Maybe Just A Little Bit......

Last Sunday was my thirty fifth birthday. My mom and I celebrated our birthdays as we have always done, together. It was nice and calming and the food was good. I got to visit with my grandma which is always a plus. She is so adorable and it got me to thinking....

If you listen to the media and how it portrays mental illness you would think that sufferers look different than other people. You might expect them to look crazy or scary. Dirty or aloof. Awkward or zoned out.

For instance you might think that people with depression look sad....or that people with PTSD look unhinged. You might expect people with Bipolar Disorder to look disheveled or manic....but the truth is that underneath all of the pain and emotional dysfunction and confusion, we are all only human. We don't have our diagnoses printed on our heads in big bright letters. We do not wear our disorders pinned on our sleeves for the world to see.

Look at this picture for example: this is my mother who is a wonderful human being that just so happens to suffer from PTSD, Chronic Depression, and Bipolar Disorder. 

You would never know by looking at her that these are her daily struggles. That sometimes just to get out of bed in the morning seems like an insurmountable task.

And this one: You might never have guessed that both of these people suffer from severe Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

That I suffer panic attacks and have medical and germ fears so badly I fight them on a daily basis or that she (my grandma) worries and obsesses about things until she gets so full of anxiety she cries. That we both avoid certain triggers that make us uncomfortable. That we both suffer from a tremendous amount of undeserved guilt and shame.

We look fairly normal. We look like the millions of other people that walk the earth. There is nothing in these pictures that show our trials and our struggles. We look like everyone else because in reality we are so much like everyone else. We just happen to have mental illness.

I grew up in a family full of strong women. Compassionate, loving, kind, but also fearless. Not because we were born to be fearless but because there was no other way to be and survive. We are women that have lived through abuse. We are women that have lived through mental illness. We are women that have fought for our lives and triumphed because there was no other option available and we are too stubborn to back down. 

I guess what I am trying to say is that depression doesn't always show on your face. You can be a smiling face to the world but be wounded and alone on the inside. You can be Bipolar and look like the neighbor that cooks out on Tuesday nights. You can be OCD and be the mailman that wears that funny little safari hat in the middle of summer. There is no "mental illness look". There are no physical traits that show our pain or our issues. We look like everyday people because we are everyday people. We just have different struggles to deal with.....

The media would have you believe that people that suffer from mental illness look like glazed eyed ax wielding murderers. They would have you believe that we look like kidnappers and boogeymen. They try and paint pictures of us that are neither helpful nor factual. We are not the thing that goes bump in the night. We are not the monsters hiding under the bed. We look like a thirty five year old woman and her fifty six year old mother on their birthday and their seventy five year old grandmother. We look like a beloved always smiling for the public sixty three year old comedian and actor. We look like soldiers coming back home from war. We look like doctors, and lawyers, and car salesmen. We look like children, and parents, and siblings because we are all of those things..... We look like other people because we are other people. We are just ordinary, regular, everyday people that just happen to suffer. We are no different and we are no less magnificent. We are still beautiful. We are still worthy. We are still lovable, courageous, intelligent, fascinating, purposeful individuals except maybe we are just a little bit stronger. A little bit more aware of the struggle of others and maybe just a little bit more compassionate about it.

Neurotic Nelly

Heartbroken....

Heartbroken. I am angry, sad, and lost.

I didn't personally know Robin Williams. I am not famous or in the movie industry. I am neither a comic nor a comedian. I am just a person. A regular person. An ordinary person. A person that can't yet fathom never seeing new a Robin Williams movie or hearing his comedy routines live or watching him ham it up with the latest talk show host ever again.

I loved Robin Williams. His humor, his energy, his fluidity of voice changes and characters. His references were both poignant and truthful. He had a way of making everyone feel like his best friend even if their only connection to him was watching him on the television set or viewing one of his many skillfully played characters at the movie theater. He illuminated the masses with his hyper and manic humor. He brought tears to our eyes with his heart touching roles. He shared some of his life with us. Some of the inner workings of his genius mind and he did it all while making us smile. He reminded many of us that grew up watching him, of our own beloved yet goofy family members. The crazy uncle that dances around and does funny accents and silly voices or the wacky aunt that jumps from story to story, each story being bigger and more implausible than the next. Everyone has one of those kooky relatives and Mr. Williams seemed to encompass them all but with more oomph and better fashion sense. His smile brought many of us comfort. We knew no matter how hard our day was or how sad we might be, that even the smallest of his jokes would change all of that. Even if for only a few moments, we knew that Robin Williams would make us laugh and we would feel better, and he did.

That is why so many of us were so terribly shocked that we lost him in such a profoundly devastating way. He was for many of us, a hero. Not only did he make us laugh but he was open and honest about many of his struggles. He had battled with addiction and wrestled with depression and he helped raise awareness of both of those issues every time he discussed them. He was successful even though he suffered and it made him a hero to a great many of us. He made us realize that we too could reach for our dreams even though we may have mental illness or addiction issues. For me he was more than an actor, comic, or funny man. For me and many like me, he was an inspiration.

