While you are watching classic 80’s horror films this weekend and eating your children’s candy, notice that most of the movies involve asylums. When the characters’ accounts of evil deeds and supernatural encounters are disbelieved, they end up in psychiatric facilities where they are deemed “crazy.” Please know that these depictions are far from the truth. People are afraid of the unknown, so they create stories that feed the stigma of mental illness. There are no “crazy” people, and the ones suffering the most are in need of help, not fear. We are not the bad guys.
“I am going to run, and run, and run, and never stop.”-SJB at 2 years old
There are many solid reasons for treating psychiatric disorders with medication. Many people couple this approach with talk therapy. Accepting your need for assistance, you have options. When I was hospitalized, I decided to venture out and try my hand without medication. It led to months of confinement and suffering.
If you watch television, you may have witnessed advertisements about several different solutions. Toward the end of the commercials, the fine print is read very quietly, and quickly. These are the side-effects.
Years ago, I developed a rare side-effect titled ocular gyro crises. This is difficult to explain, so it persisted for quite a while before anyone knew what I was describing. I lost control of my eyes; the path in front of me was without view. My eyes traveled up; it was impossible to drag them down, despite my desperate attempts. This happened most often when I was running. I was captain of my high school cross country team, and when I tried to spell it out for my coach, he told me to drink more Gatorade.
Finally, I visited my psychiatrist. He recognized the symptoms but had never witnessed this phenomena. He referred me to a neurologist. This doctor confirmed my psychiatrist’s theory, but had not seen a case firsthand. The first neurologist referred me to another, who specialized in eye movement. He had only beheld nine cases in his whole career. I was prescribed medication to counteract the side-effects from another.
My most disappointing memory will haunt me forever. Cross country regional meet. I was sure to come in second place; it was expected. Pushing toward the final stretch, my eyes betrayed me and I couldn’t focus. It affected my speed and concentration. I finished third. It was my last race, and according to myself, I lost.
Understand that all medications have potential side-effects, but you must weigh the pros and cons. The medication that caused these side-effects also keeps me stable. Pay attention and make your own decisions based on your specific needs. Many side-effects will not occur; others are hard to live with, but sometimes the alternative is worse. Medication is not for everyone, but I learned the hard way that it is essential for my existence. With prescriptions and many years of therapy, I would say it is worth the risk. Psychiatric disorders must be treated delicately, with time and patience. This is a daunting task. I recommend research with or sans medication.
In my life, running was akin to breathing. Over time I suffered knee injuries and stress fractures, but the ocular gyro crises ultimately caused my final breath. Coach told us never to let up when we got to the top of a hill. We had the advantage because most everyone else rested atop the summit. He told us that we had not run hard enough if we finished without expending every single bit of our strength. Push. Kick. Finish hard. I am no quitter. My legs and my eyes may have stopped running, but I never will. This life is challenging. Side-effects are possible, but stability is within reach.
In 1999, when I was twelve years old, N*SYNC was my favorite boy band. I listened to their albums every night as I fell asleep.
On their “No Strings Attached” disc, there was a particular song that resonated with me. “This I Promise You” was on repeat frequently. Within this song, a phrase haunted me for years. “The one you should call was standing there all along.” Throughout my childhood and early teens, I scoured my surroundings searching for the boy who was “standing there all along.” Decades passed, and he never showed up.
In February of 2015, I moved to a small town in north Georgia. Shortly thereafter, I was contacted by a local gallery owner wishing to display my artwork. He gave me a tour and then introduced me to his son in passing. I found him attractive, but did not see him again for a while.
In 2016 I joined my church softball team, having never played a game in my life. I was branching out. On the second day of practice, one of the players batted the ball and it connected directly with my face. My teeth did not fall out, but they penetrated my face and my jaw was broken. I had oral surgery and wore braces for eight weeks, no solid foods.
I returned to the art gallery in 2016 after I had fully recovered. I rediscovered the attractive man I had not seen for such a long time. We became good friends, and I developed feelings for him. I often visited him at work under the rouse of finding the best pair of earrings, as the tree was located between us. For a while, he did not pick up the signs of affection I was laying on thick. Over the course of many months, I began to realize that no special boy had been “standing there all along,” but I had been standing there, waiting for him. Finally, I confessed my feelings for him. Much to my relief, he felt the same for me. He was worth the wait. We built a strong foundation on our close friendship. After years of dating and parenting a dog, our relationship was solid. We got married on October 10th, 2020. “This I Promise You” was our first dance song.
