The blog “Living in Stigma” is now closed as of December 31/07.  No new enteries will be posted, therefore, no new enteries will be posted for this blog.   “Living in Stigma” accomplished what it set out to do, and that was to educate, provide newsworthy articles, share a little of the experiences with my own mental illness, and hopefully in some way prevent the mistakes that I made.

I wish to thank everyone who visited this blog, especially the regular visitors; you are all special.  “Living in Stigma” & “Cherished Writings” will remain open, and you are still welcome to view both of them and comment on any post.  I will still visit them both regularly and if you wish to contact me, you may leave a comment or via e-mail:  cherished-thoughts@hotmail.com

Thanks for your support.

Debbie (Cherished79) 

‘TIS THE HOLIDAY SEASON

I spent three Christmases in hospital; two I couldn’t even leave to go home for Christmas dinner.  Difficult to accept for all concerned, but I was just too unwell and they felt I was a risk.

So, three or four others and me sat in a gloomy dining room and picked at our ‘turkey dinner’.  Each dinner consisting of turkey roll, faux mashed potatoes, lukewarm gravy, a few veggies, stale roll and a packet of cranberry sauce and butter.  I did awaken to a gift planted on my side table; a decorative bag with some goodies, which I thought very sweet.

The Christmas year when permitted home, was only a two hour visit, and barely enough time to wolf down a holiday dinner.  As memory serves me, I believe we found a diner open and ate there; but don’t recall it being turkey.

Christmas mood in hospital was somber, the tree in the TV room stood virtually naked due to no string of lights permitted; a potential suicide attempt, only a few crocheted decorations placed sparingly.  Most patients were struggling greatly with this season; pressure put upon them with family holiday plans.  They tried their best to put on the façade of ‘smiles and cheer’, all the while they were drowning inside.  Who wants to even think of Christmas period?  For me, frankly, as far as receiving gifts I could have cared less.  That may sound ungrateful, however, when you are in such a state of blackness and hopelessness all that your mind can grasp is sometimes ‘nothing’.

I did have my family, but I was up to my neck in quicksand with this jail sentence called depression, and at my wits end at what to do.  The doctors; the profession that was supposed to rescue me from this ‘mess and pain’, didn’t do their jobs very well.  Here I was spending Christmas Day eating turkey roll off a styrofoam plate, while they would have ‘roasted chestnuts on the open-fire’ the night before, and carved a real turkey on Christmas Day.  Seems a trifle unfair, doesn’t it?

So, for this holiday season, just for a moment give a thought to someone who may be spending Christmas in the hospital.  That person deserves to be home looking at a brightly lit tree with some gifts underneath.  He/she maybe getting Christmas dinner in the hospital, but I can almost guarantee it will be turkey roll. 

Happy Holidays.

Deb

   I used to ask myself, practically every day during my illness; is this it?  What if I never get better?  Does it get any better?

Sounds pessimistic, but my history of recurring hospital admissions and medications that were ineffective, coupled with suicide attempts and unrelenting depression, didn’t illustrate a positive picture.  At separate hospital admissions, I was frequently greeted by the same bed, same patients and same nurses who knew precisely my medications.  Nothing changing; asking “is this as good as it gets?”

It’s frightening, and no one should ever have to endure this type of life.  Depression, for me, proved a nasty existence.  After spending months in hospital, then at last discharged, I would forever feel that I was one footstep away from hospital waters every waking day.  Always just a step away from hell; existing only on the surface.

And now I feel somewhat selfish.  I do have a new life now; but a life filled with stress and I feel overwhelmed at times.  Yes indeed, I have broken free from the jaws of depression to a degree, but now have taken on the next chapter after the illness.  Although I am not consumed with depression and suicidal pain currently, I now must mesh with people and mental illness stigma.  For me, hospitalization was a sort of incarcerated life; that of daily rituals of set meal times and social activities, lights out at 11:30 pm, and scheduled visits from family (friends were long gone).   Then finally discharge, after serving my “time”, which meant adjusting to home life all over again.