Sometimes when others make us laugh we fail to see the pain behind their eyes. Sometimes we fail to see that laughter can hide agony and despair. I do not know why Robin Williams committed suicide but I do know how devastated his family and friends must be. I know what living with a depressed parent is like and sadly I understand suicide and the fear of it on a very real level. My mother tried to kill herself when I was ten years old. She suffers from among other things, bipolar disorder and chronic depression.

Depression isn't simply feeling sad. It isn't just being overwhelmed and lonely. Depression is a black whole that sucks up every important, valued, wonderful thing in your life and swallows it whole. It decimates and devastates. It leaves you raw and numb. It smothers your other senses so completely that it tunnels your vision until all that you can see is the pain and agony in which you have lived your life in. It is not just having a bad day. It is an exhaustion, a soul crushing exhaustion that pollutes every sense of normalcy in your world. It takes everything from you and leaves you desperate for any semblance of solace or peace.  Depression isn't simply an emotion, it is an illness and like all illnesses, it can and it does kill.

I think people are surprised by his depression because he was successful and famous. Because he seemed so happy and jovial. Because he had done so many things most of us will never achieve. But that just shows how little most people know about mental illnesses such as depression. Depression doesn't discriminate. It has nothing to do with money or fame. It has nothing to do with race or social status. It has nothing to do with gender, sexual preference, or one's religious views. Depression is a mental illness and as such it can affect anyone, at anytime, anywhere.

I actually read a comment implying that if he had known the love of God this might not have happened and I was sorely disappointed by the ignorance of that statement. My mother has always loved God...she loved God while she prayed...loved God when she went to church on Sundays...and my mother still loved God just as much when she swallowed a bottle of pills...one by one while hoping to die. She never stopped loving God, she just wanted to end her misery. To imply a loss of religion is the cause of suicide is not only folly and ignorant but dangerous as well. You can not simply wash away a chemical imbalance in your brain with prayer. It does not work that way... So it, in fact, does not matter what religion he may or may not have believed in or if he had or had not known the love of God. Suicide has less to do with one's beliefs and more to do with ending one's pain.

And I am afraid that people will judge him. Some will say snide remarks and ugly comments about his life and decisions or his belief systems. They will call him weak or cowardly. They will act as if they know what was going through his mind or that they would have ended up differently but the truth is most of them have no idea what that struggle is like or how deep the pain of depression can seep into your soul. There will be internet trolls and judgy misguided people with big opinions and little ability to understand anything but their own preconceived notions of mental illness. They will try and make his battle with depression something to be looked down on or ashamed of and that is wrong. His family doesn't need judgments and ignorance, they need understanding and acceptance. He lost his battle but that does not make him weak or cowardly. I am not advocating for suicide. I believe it is devastating. It leaves a definable scar on the fabric of your family that never fully heals. However, I believe that we have to stop demonizing those that have done it and understand that they don't do it because they don't love their families, or they are weak, they do it because they truly at that time are unable to see that there is any other way to end their suffering. They do it because they suffer from a mental illness that is often times overlooked, understated, and stigmatized by the public.

If this tragedy does anything to shed light on the issues of suicide in this country, than I hope it reaches people on a very real level. I hope that it can help end the ignorance and stigma that surrounds the topic of suicide and mental illness. Robin Williams was a wonderful person, a big hearted, loving, magnificent person and he will be sorely missed as will the over 30,000  other Americans that commit suicide in this country every year.  Their loss is a tragedy just as horrific and devastating as Mr. Williams's.  The discussion of suicide is swept under the rug or discussed only in hushed voices. We owe it to those that have lost their battle with depression and other mental illnesses to stop sticking our heads in the sand. They deserve our attention and their pain deserves to be discussed. Their lives deserve to be talked about and their suicides deserve to be acknowledged so that we can help others before they get to this point of despair.

Suicide is preventable. There is help. There are other options, better options, and until we start being honest about suicide in this country sadly, we will continue lose more people that could have been saved.

My heart goes out to the Williams family and all of his friends, fans, and acquaintances. My heart goes out to the whole world that has lost such a bright, intelligent, and magnificent man that they will never get to know....and my heart goes out to Robin Williams because his pain must have been profound and daunting and because as in so many other cases, we as a society failed to be open about mental illness like we should be and because of that we failed to reach him in time.


Neurotic Nelly

The Most Beautiful Heart....

I don't celebrate April fool's day. It's not so much as don't as it is can't.

I don't mind pranks so much. I like jokes even better, but this day is a source of pain for me. A source of loss. You see, twelve years ago my uncle's funeral was on April fool's day. And it hits me like a ton of bricks every year.

I wish I could say it gets easier each time. I wish I could say the sting is less pronounced or the loss is less evident. But it isn't and it's not and I refuse to lie to you....April fool's day to me is dead. It died with my uncle and it will never be fun for me again.

I am not going to write an post about how my uncle was a saint. He wasn't. He had issues and problems like everyone else. He had regrets and accomplishments. I don't want to canonize him and his memory because I think that somehow diminishes the man that he turned out to be. An amazing man. A relatable man. A man with passion and drive and a witty sense of humor. A man with the most beautiful heart.

