of hope 2019stopstigmasacramento.org/get-involved/joh-program-2019.pdfii | october 5, 2019 –...

Journey of Hope 2019:

REAL LIFE STORIES OF LIVING WITH MENTAL HEALTH CHALLENGES PORTRAYED THROUGH ART

TRAVELING EXHIBITION TO 3 LOCATIONS!

Elk Grove Fine Arts Center elkgrovefineartscenter.orgExhibit: October 5 – 23, 2019Reception: October 5, 2019, 4:00–7:00pm

Sacramento Fine Arts Centersacfinearts.orgExhibit: Oct. 29 – Nov. 17, 2019Reception: Nov. 9, 2019, 5:30–8:30pm

Crocker Art Museumwww.crockerart.orgExhibit: Nov. 29, 2019 – Jan 5, 2020Reception: Dec. 15, 2019, 1:00–2:30pm

Journey of Hope | October 5, 2019 – January 5, 2020 | iiiii | October 5, 2019 – January 5, 2020 | Journey of Hope

Journey of Hope 2019Living with a mental illness can leave someone feeling alone, sad, and disconnected. Roughly, one in five adults have a diagnosable mental disorder during their lifetime and nearly one out of five children will experience emotional or behavioral difficulty. However, the stigma and discrimination associated with mental illness discourages many people from seeking help, support, or treatment. Often, individuals that speak or talk openly about mental illness experience discrimination and rejection. No one should have to experience this struggle alone, especially as it resonates with individuals from every ethnic, racial, gender, socioeconomic, religion and age group. This idea lead to creating Journey of Hope: Real Life Stories of Living with Mental Health Challenges Portrayed through Art, an exhibit that bridges the gap between the broader community and those living with a mental health condition. Now in its fifth year, Journey of Hope is a unique exhibit comprised of two components: individual stories of hope and wellness despite mental illness and original works of art inspired by these stories. Sacramento County residents who have lived mental illness experience were invited to share their stories, their journeys of hope, with us. These stories were then paired with a local artist that used it as inspiration for an original work of art. The exhibit was created in collaboration with Sacramento County’s “Mental Illness: It’s not always what you think” project. The Journey of Hope exhibit offers individuals the opportunity to tell their story in a forum that promotes hope and tolerance, to give others insight, inspiration, understanding, strength, connection, and to raise awareness. We would like to extend a special thank you to the writers, artists, and the three venues for hosting this unique and powerful event. We invite you to let these stories and their works of art guide you on a journey of hope, because mental illness is not always what you think.

The Journey of Hope Project Coordinators left to right, Aunjuli Reese, Ellen King, Emily Winsor, Laura Bemis.

Author, ArtistTitle | Art Title

Written by Alison Morikawa | Art by Jimmy Guan ............................................................1Note to Self | Path To Recovery

Written by Amelia Garnica | Art by Annette Heacox .......................................................2The Ice Floe | Life Shatters Darkness

Written by Ana Soriano | Art by Misty Darling ..................................................................3Codependent Metamorphoses | Solo

Written by Angela Wilson | Art by Darlene DeLorenzi .....................................................4The Guiding Light | Hope and Faith

Written by Angelina (A-Jae) Woodberry | Art by Amy Vidra ............................................5Not Like My Mother | Remarkably Unique

Written by Ann Christensen | Art by Patricia Peak ............................................................7I, Walnut | Hope

Written by Anna M. Davis | Art by Chris Volker ................................................................9Finally Finding Me | Holding the Light and Dark in Both Hands

Written by Annette Heacox | Art by E. Kaino Hopper ...................................................11Bipolar: from drowning to swimming with | Bipolar: from drowning to swimming with…

Written by Aunjuli Reese | Art by Katherine O’Neill .......................................................12From Perfect to Grateful | Mask

Written by Brian McClure | Art by Marilyn Norris ..........................................................14Somewhere on the Spectrum | Somewhere on the Spectrum

Written by Darian Brown | Art by Sue Anne Foster ........................................................17The Path of the Warrior | BREAKTHROUGH: You Are Not Alone

Written by Desiree Aragon | Art by Elizabeth St. Hilaire ................................................19Walking the Line of Mental Health | Stolen Moments

Written by Diane Mintz | Art by Susanne Gerich ............................................................21CASSEROLE PEOPLE | Apron & Mitts

Written by Dutchess Battle | Art by Rachel Andersen ....................................................23My Truth. Yet, STILL I Rise | Chain Breaker

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Journey of Hope | October 5, 2019 – January 5, 2020 | viv | October 5, 2019 – January 5, 2020 | Journey of Hope

Written by Echosaisis Ameganvi | Art by Marianne Gonzales ........................................25From Here to There | Breaking Free

Written by Emily Winsor | Art by Dena R. McKitrick .......................................................27What it Means to Recover | Recovery Is

Written by Eric Mafnas | Art by Garvin Tieseler ..............................................................30Falling and getting Back Up! | The Long Journey to Healing

By: Erica Atreya | Art by Marj Allen-Koerber .................................................................32Depression | Bright and Joyous Entanglement

Written by Erin O’Meara | Art by David Peterson ..........................................................33The House That Depression Built | House of Depression

Written by Eugenia Sadler | Art by Dianne Mattar .........................................................35Gena’s Journey | Bottled Dreams Bursting Forth

Written by Gustavo Ayala | Art by Marlene Holtshouser ................................................37The Seed | Seeds of Recovery .......................................................................

Written by Andee Jaide | Art by Richard Munoz ............................................................38Hope Sometimes Comes in Human Form | Andee the Lotus

Written by Jamie Reskof | Art by Gin Parrick ..................................................................41Cue | Secrets Revealed

Written by Jennifer King | Art by Cheryl Stanley ............................................................42THE INTERVIEW | In Ter View

Written by Jennifer McHenry | Art by Erica Atreya .........................................................45Exposure | Illuminated

Written by Jennifer Siazon-Arguelles | Art by Vanessa Alford .......................................47Low Pay and No Boyfriend/Spouse | Beauty From Within

Written by Jessie Love | Art by Terry McGarvey .............................................................49Healed Heart: Rejected to be Redirected to Love | Taking Heart

Written by JP Price | Art by Anne Duncan ......................................................................51Fly | Becoming Grounded

Written by Kim Frisella | Art by Amanda Baker ..............................................................53My “Psyche On The Run” | Humanity Ahead

Written by Laura Bemis | Art by Keith Cromie ................................................................54Don’t Judge a Book by its Cover | My Shame is True

Written by Leah Silk | Art by Michelle Lueth ...................................................................56Curses and Blessings | Embracing the Wounded Healer

Written by Lina Liu Lee | Art by Ellen King .....................................................................59Depression Is Not A Choice | Dark, Moody Skies

Written by Lissette Galvan | Art by Laura van der Meer .................................................61Breaths | Breaths

Written by Liz Osorno | Art by Acid Rain ........................................................................62Hope and Dreams | Balance within Bi-Polar

Written by M Daniel | Art by Margaret Munson .............................................................64Getting Over the Stigma | Getting Over the Stigma

Written by Marilyn Norris | Art by Penny Hanscom ........................................................66Darkest Dark | Come Out into the Light

Written by Marissa Montelongo | Art by April Breis .......................................................68Becoming Brave | Within

Written by Michael Thorn | Art by Sonja Binner .............................................................71An Uncommon Routine | From Dark to Light

Written by Michael Winsor | Art by Lorna Baker ............................................................73It Flows Like Water | Albatross

Written by Mitzi Meriwether | Art by Belle Darsie ..........................................................76CHANCES ARE | Chance Reflecting, Mindfully

Written by Neda Carroll | Art by Darrci Robertson .........................................................77Still Voices | A Fractured Optimist

Written by Nefertiti Khemet | Art by Emily Winsor .........................................................78We ALL Belong; Despite Mental Illness | My Petals and My Roots

Written by Nicole McVey | Art by Kestrel Owen .............................................................80Silently | Drowning

Written by Patricia Baxted | Art by Jamie Reskof ...........................................................81Mental Illness: Indeed, it is not always what you think | Wellness Rocks!

