#sicknotweak – at the top of the hill

I am so happy and nervous to present my second piece for #sicknotweak! This one is a bit on the personal side, with some explicit language, just so you know. Original post here.

My alarm jars me awake. Love grows where my rosemary goes by Edison Lighthouse – one of my favourite songs. But not today. It’s loud and abrasive after my poor night’s sleep. A night of stress and tossing and turning and night sweats. My hand goes automatically to my mouth. All my teeth are there. It was just a dream. Again. All my teeth were falling out. Cracking in half, and crumbling out of my mouth. Gums gaping wide open and the deep red blood inside is threatening to pour out. But it was just a dream. A recurring dream and it’s almost starting to feel like reality. Almost.

IT’S LIKE MUSCLE MEMORY.

The grey light that filters through my room reminds me that it’s day time. It’s time to get up. Time to go to work, get on with the day, have a life. It’s hard to get out of bed, like it is almost every morning.

It’s like muscle memory. Get up. Turn on the shower. Scrub my skin clean of the night’s terrors and stress. Turn off the shower. Dry off. Put some clothes on. Darken my eyes with mascara. Shoes on. Out the door.

My feet pound the pavement. I always wear out my shoes too quickly. Another mental note, buy new shoes when you get your next pay cheque. I stomp on. There’s a huge hill I have to conquer. I get short of breath. In my heart I find a wild fluttering feeling. It sounds beautiful but it doesn’t feel beautiful. It feels like a hammer in my chest. Warning. Warning. Warning. This is not right. This is not natural. Don’t do it.

There you are, on my shoulder. Every day when I wake up, when I get dressed, when I leave to go to work. Like clockwork. Like the dream where you lose all your teeth, it’s a regular thing now.

You’re late. You weren’t actually scheduled today. You got the date wrong and everyone will think you’re stupid. You’re not good at your job. No one likes you at work. They wish you would just not show up so they can fire you. Everything is going to go wrong. You’re going to mess up. You won’t succeed. You can’t.

Why hello anxiety, my old friend.

What a fucking joke. You only work there because they’re probably short handed. They don’t like you. They never did. They regret hiring you.

Every day, with every breath, I feel you. Every thought is wrought with your doomsday jargon. You’re my failure agenda. Want to get something done? You won’t. Want to hang out with friends? They don’t want you. They just feel obligated. Someone smiles at you? It’s fake. They just want to get rid of you.

Just look at you. You’re a fucking mess. Fat. Stupid. Lazy. Worthless. Why do you even bother. You’ll never make enough money to be comfortable in life. Rent is coming up and you won’t pay it on time and they’ll evict you and your best friend won’t want to live with you anymore because you fucked her over. You’re selfish. None of your friends actually like you.

The constant, berating, obliterating voice is always there, wearing me down. It’s enough to make a girl crack. Maybe I have.

Go ahead, self-medicate with alcohol. Pop the sleeping pills. Take the antidepressants. It doesn’t really work, you know. You’re just holding up a façade. Your smiles and your jokes, it’s fake. You’re not okay. You’re not worth it, not worth anything.

MY OWN FOOTSTEPS CREATE A BEAT TO BATTLE AGAINST THE HAMMER IN MY CHEST.

I reach the peak of the hill, panting because I’m a little out of breath, a little out of shape. The top of the hill is coming. It’s not quite 11 o clock yet and because it’s fall the sun is still new in the sky. The daylight glistens on the wet fall leaves. I hear the wind rustle through the trees. Someone is walking their dog, I hear the pitter patter of paws and still I stomp on.

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. My own footsteps create a beat to battle against the hammer in my chest.

Give up. Give up. Give up.

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

I stop at the top of the hill and look around. I live in such a nice neighbourhood. I love this city. The air is cold on my noise and my cheeks. The cold nip of the winter to come rushes in when I take a huge breath but when I breath out it’s warm. It’s warm and I can feel the sun on my face and my blood pumping through my veins. I keep walking.

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

Carry on. Carry on. Carry on.