My uncle was more like a father to me than an uncle. He walked me down the isle in my first marriage. He took me on trips to the carnival when I was a child. Since his name was Woody he bought me a tiny stuffed Woodstock from the Peanuts cartoon when I was around five.  He signed his name with the two o's in his name as eyes and the end of the y as the smiley face. He hung out with me and he gave the biggest back breaking bear hugs and slobbery type face kisses. He wore too much cologne and he loved light houses. He used to tuck me in when I would spend the night and tell me to not let the bed bugs bite. He always said I love you. He held my hand when I was nervous. He made me laugh. He scared the crap outta me when we were on the Ferris wheel and he would shake the basket and swear he wasn't the one making it move. He took me on my first roller coaster ride. He was a prankster, a complete unapologetic prankster and he was really good at it. April fool's day has always been his kind of day.

He was loved. Not because he was a tall six foot something, big redheaded man that had a small black poodle as a pet. Not because he would walk that dog with bows in it's hair or bandannas around it's neck down the street and think nothing of how absurd that looked to passers by. Not even because he never met a stranger or someone he didn't like, but because he was a unrelenting force of positivity, of support, of love.

You see my uncle grew up in the same house as my mother, and while he was not sexually abused , he was verbally and sometimes physically abused by his father. He turned to alcohol and drugs early on in his life and he had the same gut wrenching experiences that all addicts go through. Homelessness, prison, loss of family and friends.

I remember visiting him in prison and him bouncing up and down when he saw me. In my child's mind I thought it was because he was so happy to see me. As an adult I realize it was because he was coming down off of the high. There you have it. That was his life. Except it wasn't. My uncle, Uncle Woody, did the most remarkable thing. He got clean and sober and then he payed it forward. He joined NA and he went to the dances, he went to the outings. He went to every meeting he could. He became other people's sponsor and he helped them get clean and stay that way. He became a champion and he had no idea. He only saw it as he was helping those who suffered like he had. He helped my brother get clean. He helped my Aunt. He helped dozens and dozens of people. Each time giving a part of himself to them. Without knowing he was doing it. Whether it was his laughter or his support, Woody gave little bits of his heart to each and every addict he came across. He was so passionate about NA that he got the symbol  tattooed on his big toe. I asked if it hurt and he said emphatically yes!

My uncle and I shared more than I ever really thought about. The love of family, loyalty to friends. red hair, and OCD. We liked the same music. He cleaned with a gusto that would make a sterile room jealous. I dubbed his cleaning skills with the moniker "Woody clean". As in, "Well, it's not woody clean but it will do....ect". We even got our divorces in the same year and he helped me through that as well.

To know Woody was to know a man who loved life. Who supported those around him.  Who went out of his way to help those in need and to help people stay positive. He gave with all of his heart, every day to every person he came across. A man who forgave his father. Who reached out to everyone regardless of the things they had done in life. (Things I am not sure I would be capable of.)

More than anything he was known for his huge sense of humor and his pranks. Clawing at the window at night to scare my mom and aunt when they were teenagers. Having hidden water guns at parties to take out and squirt someone unawares.

Aside from that he was exceptionally gentle. He made a "pet" of a wild squirrel that lived outside his apartment by hand feeding it until it began to trust him. He loved dogs, especially poodles. He gave donations to many places, his biggest being to the 9/11 museum. When one of the steel pillars came to our city to sign it in support, I went not because I wanted to sign it for myself per say, but because I wanted to write Woody's name on it. He would have wanted that. And so I did. I wrote our names side by side. As did my mother and my grandmother....It was a bittersweet time.

It was ironic that the so full of life, prankster would have his funeral on April fool's day. Poetic, sad, appropriate...

He died of a massive heart attack on March 26. He was forty five. He never got to see my children. I think he would have been just as fantastic with them as he was with me. In fact, I don't think, I know he would have been.

He died because he had no insurance and had been just out of the hospital with MRSA which he got from work. He was diagnosed as diabetic. He was self employed and although he was doing well, the hospital bills from the last visit worried him. He thought the chest pain was nothing to worry about and that he would just see his doctor later in the week. He didn't make it....We only know this because he wrote down the times and how bad the pain was on a piece of paper so he could tell his doctor.

Written hauntings of a passed loved one. It still seemed he was standing right next to us as we read it. Heartbreaking. And infuriating as well. If only he had gone to the hospital. If only....

We are left with memories, pain, loss, and if only's, true, but we are also left with his ideals and his passions. His legacy. I don't know if he realized how much he helped change people's lives or just how many people he affected but we found out. At his funeral there were literally dozen's upon dozens of strangers. They all knew our Woody. They all had stories to tell. Beautiful heart warming stories of a man who was sometimes selfish but always selfless. A man who was so wonderful because he was imperfect and accepted that fact. Because he laughed at his faults and he acknowledged his past. Woody was successful not just because he was wonderful but also because he was relatable. He never forgot who he was when he was using and he never judged anyone that was using. He would just stand by them and offer them help and support. And if they let him in their life, he would do everything possible to keep them clean and sober.

And he touched more people than the people where he lived last...We know how many people's lives he changed in other places because of all the cards we received, the NA flyers they made in Texas for a makeshift memorial so they could say goodbye to him where he had first started, and from the mass amount of flowers. People we had never heard of. People we had never seen before. It was astounding and it was moving. This silly goofy and amazing man was magnificent and he never even knew just how magnificent.