Written by Patricia Wentzel | Art by Valerie Dacpano ....................................................84After All Of That | Beautiful Monster

Written by Shawn Kramer | Art by Dee Tschida ..............................................................85My Monsters | All of Me

Written by Sherrie Ranee Tyler | Art by Debra Ledsinger ..............................................86Letter of Purpose, Stanford University | Smart Enough

Written by Stephen Daly | Art by John McNeal .............................................................88Fog | Stress

Journey of Hope | October 5, 2019 – January 5, 2020 | 1vi | October 5, 2019 – January 5, 2020 | Journey of Hope

Written by Alison MorikawaArt by Jimmy Guan

Note to Self... Mental health and recovery is not linearWhen we feel more susceptible to the waves and the pulling tideWe may get taken under water That does not mean we have retreated Or become lost at sea We are stillJust as close to the land Just as close to a gasp of fresh airA moment of restIt’s ok to use a flotation device

That does not erase the reality thatYou have used so much energy, effort and determination moving forwardAs everything around you fought against you To hold you down To tell you to give upEven though you could let the tide take you away You decided to stay here against the bitter Memories tugging at the floodgate of your heartJust rememberLetting go doesn’t mean you are destined to sink We can trust ourselves to stay afloatSometimes we need to let go of the mental struggleLong enough to look up to the skiesRelease all bodily tension Catch hold of our breath Use the momentum of the earthly water’s energy To balance and become oneWith the water inside our beings Nature nurtures endlesslyWithin the → I ← of the tornado

1Written by Sue Daly | Art by Raquel Lushenko ...............................................................89Beloved | Beloved

Written by Syrah Caparas | Art by Jen Berry ..................................................................89“Finding Beauty in the Breakdown” | Isolation

Written by Terry McGarvey | Art by Malek Paige............................................................92How are you? | Beautiful Mind

Written by Valerie Dacpano | Art by Melani Grube ........................................................94Art Therapy | Flowing Over

Written by Veronica Martinez | Art by Marsha Mees ......................................................95Hope | The Warrior

Written by W.R. Taylor | Art by Geana Davis ..................................................................98Testimony | No Sympathy

Path To Recovery

Journey of Hope | October 5, 2019 – January 5, 2020 | 32 | October 5, 2019 – January 5, 2020 | Journey of Hope

Written by Amelia GarnicaArt by Annette Heacox

The Ice FloeIt was dark, not even the stars could be seen to shine upon me, I had but a little flashlight to use to see. I was alone in the middle of the ocean, isolated from the world. I was standing on a thin piece of ice. The air was cold, it was hard to breathe, I tried to inhale but the capacity of my lungs felt small. I felt pain all over my body as the cold slithered through my threadbare clothing and pierced my skin. My whole body was shivering and my muscles stiffened which made it strenuous to move, I could no longer stand as my legs gave in and I collapsed. The flashlight fell into the water. The high frequency of the ice cracking beneath me punctured my ears, I was overcome with fear of what would happen if this ice floe gave in, but within that thought, a sudden rush of emptiness filled my heart. Why do I care what happens next? I’m all alone, in the dark, cold, and in pain. What reason do I have to hold on? My eyes followed the light as it sunk to the bottom of the sea and I watched as

the darkness devoured it and with it my hope. I raised my fist with the last bit of energy that I had and I punched the ice that was underneath me. I was submerged in freezing water and was consumed by the depths of its despair. Abruptly, I felt an embrace of warmth surrounding me. I open my eyes and there I was resting, looking at my reflection through the cracked piece of ice, but within my reflection there was a light beaming from behind me. The sun was rising, giving me strength to persevere and live on. As I stared into the sun, my vision became distorted, when my eyesight came back I realized I wasn’t on the ice floe anymore. I was dreading having to endure this for another day but today is not the same as yesterday. Tomorrow will come and with it a new beginning to change the course of my journey. Had I let my hallucination of what was my darkest thoughts take over, I wouldn’t have been able to see how beautiful the sunrise was.

Written by Ana SorianoArt by Misty Darling

Codependent Metamorphoses When we met, I thought you were my soulmate.

In actuality I fell in love with my wound mate.

My idea of showing love fit perfectly with your idea of taking love.

The more I gave, the more you took from me.

I received strategically.

Then came a day when I had no more to give.

Loving you became hurtful and toxic.

The more I tried to understand the chaos, the more sick I became in this toxic game.

All the chaos was purposeful.

What was a game for you was killing me emotionally inside.

Then one day, you did too much, you hurt me too much, the emotional scars became permanent and I could never look back.

All of a sudden the chaos made sense and I no longer looked at you in the same light.

I started to see all the red flags I had ignored for so long.

I started to change and you were exactly the same.

Only this time, I was no longer in the game.

2 3

Life Shatters Darkness

Solo


Written by Angela WilsonArt by Darlene DeLorenzi

The Guiding Light I can’t seem to find my way

I can see heaven far into space

But something holding me back

Is it my faith and confidence I lack

I sail upon the sky blue waters

The boat seem to sail slowly

Cause the beast is in my way

Causing me to have a very bad day

I looked afar ahead

I saw a beautiful lighthouse heavenly white

Decked with green blue trees and evergreen grass

I thought it would save my life

I felt heaven at last

The disease in my head suddenly round compassed around me

I can’ t seem to break free

I can hear the voices in my head screaming

Now I’m surrounded by demons

After a while the boat speed fast ahead

Suddenly the voices exit out of my head

I thought I was dead

But the beauty of the lighthouse kept me alive

I finally made it to that lighthouse

With The Most High leading the way

He surely saved the my day

The guiding lighthouse drew me near

I no longer have to live in fear

I said to the Most High, you eased my mind

So if your illness get in your way

The Most High will deliver you and make your day

All I can say he’ll surely pave the way

The guiding lighthouse so heavenly so bright It’ll take to glory and you’ll feel fine

And The Most High will clear your mind

Written by Angelina (A-Jae) WoodberryArt by Amy Vidra

Not Like My Mother“Your mother is nothing and you’re gonna be just like her.” — Words hurled at a small child from multiple relatives for several years. I didn’t understand what that meant. All I knew was, whatever my mother was, I did not want any part of it.

Years passed and my mannerisms started to resemble hers. I only knew this because the relative caretaker would tell me every day. Days she would skip, would be filled in with the live presence of the mentally ill-homeless-drug addict that had given birth to me at fifteen before the “nervous breakdown” which landed her in the facility where electricity

made “everything better.”

The fact that she was so mean and dismissive of me only added fertilizer to my growing hatred of my mother. I still didn’t know what “nothing” was, but

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Hope and Faith

5

Remarkably Unique


I knew I wasn’t going to be it. The start of middle school saw a determined honor roll student tackle a full day of classes plus a zero period extra credit elective, as well as student government. The plan to become something was well underway.

That all changed in about a year’s time. The headaches and the mood swings reared up first. I was put on birth control because clearly, being a girl, everything wrong with me was uterus related. Needless to say, the pill did little more than regulate the monthly flow. It did not regulate the periods of super uncontainable oodles of energy or the moments of utter despair. My school work began to suffer. I was quickly becoming “nothing.” Just like my mother.

A teacher referred me to the school psychologist. When I informed my caretaker, she, true to her African American southern roots, dismissed the notion of mental illness as being a made up excuse for laziness, doing drugs, having sex, or all of the above.

I remember the meeting with the older white man. He sat on the side of a small closet-like room near his desk. I sat in a green cloth covered wooden chair between the wall and a slender black file cabinet. He had his legs crossed, left ankle over right knee with brown shoes. He wore thin glasses and had a small yellow pad of paper with a pen in his hands. He asked me a series of questions. Things like, my name, siblings, who I lived with, favorite subject, life goals, etc. I did my best to be honest, which only seemed to cause more questions. He asked me if I believed that I was smarter than other people. I had a 4.0, three medals from the Academic Olympics, so yeah...I was smarter than quite a few people. He said I was grandiose. How could that be when the evidence of achievements were tangible and plainly visible? He went on to ask me, what is still the most bizarre question I have ever been asked. He asked me if I thought I was God or Jesus Christ. Oddly enough, that would not be the last time I would be asked it. I think my answer to his question led to his diagnosis. I replied that no man knows the hour of the Savior’s return, nor what form God will come in, so I could be. (I have answered that question the same way each of the three times it has been asked of me.)

That clinician like two after him, one in my 20s and one in my 30s, diagnosed me with bipolar disorder. It was official. I was “nothing,” just like my mother. Her, and the relative caretaker could not have been happier with their quick “I told you so.”

I have lived a life straddling a thin line between mania and depression. Most of the time I’m walking on the manic side with my superwoman cape and boundless Tesla-coil energy. There are those times when the energy hides from me and I lack the will to even think about trying to find it.