Depression tears your life into pieces of paper.  At different stages I had to piece them back together again.  It’s a very difficult life we live with mental illness, and all of us should be congratulated with what we have accomplished.  But to answer the question:  Does it get better?  Yes, it does, but (my opinion only) it’s not without sweat on the brow and a constant daily struggle.

  I received my 2 year anniversary pin at work last week, and for some reason things appear different somehow with me and my job.  I can’t believe I made it this far.

My two years working in a call centre Customer Service department has been a topsy turvy struggle, especially after returning to the workforce after nine years of illness.  The customers are very demanding to deal with at times and frankly they test my patience.  I wrote my “Brown Bagging It” series on the hunt for a job; and in hindsight, that was the uncomplicated part.  One of the chief obstacles was stigma in the workplace; for I lived in major anxiety of anyone finding out my secret living with a mental illness, yet at times I wished they were aware of my struggle each day.

Throughout the course of the two years, there were road blocks; a department reshuffle requiring training (a major challenge and upset due to a new computer system), adjusting to two new managers (one was fired), and now another reshuffle.  I do have problems coping at times, but it is now that I begin to feel differently as far as the mental illness issue is concerned.

I sense as if at the two year mark, that I’ve made my mark and shown the company that I am someone trustworthy, dependable and can handle what is thrown my way.  I will not holler from the rooftops that I have major depression, however, if word does leak out I feel now I will not fall to pieces.  And really, why should this illness be such a secret?  I did nothing wrong.  I know though, I would never disclose that I see a psychiatrist; my years spent in hospitals/institutions, ECT treatments, or tucked away in seclusion on suicide watch.  The general public will never grasp this; there will always be mental illness stigma. 

SITTING IN JUDGMENT

Who am I to judge someone?   Who are they to judge me?

Dictionary:  Judgment: the ability to judge, makes a decision, or form an opinion objectively, authoritatively, and wisely, esp. in matters affecting action; good sense; discretion: a man of sound judgment.

Stigma: a mark of disgrace or infamy; a stain or reproach, as on one’s reputation; a mental or physical mark that is characteristic of a defect or disease: the stigmata of leprosy.

In my opinion, judgment intertwines with stigma.

Why do we judge?

I have voiced previously about my personal experience with both judgment and stigma, in the instance of a family member.  Not long after my hospitalization with major depression, my brother-in-law severed ties with my spouse and me, fearing for his children (or so he claimed).  Each Christmastime thereafter my name was omitted from the Christmas card; only my spouse’s name appearing.  I did nothing immoral or sinful, yet I was judged due to my illness of depression.  That was a case of both judging and stigma of mental illness.

Riding the bus home last Friday, was a true example of judging/stigma. 

A very large woman boarded the already crowded bus, and of course, no one offered her a seat.  I was seated almost to the rear of the bus, aside this young woman.  Immediately, this woman turns to me and says “wow, she is huge, disgusting, you would think she would take better care of herself”.  I retorted back “who are we to judge?”  She gave me a very dirty look.  I also overheard insulting comments behind me about this woman, “imagine her poor husband”, and “she must eat at McDonalds four times per day”; unfair remarks.  Stigma and unfair judgment.

Who made these people judges?  It is unknown what is happening in other people’s lives.  Perhaps they lost a family member, maybe surviving a divorce, surviving mental illness or another illness.  Even if it wasn’t any of those, what affect is it having on anyone else’s life anyways?  Why would it be up to someone else to pass a comment?  What about them; are they so perfect?  I think not. 

The way I try and live my life is, and live by these words; if it doesn’t directly affect me, then why should I judge another person?

Many years ago, a friend of mine was going through marital problems, was married a few times, and her family all but deserted her.   I believe they felt disgrace due to this.  It was her words that forever stuck in my head, “who are they to judge me – this is not affecting them”.  There were no children in the picture.  It think it’s nosy, opinionated people most times, who have to have their say.  They judge, and criticize and hurt.  And they repeat this practice over and over, causing riffs in families or friends.  Do they have self-esteem problems?