A few months before his death he told me a story. A story that I will never forget. Something he had read somewhere or heard and I would like to share it with you.

One day a young man was standing in the middle

of the town proclaiming that he had the most

beautiful heart in the whole valley. A large

crowd gathered and they all admired his heart

for it was perfect.

There was not a mark or a flaw in it.

Yes, they all agreed it truly was the most

beautiful heart they had ever seen.

The young man was very proud and boasted

more loudly about his beautiful heart.

Suddenly, an old man appeared at the front of

the crowd and said, "Why your heart is not

nearly as beautiful as mine."

The crowd and the young man looked at the

old man's heart. It was beating strongly,

but full of scars, it had places where pieces

had been removed and other pieces put in, but

they didn't fit quite right and there were

several jagged edges. In fact, in some places

there were deep gouges where whole pieces

were missing.The people stared. 

How can he say his heart is more beautiful, they thought?

The young man looked at the old man's heart

and saw its state and laughed.

"You must be joking," he said.

"Compare your heart with mine, mine is perfect

and yours is a mess of scars and tears."

"Yes," said the old man, "Yours is perfect

looking but I would never trade with you.

You see, every scar represents a person to

whom I have given my love - I tear out a piece

of my heart and give it to them, and often

they give me a piece of their heart which fits

into the empty place in my heart, but because

the pieces aren't exact, I have some rough edges,

which I cherish, because they remind me of the

love we shared. "Sometimes I have given pieces of my heart

away, and the other person hasn't returned

a piece of his heart to me. These are the

empty gouges -- giving love is taking a chance.

Although these gouges are painful, they stay open,

reminding me of the love I have for these people too,

and I hope someday they may return and fill the

space I have waiting. So now do you see what true beauty is?"

The young man stood silently with tears running

down his cheeks. He walked up to the old man,

reached into his perfect young and beautiful heart,

and ripped a piece out. He offered it to the old

man with trembling hands

The old man took his offering, placed it in his heart

and then took a piece from his old scarred heart and

placed it in the wound in the young man's heart.

It fit, but not perfectly, as there were some jagged edges.

The young man looked at his heart, not perfect

anymore but more beautiful than ever,

since love from the old man's heart flowed into his.

They embraced and walked away side by side. 

That was my uncle Woody, a man with the most beautiful heart. I do not just not celebrate April Fool's day because of the pain and loss it reminds me of, I don't celebrate it because for me, it was his day and I refuse to celebrate his day without him. So instead of jokes and pranks, I reserve April fool's day for remembrance. The remembrance of a great man who changed not only my life but so many others as well. Rest in peace Uncle Woody.

Neurotic Nelly

Here's For Hoping Anyway...

I am back. Sorry for not writing on Saturday but I really needed the time off to reflect on things. Loss in the family, mental stressers, things I needed to do at home. This last week has been really trying for me. I have felt overwhelmed, sad, and a little apprehensive. My writer's block came back and well, I just decided to wait until I could form my thoughts on paper better. So I am back and I thank you all for being patient with me.


I am hating this weather. The ice and snow has made it almost impossible to do anything or go anywhere. The salt used to melt the snow is tracked all over the place, mainly through my living room. It is almost as if everyone in the world has stepped in rock salt and took a quick once over in my home. It is slowly driving me insane. I sweep. I mop. I vacuum. I sweep. I mop. I vacuum...you get the picture.

Then there is the dirty baseboards that are the thing of my nightmares. They are old and marred. Covered in decades of bad paint choices. No matter what I do, they refuse to clean up or even to remotely appear that way. I know that most people don't look at baseboards but I am not most people and I can't look away from their ugliness. It haunts me like a bad B movie.  It is just like a horror flick except instead of Freddy Kruger waving around his glorified razor glove,  it is a dirty baseboard flailing it's dented arms at me laughing in high pitched creaks and pointing at me accusingly.

 I am planning to fix my dining room into a formal dining room. Something that I have always wanted. A nice table to sit with the family and discuss the day over spaghetti and meatballs or homemade chicken noodle soup. A beautiful pace to have Christmas dinner and Thanksgiving at. A place that makes me feel proud and not embarrassed. You see, I have a tendency to only see the imperfections. I notice what others do not. I can not simply enjoy the meal I have with family when I see smudges on the wall or a dirty wood floor that is desperately crying out for carpet. I can't truly be present in the conversation if I am subconsciously thinking about all of the unfinished things in my home.

And it has become quiet a double edged sword. I love to design interiors. I love antique and vintage pieces, mixed with some newer pieces. I love bold paint colors and warm reds and soft grays. I love everything about designing a room in my home. And because I have OCD I get caught up in it. I end up ruminating on it over and over and over and over again. Do I want this paint color or this one? I search google for images of the look I want to achieve. I greedily read articles about whatever aesthetic I am going for. I am constantly obsessing over it.