I don’t take medications to stabilize my moods anymore. I tried that route after college and my second child was born. Despite my protests, I agreed to take psych meds for the first time in my life at 32. That lasted about a year. I was calm, pleasant, and agreeable. Nothing got me too excited or too sad. Relatives died during this time, but I was unable to cry. The joy of happy moments was lost on me. It wasn’t until my 2-year-old son ran into the middle of a busy four lane street and I just stood on the sidewalk and stared at him, that my sister and my husband agreed that medication was too much for me. I stopped taking them that day and instead, started working on an alternative plan. My psychiatrist dismissed me from care. It was his way or the highway.

On that highway for the next ten years, I discovered support groups and various therapies to help me learn what my mania triggers are. I have a great support system that I trust that tell me when I’m getting too over the top or isolating too much.

Since all of this started, I was able to talk with my mom about her struggles with this illness. Her level of wellness depended on her adhering to her medication schedules. Mine is different and that’s okay. No two people are exactly alike. This illness manifests itself in many different and similar ways. I have learned that I am like my mother, but we are not “nothing.” We are something. Something special, remarkable, and unique.

Written by Ann ChristensenArt by Patricia Peak

I, Walnut I thought I had been drugged with LSD. That was the only thing that made any sense at all. My first manic depressive episode led me on a wild ride of driving throughout San Diego County. I raved at friends and shouted obscenities at strangers. At one point I was surrounded by a bright light and was invited into The Sacred Space. At another part of this three-day journey, I found myself enclosed in a glass barrier while I watched myself do and say

6

Hope


things that I would never have done, but was unable to stop. There was a Voice of Authority that commanded me to do these things and I could not disobey.

Finally, some friends dragged me to the ER. No sign of drugs of any kind. The next day I was checked into a hospital and began medication treatments to bring me down. And down I came. I crashed. As high as the high had been, I was now hopelessly depressed. It was like a rubber band that had been stretched to the breaking point in the mania was released and snapped wildly in the opposite direction.

I remember sitting on the couch watching “A Few Good Men” and was unable to change the channel because I couldn’t lift my finger. Could not move. So I watched the movie three times in a row. I am thankful a slasher movie wasn’t featured on HBO that day.

Ultimately I lost my job, my health insurance, my friends, and was very close to being homeless. It was time for ET to phone home. I limped back to the family farm and into my old room. I had never intended to come back, certainly not like this. I couldn’t talk to my family about what had happened, and they asked no questions. I was ashamed and felt like a failure.

It was comforting to be home again on the peach ranch. As time passed and I was able to heal, I relaxed into the moment. My condition was diagnosed and I was receiving proper medication to manage the mood swings. I returned to college to obtain a teaching credential. I met new friends and reconnected with old ones. I was not “over it,” or “cured.” But I was healing, felt better about myself and taking steps towards rebuilding my life.

The first sign of spring on the ranch is the lone daffodil that pops up near a huge walnut tree in front of the house. The bulb was planted by my grandmother during the Great Depression. The next sign of spring is when water is released into the canals roars as it cascades down concrete falls. The faint cadence of a song joins the water; a whisper, really, that has been in the background for a long time. The song is a type of bolero, a steady beat, an instrumental whose rhythm is felt before it is heard. Finally, the tune comes to the surface of my consciousness.

Now at last I can hear George Harrison’s song of hope.

Here comes the sun

Here comes the sun, and I say

It’s all right

Little darling, it’s been a long cold lonely winter...I feel that ice is slowly melting...

... It seems years since it’s been clear

...Here comes the sun, and I say

It’s all right

It’s all right

Tears come to my eyes, and a quivering smile. I remember something Dad said to me years ago: “Honey, there is something special about a walnut. It won’t sprout under the usual mild California climate. It rots in good weather. The walnut seed has to endure a really long, cold, hard winter. That’s what it takes to crack that tough nut and get it to grow.”

I have survived the winter and have finally sprouted. The song becomes a symphony as I continue to push through the rich soil of this experience and burst into the light. The brilliance seems overwhelming, but it is genuine and warm.

Please remember, dear reader:

You are not alone.

There are steps you can take to heal.

You are loved.

Written by Anna M. Davis Art by Chris Volker

Finally Finding MeI remember the first time I had to see a psychiatrist. I was 15 years old and found out I was pregnant. My parents wanted me to talk to someone so that I could figure out what I wanted to do and what my options were. They didn’t want me to make any more bad choices. Little did any of us know, that my decision-making skills where not like most people. If we did, I’m sure I would have continued seeing her.

Back then mental illness was never talked about. If someone had it, we never knew it. It was as if it didn’t exist. The only thing even remotely close, would have been seeing it in movies, horror movies like Psycho. And even then, it was called being crazy or insane. So

Holding the Light and Dark in Both Hands

7


basically, the only exposure we had was of the worst-case scenarios that we watched in movies. We didn’t have a clue about what mental health was.

It wasn’t until 1999. After many years of “bad choices,” as they were called. I had my first visit inside a mental hospital. My youngest daughter came home and found me after I had taken every pill in my apartment trying to overdose. As soon as I looked at her, I knew I couldn’t die on her. That experience opened a whole new door for me. I started seeing a counselor at the Women’s Center after that. It was a band-aid solution because I had only cracked the door open and didn’t walk through it.

By 2004, I had moved back to North Highlands and was unemployed and homeless again. Then my world, as messed up as it was, totally collapsed. Losing my father, my hero, my rock, devastated me in ways I never imagined possible. My alcoholism and addictions took on a life of their own. I was in and out of rehabs, and mental hospitals. Fighting a battle, I never felt I could win. The only thing that kept me going was the love of my family and my mother’s prayers.

It wasn’t until 2008, at the age of 43, that I was introduced to a different kind of recovery. After leaving the hospital this time, I went into a 30-day program for people having mental health issues. That program helped me to understand me, finally. I got to learn all about mental illness and just what had been happening throughout my life. They showed me ways I could cope with things instead of the way I had been my whole life. But most importantly, they let me see that I could have a new life. A life I deserved.

That was 11 years ago now. I just turned 54 a couple of months ago. And although my life is far from perfect, I have peace in my life now. I still have problems that can get overwhelming at times. And life continues to throw me curve balls every now and then. The difference now opposed to before is, now I know what’s happening and what I can do to make it better. I remember the things a wise woman named Katherine and I had discussed during some of our sessions. And one that helps in my recovery still is, “that knowledge is power.” I had to learn all I could about my illness, I need to understand it so I can live with it successfully. I work hard so that I can keep everything I have gained while on this journey of mine. And, I can honestly say that I am happy and have found my joy. Today I get to be the daughter, the mother, grandmother, sister and friend that I always knew I could be. And I’m not fighting that losing battle against myself anymore.

I’m a community leader at Mutual Housing these days. I help advocate for affordable housing here in California with R.U.N. and Sac. A.C.T. It gives me the opportunity to be with people who are helping battle the stigma around mental health and homelessness.

Seeing myself as a success has never been easy for me. I struggle with it because these beliefs are new to me and the beliefs that are lies from my past were around for a long time. I may have these struggles, but that is all they are. Struggles that I know I can overcome and be the person I am meant to be.

Written by Annette Heacox Art by E. Kaino Hopper

Bipolar: from drowning to swimming with… My experience:

I am the ‘per book’ sample story

18 drowning back to shore… barely

18-36 denial and shame of my new companion for life probably…

36-42 new understanding with psychotherapy

42-55 able to talk about me… finally

Ah, coping, yes… rhythms with accepting myself!

I am not alone and I am still a good person even if I feel left on a shelf Under the radar I stay to heal. No remorse felt.

I am my best friend, what I would tell my best friend I apply to myself

What ‘I should’ do is gone. What I want is left.

I walk in nature, look at water, breathe: my health! Showers wash in the drain the darkness

Creativity stalls. I try to paint brushes are tough, writing is left I keep track of my mini daily progress…

I learn and accept the dark parts of my self I take my medicine seriously. I don’t forget.

I know that I will come out of the tunnel with more strength

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Bipolar: from drowning to swimming with…


Wellness is a bliss, blood is no longer oozing, band-aids are in place. I can talk about my mess. It resonates with others. I am shameless Nature, water matters to me, I need regular escapes.

I am aware of every single little moment of happiness

Recovery is wellness established.

I know I will fall again. I can manage and emerge stronger next! I am aware of my chance to sense and feel in depth

I would not exchange my path for another’s trek!

Hope is to know that bipolar is very treatable and manageable.

Sharing with public to remove stigma is incredible

Participating is a proof that everyone can stumble, get-up and walk with pride!

Somewhere on the Spectrum.