It was the best day of my life, and many have followed. Three years later, he still makes my heart flutter and I cannot kiss him without smiling.
“Hi! Hello! I thought this was a lunch date. Why are you texting someone else while I wait for your attention?”
“Oh, sorry! Just a minute.” Continues to ignore friend and focus on screen. Food arrives. She puts the phone away. It seems her priorities are her private texts and her rumbling stomach.
“`
What is the point of dining together when you aren’t present for the person sitting across the table?
This is a situation I witness frequently. Couples spend date nights in nice restaurants, constantly on their phones, one oblivious to the other who is equally disengaged. They surface only to share the fascinating discoveries in their news feed.
Children have been playing video games for many years. Some parents are happy to hook their children to the television screen for a bit of peace, and many do not limit screen time. Kids today are pumped full of technology so sophisticated that some lose the ability to imagine, to play, to form plans of their own.
When I was little, I was rarely inside and it was glorious. On a nice day, it feels like a crime to stay indoors. Take a child outside and ask them to play. Many do not know how to climb trees and run through the woods, go swimming in a cold river, or get muddy on purpose. What a loss. There are television shows teaching kids how to play with toys, to speak with their voices and move them around creatively. It saddens me to realize that the days of manual play may be becoming extinct. Many teenagers today are glued to social media, and cannot part with their devices. They do not remember dial-up.
I worry that we have lost vital social skills, hiding behind the rising walls of technological evolution.
Technology has been helpful, and occasionally life-saving; it has been shaping the future from the start. It has also been detrimental.
When was the last time you asked a person, “Hi, how are you?” and waited for a response? Who asks a stranger where to find peanut butter in the grocery store, or talks shop with the person behind them in the Starbucks line? Does anyone remember eye contact? We have been forced apart for so long that we have distanced ourselves from each other in more ways than one. We are isolated and emotionally estranged. I have found that personal connections are preferable without a screen between. I imagine I was not the only kid who built cereal box boundaries between her sisters at the breakfast table. How quickly we laughed and let them fall away. The cereal boxes of today pull us in and do not surrender so easily.
Look up! Observe your surroundings. Open your eyes and experience “real life.” When we strive to capture a moment through the lens of a camera, we waste valuable human connection. We do not truly experience these moments in our struggle to retain them permanently. The photograph may last longer, but will you ever see it again? You missed it.
It’s six AM already. Again. Your hair is a mess and there’s no time for a shower. The line is six persons long, and you are last. You are in a hurry, and need coffee to take the edge off. These people are obstacles. The espresso machine is down. Great. Traffic on the way to work is jammed and you are stuck in a hot car next to someone blasting their music like everyone else is enjoying their noise. You are late to work and on your race to the office, a butterfly collided with your windshield. You feel like crying. A friend bought lunch, the rest of the day went smoothly, and you got off work early. Yet, your day was tainted by your morning. Lack of sleep left you drained; you worked like a zombie, and thought about your bed every half hour. When asked if you had a good day, you have to think about it. The bad parts of our day tend to linger in our minds.
Bad days can begin happy and take a turn for the worst…
Imagine that your mood is directly related to one daily goal. Making a sale. You wake up leisurely, stretch, shower, eat breakfast at your favorite coffee shop. There is no line. You have time to sit. You ride a bike to work, so you don’t have to worry about traffic. The weather is perfect. This is a beautiful morning, the start of a wonderful day. You work in retail, and your job depends on customer service. Sometimes you make sales all day and ride your bike home with a triumphant smile on your face. Today, you make no sales. When you arrive home, your wife knows you are grumpy because you made no sales. This has ruined your day, despite your pristine morning.
When we examine the small details we hold dear in our daily routines, we realize how trivial they are in the big picture. If a wrench is thrown in your path and your day collapses, understand how very fortunate you are for this one bad day.
Bad days are inevitable, as are good days. It is important to be grateful for both. Without darkness, there can be no light.
Next time you have a bad day, remember that a good one is around the corner.
Upon committal to a psychiatric ward, there are sacrifices beyond freedom: No personal items. No choices. No colored pencils. No jewelry, shoe laces, or draw strings. If you want to retain certain articles of clothing, you must weigh their value against your attachment to the strings.