In a way I find it helpful to have this as a distraction. If I am obsessing over paint colors and baseboards then I do not have time to obsess over intrusive thoughts. I am not able to think about my deep sadness of a loved one passing, or listen to my OCD trigger about germs and contamination in the middle of flu season. If I cant quiet my mind enough to sleep, I can go through every change I want to make in my house, in minute detail until I fall asleep. It allows me to block all of the bad and hold onto happy exciting things, like making the improvements I have always wanted to do.

Then again, my constant questioning and rumination over such minor things can be irritating and annoying to those closest around me. I can end up talking about the same paint colors ten times before I realize what I am doing. I can debate over which rug to use or where to place the furniture for hours. Because OCD is very much a disorder that just can't let anything go or let anything rest, I am almost always ruminating about something. It is the ravenous beast that must be fed constantly.

I am excited to start painting and fixing the things I have obsessed about fixing for the last few days. I can't wait to do it. I can't wait to see the finished project. In fact, unlike the negative things I have ruminated over, I find ruminating about these things quiet nice. I like to plan, after all, and rumination allows me to plan well in advance and in great detail. Being creative has always been an extremely important outlet to release my anxiety, my doubts, my fears, my emotional stability, and to create the peaceful moments that I so desperately need in times like this. I need to get my hands dirty. I need to change something around me to break up the monotony. I need to escape for a few minutes into the creative side of my brain and abandon the logical, hardwired, unforgiving OCD side of my brain. If only for a few moments.

I have been feeling so down lately. Not a depression, just a numb kind of acceptance. I am happy to finally be excited about something again after a week of feeling lethargic and hollowed out.  Excited that I am finally coming out of the fog and back into my original spunky self. I mean, I am still sad at the passing of my Aunt and am still dealing with that but I am no longer an emotional zombie walking around with my mouth agape and my eyes droopy with exhaustion from crying.

Tomorrow I paint, and then new carpet, and then new baseboards! Yay!!!! I am hoping that this excitement will help keep me away from the negative feelings and depression. I have already started to clean with a gusto like I used to. Which is a good thing, because you can't let yourself get too far behind living with four cats, a man, and two boys. That's a recipe for a cat hair covered, bomb of toys going off in the living room,  dirty laundry on the floor that failed to make it to the laundry chute kind of disaster. And trust me, no one wants that.... I am hoping that by replacing my sad ruminations or painful intrusive thoughts with ideas on how to improve my dwelling, it will help save me from the funk I have been in and keep me from plunging down the rabbit whole any further. I am hoping that a couple of  Valspar paint cans and this nifty and thrifty chandelier I found to jazz up the place, will help keep me occupied while I am at this vulnerable state. I am hoping the new carpet will allow me to quit seeing every imperfection of my unfinished hardwood floor. That new baseboards will let me finally concentrate on the things that matter most, like family. I am hoping that the antique dining table I got for a freaking steal will ease the worries about not spending enough time with my kids and husband. Ease the anxiety that we may have become disconnected somehow between all of the computer games and cell phone texts. That I can finally let go of the fear that I am missing out on their daily events because we don't eat together at a big table and talk, like I did when I was their age. I am hoping that all of these small improvements will make our house feel more like a home. Our home. And that we will feel peaceful and safe and at ease because we have taken the time to make it as comfortable as possible. Maybe it is silly to think that way. Maybe it is unhealthy to obsess over paint colors and carpet textures. Maybe it is, but then I would rather ruminate on something that doesn't involve me feeling tons of guilt for something I didn't even do, or can't help, or don't want; than on something harmless like house improvements. It may very well be silly. It may be odd. It may be just be the proverbial putting lipstick on a pig, but right now it is what is keeping me functional. You know, dreams and wishes, and what have you. Hope is a powerful thing. You have to have hope to dream. And having and believing in your dreams can get you through almost anything.

 Creating, designing, and crafts have always helped to calm me and keep me focused. I am hoping that this will do the same. Here's for hoping anyway....


Until next time,
Neurotic Nelly

Confession...........

I am not Catholic and yet I often times wish I had a wandering priest following me around so I could have someone to unburden myself from all of my constant guilty feelings. I feel the need to confess. I need a portable confessional, anyone know where I can get one? Anyone?

I try very hard to hold in the urge to confess my imagined sins. Intrusive thoughts that I would never act on and that horrify me. Something said that made me uncomfortable. The feeling that I may have inadvertently insulted or offended someone or said something that was bad about them. I can feel it rise up my throat like bile as it threatens to explode out my mouth in a wave of mass hysteria. The more I bottle it in the more pressure bubbles to release it.

Always the guilt. The dread. It bogs me down like wet concrete threatening to close off my wind pipe. I am weighted down. I am drowning in my own mind. I can't breathe. I need to confess. I might have said something that would be offensive. I need to apologize, I might have overheard something that makes me feel like I have done something to be ashamed of. I must let it out. I must let it go. I must be absolved.

.................................................................The voice in my head plays over and over like a broken record that suffers from Tourette's syndrome. It yells at me, randomly. It damns me. Guilty! Guilty! Guilty! Bad! Bad! Bad! Pathetic! Pathetic! Pathetic!

I feel bad. I feel like an evil, awful, terrible excuse for a human being. I must be reassured that I am decent. That I have not done anything bad. That I am not a bad person. That I am not lower than dirt. I go out of my way to be good but for my OCD it is never enough. It won't stop until I have called my absolver. I guess she is kind of like a priest except that she is a Southern Baptist, and a woman, and my mother.