Written by Aunjuli ReeseArt by Katherine O’Neill

From Perfect to Grateful While growing up, I was a perfectionist. I was extremely driven. I took the concept of setting New Year’s Resolutions consistently a little too far. I could set and achieve difficult personal goals like it was easy. I was also known for taking on tasks and projects that would make others shy away. Because of my over-achieving nature, I was able to graduate high school at the age of 16 with a 4.0 GPA and almost enough college credits for an Associate

Degree. In addition to such an achievement, I served as the Student Body Vice President and Student Body Service Chairman. It was not surprising then that I earned the nickname of “Wonder Woman.”

Only one year later, at the age of 17, I traveled to Virginia to attend college at a private university. It was during that year, my freshman year in college, that my world would be flipped upside down. It was about halfway through my first year that I was diagnosed with Bipolar Mood Disorder (type 2). Now that I look back on it, there were signs, but I didn’t recognize them at the time. I had been diagnosed with minor depression previously, but I never thought it was anything more than that. My diagnosing psychiatrist put me on medications and I began to see a therapist regularly.

It was anything but easy to keep up with the rigors of a university. My psychiatrist warned me that I may never graduate college. My depression was so bad at times that I was barely able to get out of bed and eat meals, let alone make it to class and write papers. My grades began to fall. I earned my first “B,” “C,” “D,” and “F” grades throughout my five years in college. I had to have my psychiatrist write a letter to my Dean of Academics every year requesting extended deadlines under the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA). While my friends were enjoying their summers, I was desperately trying to finish papers and assignments from the previous semester. The worst part is that I used to conquer the world before breakfast each day, yet I found myself in a position where I was barely able to keep my head above the proverbial water.

It has been 18 years since receiving my diagnosis. The good news is that I did manage to graduate from college with my Bachelor’s degree in Art and English. I have never fought so hard to complete something in my entire life and I am more proud of that Bachelor’s degree than anything I ever completed before or since my diagnosis. I’m still on a myriad of medications three times per day. I don’t like the side effects, but they allow me to have quality of life. I am currently working on building my career with the State of California and am preparing to promote positions again. I guess what I’m trying to say is that, yes, mental illness can make life very difficult, but I have come to appreciate life and my personal achievements so much more now. I find it hard not to compare my current self and abilities with the one from before college. I have had to grieve for the person I just knew I would become. Even though my life turned out differently than I had envisioned, it is still a beautiful life. My relationship with God has brought me great peace, especially in times when my illness flares.

Kay Redfield Jamison, author of An Unquiet Mind, asks herself at the end of her memoir whether she would choose a life with or without mental illness, given the choice. I think about this question occasionally too and have concluded that yes, along with Kay Jamison, I would choose my current life with bipolar disorder. Living with Bipolar Disorder has taught me to accept others unconditionally (including myself) and to show love without reservation. I have learned how to appreciate every good thing in life and the importance of gratitude in daily living. I have been blessed with a beautiful life, albeit hard and challenging, and I would choose it again.

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Mask


Written by Brian McClureArt by Marilyn Norris

Somewhere on the Spectrum New client was looking to be new regular if “best foot massage ever” and “what days do you work” are any indication. I was tempted to lie as she was a talker who dropped five R bombs in ten minutes, feeling stupid about her new phone. “Please watch your language in my treatment room.” I could have said but I’ve fallen on that particular “social justice warrior” sword so often that it broke. It isn’t like salt in the wound after Special Ed, and riding the short bus to my privately

owned, publicly funded high school for the seriously emotionally disturbed. Hearing the R word is more like a twinge to an old injury, letting me know rain is coming and people are still jerks.

I have made the glass case in which I’ve been placed,

Shatterproof,

Lining it with pretty pictures and comfortable lies.

Some cracks I fell through and some I dove into head first.

Running for the nearest dead end with thugs at my back.

Buried safe among the trash, hoping the rats won’t bite.

The evil twin was out to get me.

We used to walk to school but for 2nd grade, I was bussed across town just to make my life difficult. I had already been “held back” in first grade, and stupidly trusted my peers not to shame me for it, since my parents said it was nothing to be ashamed of.

Parents don’t know everything and sometimes they lie.

“You’re a year older than us and you still act like a baby.” The evil twin’s name was Naomi. I can’t recall the good twin’s name at all.

“My birthday is in February. I started late because school’s already half over by then.” That was how it was explained to me anyway.

“Then how come you read baby books?”

I was still reversing letters but I don’t think I started The Special Resource Room until 3rd grade. Mrs. Hornet in first first grade said I couldn’t do the flip book for reading time because it had no words. But I loved the story about a fancy frocked girl whose cat didn’t like the baby carriage, and the boy dressed as a cop tried to rescue it from a tree. I discovered the pictures moved my third viewing. I could watch them fall into the water while the cat jumped free on a loop, foreshadowing my fondness for kops and custards, knockabout, and low brow high art.

“The Bear Circus” didn’t just have a great clown skit but that art was featured on the cover also. Naomi caught me checking it out twice so I checked out her last book the next library trip. It was photographed and all about a girl raising kittens. The photos were printed scrapbook style like on our album without the plastic.

“Sound It Out” Dad seldom yelled and that was worse. He could be scary sometimes but if Naomi had thrown down the gauntlet then Dad could be my witness. We were almost done and I had said it with feeling hoping to catch him thrilled.

I didn’t know where to start with sounding it out. He turned back to the beginning and pointed out a word on each page.

“You read that word here, here and here. Don’t tell me you don’t know that word.”

I finally pleaded for a bathroom break and went sniveling to Mom.

The word was “the.”

To sin.

Having done nothing,

Thinking too much and learning too slow,

Devastating. Waxed and coiled.

Frayed to the ends of understanding.

Just a bit of polish won’t go far.

“I can read good as you.” I lied to Naomi, proudly holding up the kitten story in all its pink paged, girl protagonist glory.

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Somewhere on the Spectrum


“That book is for girls.” A day, maybe a week or a moment later, I whacked her upside the head with my lunch box. It was defiantly premeditated as I picked my moment and made sure she wasn’t the nice one. Mark, who was my friend once, would remind the 6th grade class.

“And he hits girls. Remember that one time in 2nd grade?”

The twins had moved and I wasn’t struggling enough to be dyslexic anymore. My parents did everything possible to reverse the decision. I had a child advocate, a court date and a meeting with The Head Shrink at L.A. Unified. He told Mom to sign me up at The Y “in order to better relate to the boys in his age group.” (That pompous toad would be mortified to learn I met my first boyfriend there.) Mostly I caught the letters flipping right sideways but mornings I needed my hand held for basic math and I was expected to keep up dividing fractions after lunch. This seemed a dumb arrangement, but I was testing at college level in comprehension.

Things went pretty much downhill from there.

If his face was any sharper it would have been a pencil point. But the world was sullied enough without missing his mark. Intense and overlooked, he has his ticket ready at first sight of the train, nothing if not uptight-Mad Dash 2014.

Suicide says hi occasionally. I tell it to keep on walking as we don’t have anything to say anymore. Suicide smiles as if telling me “don’t be too sure. Seniors are an even higher risk, than teenagers. See you around.” Maybe when my wrists are shot and I have nothing for retirement. Massage Therapy is linear, I don’t multi-task, and I make a difference. Life isn’t always great but it can be enough to notice line, form, color and contrast, knowing I’m just a fragment of the sublime and all the more whole for it. I even found a copy of “The Bear Circus” second hand. Apologies to copyright, but I printed the clown illustration and framed it.

Evil twins of the world be damned.

The end

Written by Darian BrownArt by Sue Anne Foster

The Path of the WarriorThe tide will always come in, then leave as if—

It was never here, only leaving traces of its presence.

“A storm may knock you down 99 times, but I know you will always get up on the 100th time. Your fire may dim, flicker against the wind, but it will remain.

The battle of the mind is as valid as any other illness and it is on the rise whether society acknowledges it or not.

Lives lost to the creatures and lives that are honored as fallen warriors in Valhalla—

Champions who fought tooth and nail through many, many endless wars.

To the warriors who walk among the humans, you will fight like hell to survive most days. You fall to the floor from exhaustion most days. YOU, my dear warrior, will have days you feel nothing, but the crafty clutches of abyss and its sister, purgatory.

BUT—do not worry, dear, dear, Warrior!

You are never alone, for I am here, feel my presence, my love—

You are never alone, for other warriors are here, feel their presence, their love—

You are never alone, see the love inside you—

It shines brighter than a billion stars ever could imagine to.

Do you feel it, my warrior?”