Such was my life for six months, ten years ago. Doctors told me that it may take a couple of years for my brain to heal from this trauma, but how very wrong they were. I am followed by details. They cling to me, as I reminisce in waiting rooms. Nostalgia floods my senses and memories flow through me in strange pieces. These feelings are impossible to explain. Every time I step into a hospital I run the risk of witnessing a stretcher rolling past with two orderlies, a ride so familiar I can almost taste it. The scent of hospital food causes waves of anxiety, crashing through me like spikes of adrenaline. I remember how the staff sometimes passed out menus, allowing us the illusion that we had free will, then serving us nothing we desired.
When I was little, I frequently experienced ear infections. My mom and I often visited the emergency room for this reason. It was an exciting adventure to leave the house in the middle of the night, and while I waited my turn I rummaged through my mom’s purse. She carried many interesting and seemingly irrelevant items everywhere she went. I suppose the candle stick was in case the power went out and the flashlights were low on battery.
After these appointments, we would head home; Mom attempted a return to the realm of dreams. I loved wearing the hospital bracelet and kept it on for as long as possible, feeling special and important. Oh, how the tables have turned. Now, having worn that bracelet for months, it feels like a handcuff.
Several years after the age of two, I have come to the conclusion that whether or not I wear the bracelet I am tethered to the place I try so desperately to forget. Leaving, escaping, moving on, I will always have strings, but they loosen with time. I hope that in my future, these strings will be easier to cut than the ones I surrendered from my favorite sweatshirt.
I woke up sleepy and disoriented, on the top bunk above my little sister, Jessica. It was early, barely dawn. My confusion subsided as excitement enveloped me; I realized why this day was special.
My parents weren’t home, but my Granmama was watching over us in their absence. We did not hear them depart last night. Jessica, on the bottom bunk, gasped in surprise and pleasure as she awoke with two new stuffed animals. She was ever so thoughtful, delivering mine up through the small space between the bed and the wall. Granmama entered the room; we got dressed and headed to the hospital, eager to welcome two new sisters into the world.
After we had washed our hands and donned child-size hospital gowns, we entered the room with broad grins spreading across our faces. Mom had been quite full and now she was elated, exhausted and empty, the contents of her womb being held by her two older daughters. They were beautiful, fragile, so perfect I could cry. Jessica and I had been awaiting two babies, so she asked,
“Which one is mine?”
Mom and Dad told us we would have to share. Amy and Kimberly. We loved them before they were born and they had finally arrived!
~~~
My three sisters and I share a bond I have not seen elsewhere. Throughout our childhood, we laughed, cried, and experienced joy and pain together; growing closer with each passing day. We love deeply; we hug so tightly we border on squeezing each other to death. Never have we found truer friends.
Kimberly and Amy filled our family tree with rare flowers. They introduced mirth where there was space to grow. My little sisters fused us, and our puzzle is complete.
Those girls are no longer babies, but beautiful, intelligent, kind young women. Both driven, they have grasped life and carried it with grace. Many lives are brighter in their light. On the day of their birth, every day of their life, and always, I am so proud to be their big sister.
In the beginning, I was a quiet, shy child. My life was happy, but sometimes I wasn’t. I had few friends to confide in, though my parents were loving and my sisters were kind. I bottled up some of my feelings and shared my private thoughts solely with myself. She was the entity I talked to more than anyone else. Years later, myself answered me. This was difficult to understand, but there she was. I did not hear myself with my ears; the voice was inside my head, but I was not conjuring these words. Confused, I had a panic attack. Seemingly, my thoughts were not my own.
Everyone talks to themselves in some form, whether or not their questions are rhetorical. My voice tells jokes when I am stressed and in need of comic relief. She makes suggestions when I require guidance and keeps me company when I am lonely. Where there is fear she chases it away, tail between its legs. When I am lost in thought, she finds me. My voice is comforting.
There have been more voices as my disorder has progressed. Sometimes it gets busy in my head, which makes it hard to concentrate.
Some people think this is the very definition of “crazy.” For me, it’s normal. Voices can be negative, and I understand the urgency to push them out; in my life, voices are treated like a disease. I am supposed to rid my mind of their presence, but I enjoy their company. Though I have pruned the intricate spaces of my brain garden, my most beloved voices are never truly gone. I have embraced this part of my disorder. As long as my voices are harmless, I see no reason to banish them.
Often, I wonder if the close-minded among us will ever pull their heads out of the sand and make an effort to understand psychiatric disorders instead of feeding lies to the general public through media and word of mouth. The stigma expands and ignorance is passed through generations. I long for the day when mental illness is widely accepted, detached from unnecessary shame, no longer kept secret: the day when stigma disintegrates.