It is so hard to openly discuss what goes through my mind. My insanity is overwhelming to some. I know that explaining the feelings I have of guilt, even though I know I have done nothing wrong, is hard for many to understand. Hell, it is hard for me to understand and I have been going through this for thirty years. I don't know how else to describe it except that it is a soul shattering awareness that your mind is often times your own worst enemy. That you suffer needlessly because you can not totally accept that what your mind tells you and reality are two different things. That you are not alone and yet at the same time feel excommunicated from the rest of the world. It's difficult and sad and frustrating.

To say I have an overactive guilt complex would be an understatement. I blame myself for everything. The eco system, what the neighbor said to me, world hunger, the fact that I can't work, the ozone layer depleting, the Pope's caravan driving down the wrong street. I realize that I am not responsible for these occurrences but I feel guilty about them non the less. I have so much guilt I could seriously share some with the rest of the world and still have plenty to go on myself. Overactive guilt complex wouldn't be the right term for me anyway, because that seems to indicate that at some point you don't feel guilty. Like you can have some days where you don't feel like you are drudging through a tar pit of guilt. That doesn't happen to me. I am always feeling guilty about something. Always.

So I confess. I try to rid myself of this warm, wet, suffocating cloak of shame. I try to save what's left of my day. I confess to my mother, sometimes my husband, occasionally my friends, mostly to this blog.......My personal confessional. My personal journey from out of the mouth of madness to the reality of what I go through looking back at me on the computer screen with the little blinking line patiently awaiting what I decide to type next. Sometimes it comes easily and sometimes I swear to God, I am pulling my teeth out trying to figure out how to describe what I am dealing with. Always afraid in the back of my mind that others will think I am insane......kind of ironic actually. Because I am certifiable. Not that I am proud of that fact but I have just recently decided to stop being ashamed of it. It is what it is. I can not change it. I can only keep getting better, stronger, and doing the best I can. I can only do what I can do. I can offer support to those that suffer the way I do. I can be an advocate, a mother, a wife, a daughter, a sister, and a friend. If that means that I feel guilty over and over again then so be it. I have to confess. I have to be honest. I have to open because I am incapable of being any other way.

So, this what the guilt of OCD is like. This is what it does to people. It makes them feel bad when they are the complete opposite. It makes them feel guilty when there is nothing to feel guilty over. It makes people feel lost and alone. Always second guessing. Always doubting. Always unsure..........


I hate OCD but I refuse to be shamed any longer because of it. This is my confession.

Neurotic Nelly

Crossroads

Yesterday, a local teenager went to school and shot himself in his home room class. As I write this, he is in critical condition. I have to wonder as heart broken as I am, what is wrong in his life that this seemed like the only option. I don't have to wonder very hard because I have been there at that crossroads before. I think many have. My heart aches for him and his family and friends. I pray that he gets better and the help that he so desperately needs. I sat there watching the news crying, not because I know him, but because I am a mother. Because at one time I was so very close to being just like him. Because there are so many who are like him and feel trapped and alone.

I was asked once why do I write about about mental illness. This is why. I believe that honesty is the only way to help others. I don't just put myself out there because I like to hear myself type, I truly believe that if we stand up and say, "I have mental illness", we are saving others. We are showing them it is ok to suffer from mental illness.That we can have good decent lives. We are not doomed to live in caves or asylums drooling on ourselves and banging our heads on the walls. That we are not dirty, shameful, dangerous creatures. We are like everyone else and we don't have to suffer in silence. There is help. I truly believe that we are doing the best thing that can be done. We are shining our lights on the stigma. We are shining lights on the pain and suffering.  We are guiding those that need us, to an enlightened truth. We are worthy and strong individuals. That there is a possibility of a different tomorrow.
There are so many ways to get help today. There are websites, communities, phone lines, doctors, hospitals, blogs, online references, organizations, and charities. There are movies and t.v. shows. Mental illness is no longer the dirty little secret, because we as those that suffer from it, are not going to allow it to be anymore. There is nothing to be ashamed of. There is nothing to hide from. We are so many and we deserve to be heard.
I was reading on TMZ that a famous actress was going to treatment for bipolar. I scrolled down to the comments and I was flabbergasted.  Out of the twelve comments, only two were negative. The rest were supportive and understanding. I was so proud. Not because I had anything to do with their opinions. None of them have read my blog or even know I exist.  I was proud because through all the hard work of those that suffer from mental illness and their organizations, people have listened and learned. It is a beautiful thing.
So, when I say we can change the world, I mean it. If we all stand up and are honest, people will learn. People suffering will get better.We can offer them hope when they are at the crossroads because we have stood where they stand. We have had to make a choice and we can help them to see the right one. We can offer something that others can not, promise. Promise because we are proof that there is a better path. That the fight is worth fighting. That we can and do live productive and meaningful lives. That we can still be what we want and we can fulfill our dreams. That we matter.
Promise of a future is what we offer to others. Will life be easy? No, but it will be worth the struggle. Will it be everything a person could want? It will be whatever we choose for it to be. Will it be different than normal people's future? Probably, but isn't different an amazingly beautiful thing?
We stand united. We stand for what is right. We stand at the crossroads and we are choosing. We choose for ourselves but also for others. We are going to be the examples of mental illness the world needs. Examples of strength. Examples of wisdom. Examples of kindness and compassion. Most of all, we are examples of honesty and hope.
                          Neurotic Nelly

