Confessions of a Life Long Warrior

When you sit down at psychiatric assessment or an initial counselling appointment, you tend to get asked some thought provoking questions. I went through this last fall as I first met with my social worker, and then again with my psychiatrist. They both asked me "How long have you suffered from depression and anxiety?". My answer was the same for both of them. "I don't remember a time when I didn't suffer from them".

Think back to your earliest memory. How old are you in it? In mine, I'm about 3 years old. My shirt is red, white and blue. I'm eating from a box of Ritz crackers in front of our house. That singular memory is probably the only time in my life it wasn't an issue for me. By the time my memories in general kick in (age 4), I have the signs of depression and anxiety.

By the time I was Brettley's age (7), I had started counselling for being deemed an 'unruly child' with some not-so-fun side effects. By the time I was Ty's age (9), I had PTSD. By the time I was Caleb's age (11), my OCD symptoms had set in and I had essentially lost control of myself. All before I entered junior high.

I entered many years of extreme rebellion. Mental illness was so much less understood then, and no one could piece together what they were seeing. I was labelled cynical, morose, depressed, difficult, out-of-control, suicidal, disturbingly obsessed, etc. I won't lie, they were all accurate descriptions of me. They just weren't my fault.

I knew I was different from my peers, I felt distinctly different, and so I just kept fighting harder and harder to be different. I guess I subscribed to the idea that if you're in for a penny, you may as well be in for a pound. You know, if you're going to do something, do it well. I didn't want to be like everyone else. They didn't understand me, and I didn't want to be someone who didn't understand where other people came from. I lived in small-town Alberta and I refused to 'become' small-town Alberta (ha, oh this is making me laugh now as a 33 year old living in...small-town Alberta). I couldn't help rebelling, it was like the biggest inner desire of my teenage heart. I don't mean typical teenage rebellion, I mean deep-down full-hearted rebellion.

Through my years as an adult, I have kept some of that rebellious streak, no matter how "mainstream" I slowly became. Maybe it's made a little easier that what was considered mainstream when I was a teen is now considered woefully out of date, so I'm still not mainstream. Part of me still has that burning need to not conform to the people around me. I'm going to go out on a limb and just assume here that feeling different has just become ingrained in my sense of identity.

My hair has usually been the easiest way to do this. Keep cutting it short and spiky, dye it purple, teal or bleach it out. It's so easy, it's not permanent, and short of it maybe not being always appropriate to go in to the temple with, it's not so rebellious that everyone thinks I'm a total heathen. I won't lie, when we moved here last year I was tempted to swear that I'd never grown my hair out and I really just wanted to dye it bright blue.

Yes, being different seems to be how my brain defines me. It's all it really knows. By the time I had a sense of self at the age of 8, mental illness already had me deep in its clutches.

So this begs the question for me, how do you learn to find who you actually are separate from your mental illness? I don't know who that person is. I've essentially never met her. It's possibly that I never will, in this mortal life. Stable is stable, not free. The only way my illness will allow me to define myself is 'different'. You can tell me that I'm a Child of God until you're blue in the face. I logically know that, but I can't reconcile that with how my illness allows me to define myself. I know I'm a wife and a mother, but my illness will only allow me to say I'm those things if I include my diagnoses with them. Some days I wonder, is this really all I will ever be? Is it all I am?

This, this is living with mental illness.

***

Okay, so now that you've read those super positive and uplifting musings...Those were seriously just thoughts I had on my mind today that begged to be unleashed. I sat and wrote them out while I was listening to the soundtrack for The Greatest Showman, and I was happily singing along. I mean, I had a Dr Pepper, so clearly life was good in the moment :) They weren't written as a desperate cry for help as I rocked back in forth in my bed. My point that I was hoping to make is that this is a lifelong illness that will continue to need support on and off as long as I live. It is what it is. Accepting it for what it is puts me in a much better position to actually treat it effectively.  Also, sometimes we just need someone to listen without judgement. Mental illness is real, it exists, and I am just sitting here still trying to figure out how to help break the stigma that comes with it. I also keep noticing a lot of similarities between my walk and Caleb's and writing it out helps me piece things together a lot more easily. So thank you for listening to my Monday afternoon ramblings that were inspired by a week of strep throat and a sinus infection. Also, now I really want to go watch The Greatest Showman!

Also, I'm still using my bullet journals daily, so my regular journaling remains in there. Seriously, I love my journals!