I’m not an angel, for I have done it myself; but I try to be aware of it as much as possible.  I think it’s almost required to have an opinion, who would want to go through life and not be opinionated.  But when it travels outside that realm and leaves a trail of judgment and hurt; then it’s gone too far.

Try to be aware of it too.

  

Sometimes I forget me; parts of me that I can’t remember.

The lifelong effects of ECT graced its presence once again, while out during an evening with working friends.

I have been employed with this company for roughly two years now; the majority of my co-workers don’t really know me too well, and I prefer keeping it that way due to stigma.  A few ladies, whom I do spend my breaks and lunches with, however, chatter is mostly surface stuff.  By that I mean, “How was your weekend”, “did you see “Law and Order” last night”; you get the picture.  Nothing has seeped from my lips about my mental illness, nor my background regarding the countless years spent ping-ponging between hospital and home or psych hospital on suicide watch, or trudging through the muddy life of depression, etc.

I have spoken frequently in prior posts about my damaging experience with ECT, how it was completely detrimental, and I am still head-scratching until this day as to how these pdocs got away with granting so many.  In Will #54 Do the Trick is my depiction of the actual ‘ride’ to the ER to undergo another ECT.  Not one pdoc wishes to acknowledge the long-term memory loss as a side-effect; only stating “short-term”.  Strangely, the short-term loss is not that profound, as I can recall quite a few years of hospitalizations and the horrible feelings of major depression.  My journals are still by my side though.

Throughout the evening, a few of the ladies asked some ‘get-to-know-you’ questions of me – nothing nosy-posy.  “How long have you been married?”  I was able to answer that one; however, when asked to recount my wedding day, I tumbled into my world of blankness.  I had to rely, once again, on what my mother and husband had described over the years.  Similar with “Heard you lived out West, what sort of jobs did you have?”.  I am at an absolute loss for the answer to these questions.  I don’t recall my wedding day, first job, first apartment, or high school years or friends; not even some of the crappy ill, depressive years.  Blank. Blank. Blank.  It’s my cherished journals that I have kept faithfully over the years that have mostly saved the day.  Imagine where I would be without them.

So, I am fuming all over again at these ECT treatments that proved utterly ineffectual and shattered so much of my life.  None of them bounced me back from the depths of drug resistant depression at any time; all just causing major grief.  As for the pdocs, I would desire them to tolerate seventy-seven ECT’s and experience the anguish of memory impairment.

As for me, I have no choice but to live with old dog-eared photos that I cannot recognize, and listen intently to other people’s stories of what happened to me in my own life.   Angry; yes I’m angry.

When you first hear these words, you automatically think of losing your job.  I thought I would take it one step further and think back to some of the times I’ve actually been ‘fired’ in other situations.

I will begin with the career position.  The ‘firing’ took place during my first year, in what would be a slippery slide into the world of deep major depression.  I was employed with this company for five years as an accounting supervisor, however, numerous hospitalizations, months off at home recuperating and the return to work following, just did not pan out.  In the end, I was basically ‘fired’. 

As soon as they received the much awaited doctor’s letter, upon what would be my final office return, they shoved a severance package envelope at me, and escorted me to the door  This came after the “you were a valuable asset to the company”.  I was so ill back then, however, in hindsight I wish I would have fought harder for a better compensation package.

~~~~~~~

One of the saddest times in my life, was being ‘fired’ by my close friends.  Felt like a kick in the stomach.  I had four extremely dear friends, and during my first few admissions to hospital they would visit regularly.  When home on passes, we would get together for lunch, and chats; but as the years passed, so did they.  No phone calls returned and no more visits when further hospital admissions.  It’s as if they wanted no more to do with me.

It all fell back on me in my thinking.  I was the cause of this ‘firing’.  Maybe this; maybe that.  Maybe I shouldn’t of acted so glum-like, maybe not described what it really felt like to be depressed, maybe joined in on a joke or conversation or maybe I just wasn’t the old ME.  And then it hit me….why should I have to apologize for being ill.  An illness?  Apologizing for an illness?  What other illness would have you doing this?