Just be

 My mind is like a cavern with many rooms. Most of them are full of old junk, old memories, painful and stinging  The walls of each room are made of stone and plaster. Wood posts keep the thatched ceiling from falling in. Sitting in the dark listening to the quietness. It wraps me like a warm blanket and muffles out the world. I hear the dripping faucet and my heart beats in time with it. Learning to just be. Learning to shut out the world for a few minutes. Learning to just listen.
Learning to love yourself is like water dripping from a faucet. One drip at a time. One day at a time. One week at a time. One month at a time.
I have been sitting in this dark room for too long. I have started to get antsy and restless. I feel an itch and I need to scratch it. I have started picking at the edges of the wall paper to occupy my hands. I have torn off bits of myself a piece at a time. I am just trying to discover what is underneath. I am trying to learn what my purpose is. Trying to figure out what my worth is. We all go through this. We all hurt and want to staunch the pain. I don't want to just treat the pain I want to know the reason. I want to scream at the walls and force them to give me an answer. I want to peel off the wallpaper and see what holds up these walls? These walls inside my head. I want to break them down and touch the beams. I want to expose the dark secrets and recesses that keep me sick. I want to seek them out and make them pay. I want to learn to be still. I want to learn to be patient. I need to learn to just be.
 I have learned to accept many things. I have learned to love myself. I have learned to accept my mental illness. I have learned to always stand up and be counted. I am a fighter. I have yet to figure out how to stop remodeling in my brain. I always feel the need to take out the old supports and build new ones. Maybe that is healthy. Maybe that is what keeps me gong. Maybe tearing down the dark rooms in my mind heal me. I have no idea. I just know that right now I am in the mood to break something and savor the sound of it crashing to the floor. My rage notwithstanding, today I am going to build something pretty inside my head and tear down something ugly. I am going to tear down a room that is full of bad memories and pain and set them free. Stacked up like broken old suitcases thrown in there half-hazardly and forgotten or locked away so I could force myself to forget. I need to do some spring cleaning. I need to empty these rooms and clean them. I need to just be.

The Story of US

This is My truth. So this is your truth and this is the story of us.You were always two years older than me. Smarter than me, stronger than me, better than me, you always had it all figured out. And I always looked up to you. I learned from you.You had the prettier darker red hair. The first to get a perm. To drive. To wear makeup. To get boyfriends. The first to become a woman. And I always looked up to you. I learned from you.
We used to dance in circles singing silly songs. Dresses blowing in the breeze and our pony tails coming undone. Secret whispers in each others ears. Jumping in rain puddles and climbing trees. Playing dolls and coloring in coloring books. Sunburns and cold vinegar baths. Eating pickles and drinking the juice till our stomachs turned sour. Dreams, hopes, and secrets we shared. I wish we could go back to before the ground crumbled beneath our feet and we tumbled down to the earth like discarded rag dolls. Before we grew up. Before damage was brought upon us and we faltered. Before you flirted with the demon that plagues you. Before the sporadic phone calls with you taking a hit and talking rapidly hoping for me to judge so you could have a reason to turn away from me. But I never judged. I refuse to judge you. I have made mistakes too even if I never went down the road you did. And I always looked up to you. I learned from you.
I always wonder if my face is yours still. Maybe our eyes are still the same. Maybe today you will answer my phone call or texts. Maybe today I can feel whole again like when we were kids. Like when we sisters and not strangers. I can still see us dressing up in Mom's closet. Trying so hard to be adults. What did we trade being a kid for? Months worrying if you are ok. Are you still clean? Are you hungry? Has the demon come back to finally claim you? One more false promise of a few hours to forget your pain.
I never know where you are so I dream of us when time was kind and we were each other's everything. We were two halves of a whole. Now what am I? Doomed to walk around like I have lost something that I can not find. I have somehow lost you, and I never meant too. I have misplaced you and left you on the dresser like a painted knick-knack somewhere. Or maybe you have misplaced me. Maybe we have misplaced each other. It doesn't matter.
What matters is that one day the demons will come to claim you if you flirt with them anymore. That all of my understanding and non judgments can not change that. That you are trapped in a prison of your past and you are living in your own hell. You live so very far away and even if you were standing beside me you would still be to far to reach.That one day I will get the call from someone I don't know, and be told  that you have gone forever. That a gaping hollow whole will open up and I will never be able to fill it. I will never be the same. That I will never get over loosing you. That I will hear your voice when I talk and be unable to speak again. Because we have always sounded the same. I will never be able to face the mirror again. Because we have always been so similar. Because I didn't have the courage to beg you to stop loudly enough. Because I was afraid you would turn me away. Because I want to yell at you and beg you not to leave me alone. Not like this. Because I am trying to be you and be strong. Because I am trying to be you and be smart and better. Because I always looked up to you. I learned from you. Because I love you. Because I miss you. Because I will have no one to share a sister's secrets with. Because all I have left are fragile bits of memories. That I clutch them so tight I risk breaking them.They are fragile shards of glass and they cut me every time I look at them. The pain cuts me and I weep. And I always looked up to you. I always learned from you. And I always loved you.
                                          Neurotic Nelly