And I do. Because when I breathe in, then I breathe out. And when I do it’s warm and full of life and heart and happiness. And that’s worth carrying on for.

how i carry my mental health on my sleeve

You know the expression, “you carry your heart on your sleeve”? Generally I find that people (and the definition on the internet) consider that a bad thing. That wearing your emotions, being sensitive and easily affected emotionally is a bad thing. Well I disagree. I think that to to be connected to your emotions so strongly is good. That if something or someone affects you emotionally, that’s a great thing! It means you’re connected.To yourself, to your heart and your mind, to other people and the world you live in.

#sicknotweak – self care & essential oils

I am a new guest author on a mental health website! This is amazing for me because it means I can help others with mental health and work towards ending stigma on a larger scale.

My first piece for them was a self care article, on how I use essential oils to help me with my depression, anxiety, night terrors and more. I found essential oils to be an incredible help and asset as I navigate my way through every day life and the obstacles my mental health presents.

So, read on, and maybe essential oils can help you too!

All the moments the Oscars were about equality and acceptance and awareness

The 2015 Oscars have had a lot of negative criticism this year. From all the films that were snubbed in the nominations, the #OscarsSoWhite criticism, to Neil Patrick Harris’ underwhelming performance as host.

Despite that, I think that this is one of the best years for the Oscars. Not for the academy, but for the actors and actresses, directors and writers who took the long time declining award show to a new level. A lot of winners took to the stage and made their win not about the film it was (partially) credited to, but the issues surrounding each film, and issues permeating society today.

Here are my favourite moments from the 2015 Oscars that were about equality, acceptance and awareness. These are (some of) the moments that made the Oscars worth watching.

Art as an outlet

 

Everyone copes with their own mental health issues differently. For me, clearly it is writing, (or on other days, screaming into a pillow). I like to believe that creating an outlet for my anxiety is kind of therapeutic. It can definitely be cathartic, and it helps me understand it better.

Then the days come where I feel like I’m all alone in this, and I know I’m not. On these days it’s nice to have a reminder that other people get it.

Anyways, here’s a bunch of beautiful art about mental health.

Let’s keep talking: Part One

 

“You’re not alone” e-card by Claire

A few weeks ago I promised to keep the conversation about mental health and stigma going beyond just one day a year. I asked for submissions from other people – prose, poetry, art, anything – expressing their own experiences with mental health.

I received more than I thought I would (re: none), and am going to continue accepting submissions and posting them in groups.

This first group I am going to attach a theme, which I found in each piece:  you are not alone. So many more people than you would believe live with mental heath and struggle with it daily. These pieces exposed to me the strength in each individual as they thought they struggled alone, and in writing them, perhaps realized they weren’t.

A trip to the doctor’s office, and a dose of stigma

Recently I went to the university health services to talk with a doctor about some problems I’ve been having.  The past several weeks I have been struggling with sleep. This is common with me when I have a lot of stress in my life. Right now that includes working full time, trying to find an internship so I can graduate and taking part time classes to finish my English minor. Also fighting for more attention from me are my money problems, my self-esteem, the fact that my social life is in shambles, trying to find a sublet for my apartment, trying to figure out moving in a few months, figuring out when I can do laundry next, if I can afford to groceries next week. The list goes on and on.

Let’s keep talking

“Trapped” by Akujixxv

Last week mental health awareness permeated social media on January 28th. Bell’s #LetsTalk campaign raised over $6 million for mental health. This is absolutely amazing but the conversation about mental health and stigma should be happening more than one day a year.

Inspired by messages and comments from friends and family alike, I am determined to keep the conversation about mental health going, but I can’t do it alone.

Hacking it: a letter to myself

I am going to start a series of posts recalling my past.  They will be diary entries of my life. Growing up. Loving. Laughing. Crying. Becoming a woman. Whatever.

Sometimes they might not make sense, but they will address my experiences. People, places, strengths, weaknesses.

This is the first. In honour of Bell’s #LetsTalk campaign, it is a letter to myself, about my depression, and the struggle I had when I was 15 and didn’t understand why I felt the way I felt.

Remembering Robin Williams

If you’ve read the six other posts I’ve done on this blog (I’m really bad at being consistent), you’ll know how much mental health means to me.

It is a subject friends can tell I am most passionate about when it comes up in conversation.

And it is a subject that is very close to my heart, having family members, friends and my own personal experiences with mental health  affect my life almost everyday.

It has also been the subject of several news articles, blog posts and tweets, since Robin Williams’ death a couple of days ago.