a second and realize that you have no idea what that person has gone through in their lives. That you have no idea what it feels like to drown from fear in a room full of air. You have no idea how scary it is when everything is happening to you but you are unable to process it. It is happening to you not with you and that is terrifying. So, take their hand and be there for them. Grab a cold washcloth and hold it to their forehead. Give kindness instead of ridicule. It is not easy to sit there exposed and emotionally eviscerated in front of everyone and know that some will laugh and mock you afterwards. That some will judge you after they have seen you at your most vulnerable. Be kind and considerate because you don't realize how strong someone has to be to still fight to have a life knowing that this will happen again and again when they least expect it to. It is not easy being the center of attention when you just wanted to go to the grocery store and get some milk, to the doctor's to get your check up, or your daughter's fifth birthday party in the backyard. We don't choose to have panic attacks but we do choose to live our lives in spite of them. That is possibly the greatest courage one could possess. That is possibly the largest display of strength ever shown.

Neurotic Nelly