~~~~~~~

I was ‘fired’ by a boyfriend, whom I dated for 3 years.  The bomb dropped after an enjoyable dinner out, and what I thought was a pleasant evening; although vibes were there.  But, everything appeared to be running smoothly in the relationship, then unexpectedly on the way home, the old “it’s not you, it’s me” blurts out.  Out of the blue, I was ‘fired’.  Sitting there in the passenger seat, virtually dumbfounded, I asked myself, “What the hell did I do wrong” in this relationship?

Astounding how everything automatically fell back to me.  In any event; I was ‘fired’, and never saw the guy again.

~~~~~~~

Now firing can work the other way; and now you have the upper hand:

I ‘fired’ a couple of my psychiatrists.  I’ve described these pdocs in previous posts.  The first I had for numerous years; an arrogant SOB, who had little time and I was getting nowhere with.  I’m convinced he really cared that I ‘fired’ him; he most likely doesn’t even recognize I’m not even a patient of his any longer!

The second pdoc fell asleep on me during our second session.  I did take this personally at first, then thought – no – he is the one with the problem.

~~~~~~~

And lastly, for a point in time during my illness, when the blackest, muddiest moments of depression would not let up; I believed life had ‘fired’ me.  I felt adrift, discouraged and very suicidal.  Suicide is not the answer, however, when you are able to actually touch the black, depressive fog between your fingers; you identify that death is nearby anyways.  So many days I would ask myself, “What did I do that was so wrong in my life to deserve this black life of depression”.  Life’s ‘firing’ is the worst ‘firing’ of all.

I feel so lucky that I am in a state of wellness now, and recuperated and healed from my mental ‘firing’.

I wrote in earlier posts of my childhood sexual abuse; very much a ‘dirty little secret’.

Recollecting my past, namely at around eight years old, my friends and I would be playing in our yard and the predator next door would be sitting on his balcony.  I felt frightened for them and me, and wanted so much to convey to my friends of the abuse, yet at the same time felt bewildered.  I had a secret; an ugly little secret, to something that I didn’t cause – or did I?  There was that painful apology that I was forced to blurt out and recite with sincerity.  That sincerity was met with confusion when I wondered how I wronged in the first  place.  I had all kinds of feelings; guilty, helplessness, and I was ashamed.

A 30 year old man forcing sex on a six year old.  Would that warrant an apology?

Confusing also was still allowing this predator into our home for Sunday dinners.  Seated across from him, I would stare down at my supper; my stomach in knots.  Most times I felt like spitting out the food and vomiting, or just yelling my brains out, but, I was a noble little girl and sat silently.  That was the problem, I was a good little girl and kept this ‘dirty little secret’, not breathing a word to anyone.

Later, even in high school, I never told anyone.  The memories faded slightly, however the signs showed with unexplained suicidal thoughts and bouts of depression.  I felt shame and dirty and betrayed.  The secret showed its facade in my personality also; I consider in clinical terms a “C” Cluster type personality.  Sensitive, with lack of confidence and worse of all, never believing you’re good enough; always looking at what I was, and not what I could be.

Years did pass, then unexpectedly the flashbacks.  Triggers; smells, sights sounds.  Into therapy, which wasn’t the wisest idea.  This was to start the ball rolling on a new life; a black, muddy life spent the better part in hospitals, followed by suicide attempts, and a myriad of medications.

2007

Even though I went through the therapy ‘mess’ and the hospitalizations, I have returned to work and am more confident than I ever was.  At times I sense they are fearful of me at work, as I tell it like it is!  Maybe I am healed to a degree, and that has made me stronger.  It’s unjust that you have to journey through this process, but to grow and discover who you are, sometimes you have to.  It’s not fair, none of this fair.  Any of us who have travelled through the therapy route to conquer their demons; we shouldn’t have had to, plain and simple.  That was a crappy set of cards.