The Goddess asked.

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BREAKTHROUGH: You Are Not Alone


I lifted my burdensome body up from the ground, wiping the tears from my eyes and the blood trickling from my mouth. My body staggered as I stood in front of this gracious Goddess of fate.

She continued. “Will you join me, warrior?”

A low growl beckoned my attention from behind me.

I could feel the Angel of Death approach. “Warrior…. come now.” He called.

My eyes, never wavering from my Goddess. “I am a Warrior of Valhalla. I am strong, yet fearful. Ever persistent, yet so ever fragile at times. I do not fear you, death. It is simply not my time, Sir Angel of Death. I have yet to finish this fight. Allow me more time, dear Sir.

I have not fallen, but only stumbled.”

I embrace my Goddess—a rush of pure warmth envelopes my slumbering vessel.

“When you wake my dear, dear, warrior—let the moon and the stars follow you and guide you as you walk under their light. Daughter of the Cosmos, you are. Descended from the mightiest warrior and the most powerful witch imaginable. Dear warrior…it is time to wake from your slumber. The world of humans beckon, they need you, more than ever.” The Goddess spoke.

The taste of salt water splashes my mouth, brash and sudden.

I open my eyes to the freezing ocean comforting my weary body, while the tide rushes around me to reach the shore.

“Set forth my warrior…. your fight, your story, your life is far, far from over. Be the warrior you need to be, for you are irreplaceable and ever loved.” The Goddess began to fade away.

“You are the champion of your fate—rest as you go, ask for help, and most importantly, cheat Death for as long as you can. Then when the war has been waged and won, when it is time to put down the sword—meet me in Valhalla, my dear warrior.” The Goddess faded completely as if it were all a dream.

A message to the reader:

(Our fates are intertwined and will never be predetermined. We all fight our own demons, whatever they may be. As a warrior of the mind and the body, I must ask you the daunting task: fight, fight like no one has seen before. Fight as if your life is at stake.

More often than not, it may be.

Reaching out makes all the difference to those who are hurting—masked and visible)

Written by Desiree AragonArt by Elizabeth St. Hilaire

Walking the Line of Mental Health In 1956, newly married Johnny Cash wrote a song called, “I walk the line.” The song is considered a love devotional to hold

himself accountable to personal responsibilities of fidelity and avoiding rebel temptations in his relationship. It was Cash’s first number one hit. For whatever reason the words I walk the line resonate deeply in my soul.

Now at the age of 47, I feel like I have spent my life walking the line. Trying to be everything everyone wants me to be. An upstanding citizen, a good daughter, a good worker, a good wife, a good mother, a good human. Thanks to childhood experiences of molestation and domestic violence in my home, I grew up seeking safety. In his song Cash tells listeners, “I keep my eyes open all the time.” That was me, hypervigilant, living in a state of heightened awareness anticipating every possible scenario and hoping to prove my goodness and worth.

As a child I learned to do what was expected of me in order to stay safe. I was expected to be well behaved, not too visible, just present enough to be a good representative of the family. I brought this image into my adult working life and ultimately into my marriage. When my then husband redirected my work choices, my life that had once been filled with international travel became very small.

To the outside world we looked like a typical American family. Beautiful home, lake front neighborhood, two cars, two dogs, two children and a golf club membership. Even though we were outwardly living our dream, it was becoming more and more apparent that something needed shifting. My standard state of hypervigilant anxiety seemed to be evolving into a complacent sadness, a feeling of isolation. Simultaneously my ex’s temper

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Stolen Moments


seemed to be increasing. He was mad about work, a broken heater system and other things outside of our control. Our kids were facing challenges at school, we were negotiating for counselors and accommodations.

Meanwhile, in my consultancy practice I was working to develop women further into their potential. In leading women to live bliss filled lives, I began to take my own personal inventory. I was advising women on how to fully express themselves, yet it felt like something was missing in my own life. I started where I was, stepping back from career goals to give my ex-spouse extra one on one attention. He responded with even more anger. My effort to help us both find more fulfillment ultimately led to the demise of our relationship. I was looking to reignite our love and instead the life we built came tumbling down. I was devastated. The feelings of isolation and despair grew even stronger.

To make matters more complicated, not only did our marriage fail but now our children’s lives were also disrupted. Split households, new schools, and lost friends resulted in difficulties all the way around. It was a mess. I felt like a hypocrite. How could I guide women to live their potential while everything around me was shattered? My marriage, my work, my home all were dismantled and filled with uncertainty. With this turn of events, my previously diagnosed generalized anxiety worked its way into full blown major depressive disorder.

The anxiety that I had since childhood reared up so strongly, I could no longer manage it. Believe me I tried. Mindfulness, meditation, yoga, good nutrition, psychotherapy, supportive friendships, affirmations – I was imploring my best skills, and still I was drowning in emotional turmoil. From the time of our marital separation in September 2017 up until April 2019, I could not have a conversation about my marriage, my children or my work that did not result in tears. I needed help in a way that went beyond all of the techniques I had learned up to that point.

Somewhere along the timeline in Fall 2018, I had seen a psychiatrist and received the major depressive diagnosis but, in my stubbornness, I swore that I could get better with only the homeopathic practices that had always worked for me in the past. I didn’t want meds. I had gone 46 years without meds, why would I take them now? Days, weeks and months went by. I was barely getting out of bed, motivated only to care for my children. I finally got to the point where I had nothing left. Insignificant income, no savings, no self-esteem and aside from the kids, nothing to live toward. It was in this state of nothingness that I was finally willing to do something different. I contacted my local healthcare provider, was assigned a social worker, a psychiatrist and enrolled in an intensive outpatient therapy program. I began taking antidepressants and am learning to re-wire my brain to engage in life without hypervigilant anxiety.

Anticipating other people’s responses to my actions has been core to my character since the early traumas of childhood. If I am honest, I was afraid that the antidepressants were going to turn me into a feelingless monster. I had a fear that maybe my true personality was cruel, selfish and unkind. What I am discovering is that the kindness in my heart is still very present. I am handling simple feedback easier, feeling less shame and guilt, and can finally talk about my current state without crying in every interaction.

I married for love, we brought two beautiful children into the world and made a life together for 14 years. We divorced, I experienced pain like no other and it woke me up to the truth of my mental state. I feel gratitude for the many homeopathic and traditional medical services that are helping me find my way. I have let go of the need to prove my worth. I am learning to walk the line of my mental health without anxiety as the sole driving force of my existence. While tomorrow is filled with uncertainty, I have clearly turned a corner.

Written by Diane MintzArt by Susanne Gerich

CASSEROLE PEOPLE I have a new mission since I joined the Stop Stigma Sacramento Speakers Bureau in 2013. I want to see mental illness become a casserole illness in my lifetime. We have seen incredible progress since the Stop Stigma Sacramento campaign began, and things are radically different since I was ill throughout my twenties, but... I have a dream!

If my dream came true, people who are addicted or mentally ill won’t be thought of as losers or worthless or hopeless, but as sick people who deserve dignity and treatment. I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder

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Apron & Mitts


when I was 22 and I felt like that during my decade of bipolar chaos and addiction. Was I just weak-willed? It was so frustrating to think I just needed to try harder. It made my conditions worse.

I was once ashamed, now I love to share my story. I’ve learned a lot though the rocky experiences the past 28 years of sobriety. Especially after I married a recovering addict with schizoaffective disorder. Now the lessons never end. We are so blessed because of it. God took our mess and made it a message.

We should have been homeless, institutionalized or dead, yet we are two ordinary people living extraordinary lives. We started our own IT Company in 2005 and have two amazing adult children. I sit on the board for NAMI Sacramento and am involved with several recovery organizations.

So, what is this casserole mission all about? The example I give is when I had a heart attack in 2005. Many caring people came to our home with casseroles. Some of them we had never even met before. Our church had a sign-up list for people who wanted to offer support to me and my family.

Have you ever seen support like that for families that are dealing with mental illness? My family felt they had to keep my bipolar illness secret because of the stigma and misunderstanding. They suffered silently and it was so painful for them. Thankfully the stigma is changing, but people are still afraid of what they don’t understand, and don’t know how to help.

Like many people of faith, I went to my church for help first. For generations there has been an expectation for people with mental illness and addiction issues verses people with physical illness. We are expected to get well from prayer alone. Sadly, when we don’t get miraculously healed, we get blamed or blame ourselves for our sin or lack of faith. Then our conditions get even worse!