Alone we are fearful of a fate we cannot control. Together our voices can overpower the quickest of sand.
My husband owned and managed an art gallery for many years. When my books were published, they were available in the shop.
“Remember Who You Are: Defining Yourself Despite Your Mental Illness”
Some people looked on with curiosity; others bought copies; many had ideas on how to publicize my books on a grander scale. A few customers made derogatory jokes to one another. “We should buy this for your mother,” a woman whispered to her husband, suppressing a laugh.
One customer surprised me.
I left the gallery to retrieve lunch one day, as per usual. Upon my return, my husband recounted a conversation he’d had with a woman in my absence. She was bothered by the title of my book, voicing her opinion that it may be insulting and should have been expressed in a different light. At the time I was offended and confused, but I was so greatly intrigued that I think of that encounter often, to this day. I have considered many possibilities for her reaction and settled on this explanation: Illness suggests frailty and weakness; something is wrong. In truth, this is not a communicable disease, but an invisible life-long struggle. This is neither frailty or weakness, but fortitude.
A “psychiatric disorder” is another way to phrase “mental illness.” This title leads society to rip these words apart and see only “psycho,” which is a whole different ball game. I cannot be certain, but I think “Remember Who You Are: Defining Yourself Despite Your Psychiatric Disorder” just doesn’t roll off the tongue so smoothly and could turn many away, judging a book by its cover. Separating “disorder” implies a constant state of chaos. “Mental” is often interchangeable with “crazy.” These adjectives are cast about casually, without thought of their weight.
The key inappropriate word in this title is “despite.” Remembering who you are includes your mental illness. You are not defined by your disorder, but it is a piece of your puzzle.
Though I will continue to wonder how this stranger would title my book, I think we can all agree that the point here is to embrace every part of yourself as you…
When I was an infant, my father attended seminary in Virginia. He graduated an Episcopal priest three years later with Mom, another infant, and a three-year-old in tow.
We migrated to Georgia, where Dad catapulted straight into the profession of head priest of two small parishes simultaneously. Most graduates tend to slowly rise from Deacon, Assistant Priest, and a few years later become head of their own church.
My dad skipped all of that and dove head first.
I grew up in a tight knit, two-parent household with three little sisters. Open lines of communication were “normal” for us. We had regular family meetings where we “passed the stick,” each member taking the floor while holding the stick. We rose into adulthood with a clear sense of how to solve problems without violence.
As a preacher’s kids, my sisters and I had an important duty to uphold. We must keep one secret from everyone, no exceptions. This task was difficult, especially for kids no older than six years.
When we planned to move away and join another church, we could not let that secret slip to anyone. If the church discovered this secret before Dad was ready to reveal this piece of information to the whole congregation, many problems would arise. We could not tell a soul, not even our best friends.
In the second grade, I sat next to the same boy at lunch every day. He would trade me his roll for my corn.
I got the better end of that deal, right?
During that time in my life, I had issues with texture and constraint in the clothes I wore, so my wardrobe was free of pants, elastic, tights, etc. Only loose dresses and skirts. My shoes always clashed, and sometimes my socks matched.
One day, for reasons unknown, I wore a pair of denim shorts to school. Aforementioned boy shouted across the cafeteria when I walked in, “Samantha is wearing pants!” It was big news. Seriously, it was big news. Of course, I was mortified, and probably rescinded my corn offering that day.
Shortly before my family moved to Savannah, having hidden this news even from my best friend, my eighth-grade class took a field trip. On the bus, this corn-loving childhood friend asked if I would “go out” with him. I denied his request, and could not tell him why. If I had wanted to be his girlfriend, there was no time.
Secrets can hurt. Before the move, I developed my first signs of depression. I stayed home from school; I had a stomach ache, headache, and I was filled with dread. I drank apple juice and ate nothing. I had no psychiatrist, and my pediatrician was baffled. Holding that secret inside, I was seized by the crippling anxiety of imminent change.
Now, apple juice is a trigger for me. I do not drink it, for fear of flashbacks.
We all keep secrets. When I discovered the existence of psychiatric disorder within myself, I kept this secret. I felt privileged with information only I could see, holding an invisible weight above society. Many years later, revealing that secret felt brave. A burden was lifted. Due to my vulnerability, I am able to speak freely about mental illness without shame. I am filled with hope, caused not from hiding but for opening my heart to help others. Secrets can protect us, but some secrets need air.