Letter to a Friend

Dear Friend,
Sometimes in life we falter. Sometimes everything seems to go awry. We are angry, confused, and  afraid. Can we live without this person? Can we function on a daily basis? Can we be anything but broken?
We fall from Grace like broken winged angels no longer able to fly.We are all the walking wounded. We have all been damaged. Damaged by our past, by others, by ourselves. Damaged by our choices, by our environments, by our refusal to accept ourselves. We bump into each other on the sidewalks never looking into each other's faces. Never bothering to see the other person stumbling along beside us. We are sometimes concentrated on our own lives so intently that we forget to see other's suffering. We limp along thinking we are the only one's hurting.
We walk along the lonely road shivering in the cold. Believing that we are not worth the time wasted on us. Believing that we deserve to suffer. Some of us have fought for our country. Some of us have fought only for our souls. Some of us have fought wars in our own minds. All of us have waged war against our beliefs. Against our personal truths. Waged wars in our own lives. Sometimes we loose loved ones. Sometimes the binds that tie us together are broken and we are left shattered on the ground. Sometimes we loose our livelihoods. We are left with nothing but the clothes on our back and no shoes upon our feet. Sometimes we loose ourselves. Leaving a stranger blinking back in the mirror.
I do not know why we suffer so, I am not a great philosopher.  I do believe we suffer to be able to accept joy when it comes. I believe that as the binds that tie us together get severed we are able to form new ones with others. I believe that this life makes us strong.
I can not be where you are. Our lives circle in different paths. That does not mean I do not see you. That does not mean I do not hear you. I have lived in the hell you are visiting for so long I chose the wallpaper. I hope you like blue butterflies and yellow stripes.
We are distrusting. We often feel invisible. We believe that nothing is given to us without expectations or strings attached. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop. To be pulled into something that will hurt us.
This letter to you is my offering. My gift to you. I only have one expectation. That you take my gift of friendship without fear or distrust.  You said once that you didn't think I was put in your life to watch over you. I am sure that is true but why are any of us put in anyone's life? Maybe it is to help you. Maybe it is to help me. Maybe it is to teach us something. I have always believed that people come into your life for a reason. To help, to teach, to befriend, to learn. I can not tell you what to do. What I can do is listen. What I can do be there for you. What I can do is never judge.  What I can  do is text you your positive truths. You are worthy of happiness. You are talented. You are beautiful. What you have to say is important. You are worthy of other's people's time. You are strong. You are a caring and amazing person. You are you and there is no one in the world like you.  You are my friend. The world would be a sadder more bitter place without you.  These are your truths. We are all the walking wounded and I am thankful that I get to stumble along beside you for awhile.
                                      Sincerely, Neurotic Nelly

Beautiful

People come in many shapes and sizes. We have different cultures. Different skin tones. Different languages. Different personalities. Different ancestries. The only constant in all of us is our differences. Some of us are well. Some of us are not. Some of us are strong. Some of us are followers. Some of us are funny. Some of us are more serious. All of us deserve respect and understanding. We are all beautiful.
If beauty is just in the eye of the beholder than I must have huge hands. I see beauty in everyone. Pain that makes us struggle is beautiful. It makes us who we are. Strong unbending warriors. Beautiful in our strength.
Compassion is beautiful. It makes us strive to help the broken. To help the fallen. The injured souls.
Anger is beautiful. It makes us stand up and say I will not accept this. I deserve better treatment. Or this other person does not deserve your mistreatment. It inspires us to change the situation. It inspires us to change.
Sadness is beautiful. It makes us hold onto our loved ones more tightly. It makes us search out how to be happy.
Truth is beautiful. It makes us look at ourselves and the world around us and admit that things are not perfect. That life is an imperfect glorious experience.
Beauty is not what we look like or where we come from. Beauty is how we treat others. How we offer a helping hand or a shoulder to cry on. Beauty is standing up for those in need. Beauty is ending the stigma of mental illness. Beauty is a smile. It is a touch. It is comforting words. It is wiping away a child's tears. It is offering a a glass of water to the thirsty. Advice to the masses asking for help. It is accepting that you are who you are for a reason. Beauty is hope. Hope for a better day. Hope for change. Hope for others. Beauty is love. Loving your family. Loving your friends. Loving yourself even as broken as you are. Beauty is falling down to your knees in despair and getting back up. Beauty is in a child's laughter. A old man's poems. A mother's lullabies. Beauty is in a gentle warm breeze. In a moment of silence in the middle of a field. Beauty is in everything that we experience. Beauty is in our differences. Our beliefs. Our reaching out to be better people. In reaching for our dreams. In reaching out to help lift those that need to be lifted. Beauty is the seasons. Beauty is the trees, the water and everything in between. Beauty is in all of us and everything around us. We are all beautiful.
                                             Neurotic Nelly