The point I try to help people understand is that when I first had chest pains, people did pray for me, but they also expected me to go to the doctor! I believe God can heal anything, but the Good Lord gives us doctors and treatments for physical AND mental health problems! Once we all can grasp that concept, the casserole people will get busy.

I participate in NAMI’s annual walk event every year. This year my team is called “Casserole People.” We will wear oven mitts and aprons to call attention to our mission. I also speak with NAMl’s FaithNet program to start the dialog and provide education and resources at places of worship. I hope more people will realize the value of this mission and contact namisacramento.org for a FaithNet presentation, and learn how to help families who have been silently suffering.

Written by Dutchess BattleArt by Rachel Andersen

My Truth. Yet, STILL I Rise. My name is Dutchess Battle. I was born into a generation of family members who suffered from moderate to severe Mental illnesses.

When I was eighteen, I gave birth to my first born. During his elementary to high school years, he was an honor student, made straight A’s. Bright and very intelligent. It wasn’t

until Markkus was sixteen years old when he received his diagnosis. I was at work. He called and asked if I would purchase him a ticket from Los Angeles home to Sacramento. Mind you, he had been gone the night before, and I had no clue of his whereabouts. In a panic and rage I booked him a Greyhound ticket home.

A few days after his Los Angeles escapade, I received a call from Law Enforcement. The officer explained to me, they had received calls from civilians regarding my son’s outburst of behavior in the community and transferred him to the emergency room for psych evaluation.

This was the beginning of a new journey for the both of us.

I was trying to process, learn and understand the depths of mental illness, going through ups and downs with my son’s excitement episodes; manifested by mental and physical hyperactivity, disorganization of behavior, and elevation of mood; known as the manic phase of bipolar disorder. My sister made the suggestion that I seek help from a family/parent support group. By attending sessions and hearing other’s story, I realized I too suffered from mental Illness.

I called my Doctor, and was diagnosed with chronic depression and anxiety. I didn’t accept the news very well, I was in shock and disbelief. It

14

Chain Breaker


took a while before I could grasp that I was dealing with depression. I was desensitized by the fact that I too, had mental illness.

I thought all those moments of uncontrollable crying, isolation for days at a time, not being able to focus on a single task, unmotivated to go to work, calling in sick, increase in appetite, and experiencing sadness all the time were the norm.

I assumed those emotions were due to, over thinking, the past of growing up as a foster child, being a single mother in a domestic violence relationship, being in an arson fire; and experiencing PTSD from the fire, getting divorced, burying eleven family members in less than two years; having anxiety attacks every time the phone rang, and ultimately managing a teenager with manic bipolar. I assumed what I was experiencing was typical life stress.

I submitted to private sessions with my life coach where I learned practical tools of mindful meditation, breathing techniques, and coping skills that helped manage anxiety and depression. It was in group therapy sessions where I realized, I have been depressed for YEARS and never knew I was suffering.

In 2015, I decided to be the chain-breaker. In my mind it was time my family stopped ignoring the fact our family has a history of mental illness, and we needed to talk about it. I arranged a meeting; called kitchen table talks, where we engaged in comfort food and discussions regarding the hereditary health issues in our family.

In 2016, I started a small women’s group called Awaken Now! Where myself and other mothers in my community would talk about Mental Health concerns in our families, and other stressful facts. We became a support system for one another.

Today I am the founder of Awakening Now! Mental Health Awareness Outreach Organization where we bring Awareness to our communities by providing public based resources, education and a women’s support group. We assist a local organization by serving and feeding the community. I am personally involved with Stop Stigma Sacramento Speakers Bureau where we bring awareness, education, and understanding to our community. I am a certified NAMI family support group facilitator, and involved with the Sacramento Police Community Engagement, where Leaders in the community give support to law enforcement and bridge the gap between cops and the community.

Based on the negative stigma of mental illness, people who suffer are less likely to talk about it due to shame or being looked down upon no longer have to suffer in silence.

Today, I am their voice, and as I share my story, I hope I have brought

awareness, education and understanding to what it’s like living with Mental Illness in an environment where no one talks about it.

Today, I say, “Let’s break the silence. Raise the Awareness and End the stigma NOW!”

Thank You!

Written by Echosaisis AmeganviArt by Marianne Gonzales

From Here to There I was born in a 3rd world country, to parents who sexually and physically abused me. Both parents came from large families with 10 or more siblings, never dealing with their own childhood abuse. In the earliest memory I have of being molested by my father, I was 4 years old. I was also often dropped off at stranger’s houses,

and then picked up an hour or two later, my father collecting cash from these strangers. For a long time, I could not remember what happened in between when I was dropped off, and when I was picked up. Those houses were mostly men from a US Air Force Base. My father was retired and from the Army. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was helping to supplement the income for ‘my family’. I put that in quotation marks, because I hate calling them that. As a result of my childhood abuse, I was diagnosed with PTSD. Yes, you will hear of military veterans having PTSD, but did you know there are far more Adult Survivors of Child Abuse in the United States, than there are military veterans? 1 in 6 adults are Adult Survivors of Child Abuse. PTSD affects a large number of the population, through Child Abuse. Let me go back and tell you why I hate saying “my family”. Most often when I see advertisements on tv, or posts on social media by people I know, their ‘family’ is often portrayed as happy, healthy, whole. I was told from an

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Breaking Free


early age, to never share my feelings. “Boys don’t share feelings, and you can’t trust anyone but us” they would often tell me. This made it harder as an adult, to have to play ‘catch up’ with everyone who already became an adult with more practice at sharing their feelings. When I hear about someone else’s “family”, I get triggered. I want to hide their Facebook post, or I want to leave the room if possible. My heart starts beating faster, and I feel totally alienated. I have to take time out of my personal life to drive and go see a therapist who helps me with normalizing my life. Do you know what it’s like to be in my 20s, or my 30s, or my soon to be 40s, and while my coworkers are talking about going home to see their families or spend time with their hobbies, I’m thinking about me having to drive through traffic to go talk to my therapist, then go home to journal and sleep before work the next day. What am I going to say to my coworkers? Do you know what that feels like? Having to hear them talk about their happy lives, and knowing I can’t just as freely share what’s going on with me? It’s really painful at times. It’s often alienating. I discovered two years ago, that the reason I have such a hard time being in social situations where I’m expected to interact with many people, is because I was also sometimes raped in groups of people. I’ve always had a fascination for abandoned buildings, and it turns out this is (probably) because I was raped in an abandoned building. I can now vividly see the mattress. Eventually in my adult life, I became a Clinical Hypnotherapist. I discovered this memory through Hypnotherapy with my Psychologist. Because I was already a Clinical Hypnotherapist at the time of my therapy, I knew this memory was real. I thought if I just ‘showed up’ for therapy, I would get better just by going. It turns out, there’s a lot of hard work involved on my part, and “it only works, if you work it.” I am a total foodie, I LOVE to cook more than any other indulgence I can think of. Being a foodie, I need to go shop for groceries. Several times I’ve driven to the store, and sat in my parked car sometimes for up to half an hour. I become so overwhelmed by all those people inside, that even being almost 40 years old now, I feel an immense shame for not being able to make myself get out of the car and shop for my own groceries. I end up driving home, never telling anyone what I just did. It is a big triumph for those times I can mentally talk myself through going into and getting out of the store. If I shared that with some of my coworkers or social media, I know there are people who would laugh at me. It’s really hard to push myself to be “normal” like other people around me. It’s exhausting to force myself to not literally run out the door when someone at a store approaches me and reminds me of a time I was abused. When I was 6 years old, I considered suicide. I would never have imagined my life now. Now I stay up late on my days off of work, I can freely come and go from the place I live. Life now, is living the dream that 6 year old didn’t know to have. Sticking around and staying alive was the best decision. I understand the hopelessness that people feel when they consider suicide. I also understand the not knowing what tomorrow holds, has appealed to

humans for countless lifetimes. I am glad I stuck around to find out what today was going to be like for me. I know my recovery depends only on me, and I know I can’t recover if I am not around to do it. If someone were to ask me “What can I do to help support survivors?” I would say, “tell them that whenever they are ready, you are ready and willing to listen to them talk about it.” When they do talk about it, listen and respond without giving any advice.

Written by Emily WinsorArt by Dena R. McKitrick

What it Means to Recover Recovery is…

I guess I never thought I would even ask myself that question, or begin to actualize what it meant. I never thought that recovery was really possible for me, as much as I engaged in advocacy work talking about promise and hope. It seemed like something I could talk about, encourage other people to reach for, but would always be out of my grasp. Something elusive that I always searched for but could never find. The fruit for Tantalus in Hades. The end of a long winding road that

I find myself walking down over and over.