I am now a “survivor”, although I sometimes fall into the “victim” feeling category. Trust was and still is a gigantic issue with me.  But, no more ‘dirty little secrets’ for I did nothing wrong; I comprehend that now and everyone out there who bears these secrets; YOU DID NOTHING WRONG EITHER.

Do you harbor some resentment?  I hate to confess I do; feel some kind of character flaw in me feeling this way.   I feel embarrassed even speaking about it to a degree.

Wikipedia:  Resentment is an emotion of anger felt as a result of a real or imagined wrong done. Etymologically from “ressentir”, French re-, intensive prefix, and sentir “to feel”; from the latin “sentire”. The English word has become synonymous with anger and bitterness.

Resentment can occur from any situation. Although some people’s resentments are deep-rooted, the greatest examples are that involving a work situation.

I recollect years ago, another woman and I were up for a similar position.  We weren’t chummy friends; so that didn’t enter the picture, however, we did work closely together.  Both of us shared the same qualifications, and I set myself up that I was going to get it.  Well, guess what – I didn’t.  You know that feeling when they ultimately drop the bomb, and in retrospect I was so annoyed at myself for sitting there meekly accepting my loss.  I was seething with resentment.

Other examples are from people who have made commitments to you and not followed through.  In some ways I would resent the fact of being let down.

I feel resentment = bitterness = anger.  The anger I hold on to from my childhood eases somewhat each day, but it still leaves remnants to a degree.  It’s really resentment.   And I’ve come to the realization that this resentment towards the people I am angry with; has little or no affect on them.  Easy to say; but what is the point of all this?  Letting go of resentment is easier said than done, but is of benefit for you and not the other person.

Hurt and blame enter this also.  Those are hard to rid of and put into the garbage can too.

These are really challenging issues for me.  I have dealt a little with these topics in therapy before.  I am dealing with other issues in therapy currently (job stress), but I will be attacking these sometime soon.  This partially plays into my problems with mental illness and depression/bipolar. 

I just thought this an interesting topic.

   

 

WHERE YOU WOULD BE IF IT WEREN’T FOR DEPRESSION?

I’m stealing this question from a member of “Mental Earth Community”; a forum I belong to.

My answer:  I have wondered and thought about that many, many times over the years.  This illness catapulted me into a life of depressive despair, loneliness, hospitalizations; loss of so many things, including me. 

For one, I absolutely wouldn’t be employed in the profession I am in now.  Customer service somehow chose me, and with such a lengthy absence from the working world, I believe this is perhaps the best that I can do for now. 

I would have continued with my career in accounting; a career I was satisfied with as supervisor of an accounting department.  Living on a comfortable salary and jetting off to a balmy climate twice per year, was basically a routine.  Peculiar how this is all taken for granted when you have it, thinking nothing of a vacation.  We haven’t been on a genuine vacation in so many years.

We never had children, so our money was all ours.  When disaster struck and I became so ill and lost my job, we had to hang on almost two years for disability to kick in from the government.  You discover very swiftly to become thrifty.

I wouldn’t be on all of the medications I am now.  I do take meds for other things, but not the costly psychiatric medications.  But, they ‘saved my life’ so to speak, and I have been on the road to wellness for over four years now.  What is more important?

I imagine I would be in the writing field in some sort of capacity.  It has forever been a passion of mine, even in my youthful years, jotting daily in my diaries.

If not for depression and my illness, I don’t suppose I would be the compassionate, understanding, and accepting person that I am towards others now.  I have a great deal of patience when speaking with anyone who is struggling with mental illness, or any illness for that matter.  I also have such thirst and hunger for knowledge on this illness, and if not afflicted, I would never been prompted to research.

I do have days of frustration, regrets, and tears – but that’s to be expected, I suppose.  We must forge onward and be strong.  We’re in this together, you and I.