Recovery is…

Not what you would expect. Some people hear that word and picture someone… I don’t know, normal, whatever that means. Someone without symptoms. Someone whose struggles are all in the past. I’ve deconstructed and evaluated that word a lot in years past but never really knew what it meant. I imagined that recovery meant heaven and redemption. That

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Recovery Is


my sorrows would be over, erased. That somehow that last piece of the puzzle would lock into place and everything would suddenly make sense. I would be in a place where life was easy, and joy always bountiful. I thought recovery was the end of everything, the resolution of the journey after a jolting climax. Everything would suddenly be fixed. The scars would fade, the curtain would close and everyone would applaud and throw me roses.

Recovery is…

Hard. Terribly terribly hard. There is so much I do in its name, sometimes with little reward for my troubles. Again and again I find myself failing. Again and again I find myself returning to the same dark place, twisted in the blackness of everything. The voices come back. The monsters return. It seems everything I have worked for has been dismantled in a matter of minutes. I find myself confused and alone in the cacophony of everything. The medications, the therapy, all the coping skills in the world, are not enough to satisfy these creatures. I hear them screaming at me that I am bad, that I am destitute, that I will never ever be free. I dissociate from the world and get lost in confusion. I hate my body, hate my failures, hate myself at the very core. I forget everything good because all the bad is just too much to bear.

Recovery is…

I don’t know. I don’t think anyone does really. It means something different for everyone. Some people just want to be able to live. Survival becomes recovery. Life is recovery. Every little thing I can bring myself to do is recovery. I have my advocacy, my volunteer jobs, my schoolwork. I have my friends, my family, my cats. I have the laughter of children, the whisper of morning, the blush of a warm sunset and finally being able to see the stars. I have comfy sweaters I can pull over my scars, and hot cups of lavender tea. I have my husband who leaves me breathless and delights me with stories of far off lands and bass guitar tricks. I have the miracle of modern medicine. I have my therapist, who always knows just what to say. I might not be perfect, but at least I’m still fighting. At least I’m still here. And I remember sometimes, I guess, I do have things to live for after all.

Recovery is…

What I do with my story. How I make it mean something to myself and to others. The way I am able to take my trauma and turn it into advocacy for change. To try to make the world better. It’s like a magic trick, where you pull a soft white rabbit out of a seemingly empty hat. Recovery is the fact that all of this has purpose. All of this has meaning. If I never suffered, I couldn’t share my story to help make the world more caring and compassionate towards those like me, towards others that suffer. I wouldn’t have made these beautiful connections with amazing people who feel the way I feel. My art and writing would never be the same. I have

not lost friends, only learned which friendships are real. I have felt such an outpouring of love from those around me. My friends Elina and Michelle and my amazing mother and father and brother who sent me cards and blankets and a stuffed blue elephant that I was not allowed to keep in the hospital, but they still meant the world. My friend Buz who was the most marvelous cheerleader any girl could ask for, and who I miss terribly. I have always been supported by so many, who may not completely understand my troubles but love me nevertheless.

Recovery is…

Something I am still figuring out for myself. I’ve realized now that recovery is not what I thought it was. It is not the end of the road, but being able to appreciate the twists and turns. Stopping and feeling the sun on your face and realizing how amazing it is to be kissed by a distant star. Remembering that you have things to live for, even when the world gets dark on you. Even when you don’t know where to go, you just keep moving forward. You carve new paths so that those who travel with you may know the way. You think about new paints and old typewriters and good smelling perfumes. You realize that if you can’t get out of bed that day, can’t do anything at all, that’s okay. You are allowed. The pain in your heart is still there, but it does get easier, or at least it did for me. I am in a place now where I know myself better, can more successfully navigate the oncoming storms. For the storms still come, but at least I have my trusty umbrella and the resilience to get out there in the rain and dance.

Recovery is…

What you make of it. It means something different for everyone, and that’s okay. We figure out, each one of us, what it means as we move forward. Don’t be too hard on yourself. It’s okay to feel hopeless. It’s okay to fail, if you want to call it that. It’s okay to not be normal, whatever that means. I won’t say we are broken, because my therapist hates it when I use that word. Maybe we’re just a bit fractured. But a cracked vase can still be beautiful, still hold a wonderful bouquet of flowers and display it proudly. You don’t have to be perfect all the time. You just have to be.

Recovery is…

the first blossom after a long winter. Recovery is finally being able to get out of bed, sometimes. Recovery is coming home. Recovery is living. Recovery is possible.


Eric MafnasArt by Garvin Tieseler

Falling and getting Back Up!Bipolar Disorder is the name given to my diagnosis. It does not define me. It does not rule my world. Mine is a story of hope. A story of challenges, defeats and victories.

I thought I was a normal child with normal struggles. I was terribly wrong. My first bout with depression didn’t come about until I was 19 years old and a college sophomore at UC Davis. The stress of life was overwhelming. It was my first

attempt at living in an apartment situation away from home. My parents did not have money to put me through school so I was living off of a part time job, student loans, and a lot of Top Ramen. I was literally a starving student. The pressure of midterms, falling behind in my schoolwork and paying bills became too much too handle. Stress is very real and physically draining. It is what causes my insomnia and triggers my depression.

After a few sleepless nights and the upcoming holidays, I found myself very sad and confused. I was sinking and I had no idea what was wrong with me. I was mentally paralyzed for the first time in my life. I cried for no apparent reason. I plunged into a darkness that was devastating. Smiling was just too hard to fathom. I couldn’t look anyone in the eye for fear that they would read my mind and know that I was going crazy. I somehow managed to make my way some 400 miles to my parents’ house. They saw my now skinny and pale appearance for the first time. They must have been terrified.

My parents immediately pulled me out of school and I voluntarily went into a “Care Unit” that specialized in chemical dependency. I thought, at that time, my experimentation with marijuana and alcohol was causing my ailment. This was probably not the best place for me as it was quite depressing and did not address my mental illness. After trying many

medications, my depression subsided and I went on with my life. I quit drinking for over a year which is no easy task at the age of 23. Somehow I managed to piece my life together and was doing quite well. I managed to finish my undergraduate degree, at San Diego State University, and was hopefully ready for the real world. Again, I was quite wrong.

In the Spring of 1992, my parents found themselves in dire straits. They were on the brink of losing the house I grew up in. The economy was in the tank and my father’s business was failing miserably. I graduated from college in May and it should have been the happiest days of my life. It was a farce. On the inside, I was falling apart. I’ll never forget the day my father called me and told me to come up and get my things. The bank was ready to foreclose on our home. It sent me spiraling into the worst depression of my life.

I reached out for help but was told that local county services couldn’t see me for 3 weeks. I needed help now. After 3 days of barely sleeping, I just wanted the pain to end. I don’t know why, but I drove my Toyota pickup truck to one of the highest freeway overpasses in San Diego County. I parked it on the side of the road and walked to the bridge. It was surreal as people started honking at me as I straddled the concrete and dangled my legs over the bridge. In a matter of seconds, I let go and fell approximately 150 feet to the sidewalk below. I really don’t remember the fall, but when I awoke the paramedics were talking to me. Hoping to keep me conscious.

Apparently, I had struck the power lines on my way down and it broke my fall. When I think about it now, I truly believe that the hand of God put those power lines in my path and gently lifted me from striking the pavement. I am so lucky to be alive and to be able to tell my story. Miraculously, I only broke my femur, 2 bones in my arm as well as my collar bone. I could have been paralyzed or even worse. The following weeks were a nightmare. Not only was my mind in a blur, my body was broken in many pieces. I had many visitors who came to see me at the UCSD Medical Center. No one could believe that I could do such a thing. I had so much going for me.

Depression is a debilitating disease and should be treated with the utmost sense of urgency. After many years of physical rehabilitation, I was back to normal. So much so that I was able to train and complete 3 marathon races. My broken leg was not going to hold me back. My mental state, I have come to understand, is the most important thing that deserves the utmost attention. Without mental health, nothing is possible.

I have literally been through dozens of therapists and medications. I’ve been admitted to several hospitals and have been through a few psych wards. I’m here to tell you all that there is hope. I now have a wonderful wife, 2 beautiful children and a thriving career. It is now time to share my

17

The Long Journey to Healing


story with others and be a beacon of light. There is hope, no matter how far you’ve plunged into mental illness. It takes work. I am living proof that there is hope and I hope my story will be a testament to the possibilities of recovery.

May God bless all of you and I sincerely hope my story inspires you to seek out treatment and thrive!

Written by: Erica AtreyaArt by Marj Allen-Koerber

Depression You felt it all slowly slip away.

The colors fade from grey to black.

The light seems a bit dimmer.

Every movement seems long and almost in slow motion.

Everywhere you go, everything you try to do is

so very different from the day before.

The flavor has left the food you once loved.

Aromas seem pungent and reminiscent of bad things past.

Sounds are muffled and at times so painfully loud.

Faces that once reminded you of home now seem to wear the mask of the demons in your nightmares.

You doubt your own worth; you doubt you own sanity.

But no doubt, you have slipped into depression.

Written by Erin O’MearaArt by David Peterson

The House That Depression Built I have always been a bit broody, a quality that in men is often considered mysterious and attractive. In a woman? Well, let’s just say the adjectives aren’t nearly as kind. It took a long time to understand why I was the way I was. I could be perfectly fine one minute and the next, I was angry and hated everything. I couldn’t actually explain to my parents what I was feeling or why.

At some point in high school, I came to the realization that I was depressed. I assumed it was the usual teenage melancholy. I didn’t have many friends and had low self-esteem. We didn’t talk much about mental health in those days, and when we did, there

was a stigma attached to it. I kept my feelings to myself and did my best to act “normal” when around others. I hid this all from my family and the few friends I had.

My depression got worse in college. I struggled with my science classes because of my dyslexia. I could understand the concepts and theories, but would often have to reread entire pages and paragraphs three or four times. I couldn’t take notes in class because I would miss what was being said while I was writing. Memorizing chemical structures was nearly impossible. When multiple choice tests were put in front of me, I would freeze. I thought I knew the answers but somehow a list of choices just jumbled everything in my brain. I had always been an A student and I was struggling to just get passing grades. My coping mechanism of choice was alcohol. I drank just enough to take the edge off, but not so much that I couldn’t function or study.

18

Bright and Joyous Entanglement

19

House of Depression


More life struggles came. More battles with my illness were fought. In my attempt to learn about my now-ex’s bipolar disorder, I learned a lot about depression. I saw a lot of my own behaviors in the research I read. I had never taken medication and I had never been so depressed. I couldn’t function on a regular basis. Sure, I had days where I didn’t get out of bed, but those were rare. I had a successful career and had made some good friends as an adult. Even so, I continued to keep my depression to myself.

In 2015, I injured my lower back. I assumed it was just a muscle strain and gave myself a few weeks to recover. I continued to train for a marathon, a goal I had set for myself in 2013 when I started running again. I completed the marathon, but I spent the last six miles barely able to lift my legs off the ground without pain searing through my body. It wasn’t until a few weeks later when I got the results of my MRI that I saw the cause: two torn discs in my lower back.

The weeks, months, and years that followed were excruciating, both physically and mentally. My depression and anxiety got worse. I struggled to get out of bed and go about my day. I am fortunate to work from home, which has been a lifesaver for me. The pain was difficult to manage many days, which resulted in the house falling to pieces. The chores I normally did weekly didn’t get done at all. My wife did her best to help, but things got missed. I am also incredibly anal about certain tasks, which is also a byproduct of my anxiety and depression.

When so much else felt out of my control, the one thing I could control was how the house looked. I obsessed over the amount of clutter on the dining table, the water spots on the kitchen counter, the dust on the end tables. These were the things visible to anybody who came over. I never wanted anyone to think we didn’t clean. The office and guest room? Well, as long as nobody was going into them, they could be overlooked. It was the public areas that needed to give the impression that everything was fine, even when it was far from it.

In the middle of a cleaning spree one day, I looked around my office and had a realization. The state of the house directly represented my mental state and how I presented myself to others. To most who know me, I am a happy, funny, person. They see the kitchen and the living room, the “clean and together” me. Those closest to me, they see the sadness, the anxiety, the mood swings, the inability to leave the house because I’m either too exhausted or too on edge to be around strangers. They see the dusty, chaotic office, with the cluttered desk and crap spread all over the place.

I have finally started talking more about my depression to people. I’ve found so many who have a deeply personal experience with this illness that it gives me a lifeline on the days I need it most. Hindsight is 20/20 and I realized my ability to exercise and be active was my biggest ally…an

ally I lost with my back injury. After a cascade of other injuries, I’m finally running again.

I know I will always have to manage my depression, but I have a better understanding now of what I need. It isn’t the same recipe for everyone and I know that it is something I will have to constantly evaluate. I’m learning to not let my to-do list overwhelm me. I’m also learning that I’m probably the only person who cares if there’s dust on my tv stand. I’m learning to be gentle with myself and give myself a pass when I feel overwhelmed. When I do get overwhelmed? I do something that brings me joy. I play with my dog. I go into the garden and look at my roses. I sit on the deck with my wife and remember I’m loved.

Written by Eugenia SadlerArt by Dianne Mattar

Gena’s Journey My earliest memory of mental health entering my life was at the age of 6. You know it as anxiety. I had a suicide attempt at the age of 19 followed by a hospital stay. I spent 19 years self-medicating with drugs, I started my recovery at the age of 29.

My journey in recovery has been a slow, never-ending process. I was diagnosed with major depression with suicidal tendencies, BPD, PTSD, panic disorder and of course my favorite, anxiety. At that time, I decided that I would take medication to help manage my mental health and that it

was the best option for me. I have been med-compliant and drug free for twelve years.

I take all my medication as prescribed. All medication changes are done with my doctor, not by me alone. In the beginning I took the pills because

20

Bottled Dreams Bursting Forth


I was sick and tired of being sick and tired. The doctor said medication would help. Three years into my recovery journey I had a mental breakdown, and earned myself 2 hospital stays. I then got serious about my recovery and got into action. I attended NAMI’s Peer to Peer and began to break my denial of having mental illness. NAMI is the National Alliance on Mental Illness. All their services are open to anyone affected by mental health illness, and they do a lot of education. I have been working for NAMI for six years now. In Peer to Peer group I learned to say I live with mental illness without it defining my life. The coping skills I learned in Peer to Peer prepared me for my next neurological disease.

At six years into my recovery journey, I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis and with that came a whole other basket of symptoms, medications, and MS causes depression making it harder to treat. But I have the best medical team ever.

I have been traveling all over California telling my story of living with mental illness for six years. I am so rewarded by helping stop the stigma telling my story to others. And I am building coping skills through treatment. I feel my depression on a daily basis, some days needing a nap to rejuvenate or some art to provide some uplifting therapy. Other days I feel like there are ten wet blankets holding me down and cement for shoes. I remember having so little desire to live that I would quit taking care of myself; no bathing and no eating were the top two. Today I eat right and have a morning routine. Having insomnia and fatigue at the same time is no cup of tea; can’t get out of bed, and just can’t sleep. So now I use the Insight Timer meditation app on my phone and I get at least 3 good hours of sleep now.

Crowds are not easy on me, so some of my coping skills are shopping fast with a list and giving myself permission to go home at any time. The wind can change direction at any time and I will start crying. Oops must of caught a feeling that I am not sure what it is. Today I can feel that feeling, and know that it is going to pass.

Acceptance is key to all my problems; if I can accept how I am feeling at that moment I know that everything is going to be okay. About a year and a half ago I started having more bad days than good, and decided to take my recovery to the next level. My newest safe place is my mental health clinic. I am learning so much there. I am now at the clinic at least 2 days a week seeing the doctor, my peer support partner, and my counselor. And then there is group therapy in between all that. I go to Peer Support Group, Trauma Therapy, Writing Group, Art & Wellness, and Mindfulness Meditation. Group therapy gives me my coping skills, but what is even better is that I am around my peers who accept me without judgement and are in recovery too!

Before recovery all my relationships were stormy, today I have real friends, and a family I gained from going to my clinic. Recovery for me with my mental health will be on-going. The family that I am building is priceless. Today I took one more step in stopping the stigma that kept me from getting into recovery until I was 29. I am no longer in denial. I live with mental illness and that is okay!

Written by Gustavo AyalaArt by Marlene Holtshouser

The Seed Once upon a time, I had the greatest love affair.

She knew how to console me and wipe away feelings of despair. Her color was amber, hues of gold and clear.

So fluid in motion like the river I know, at first I felt calm, with absolutely no fear. But

to my dismay, her sinister and repulsive face appeared.

She devoured, with one giant gulp, my every hope, dream and good deed. Family, friends and peers snarled and gave their respective unapproving glances. Wow, I have sabotaged many valuable chances.

A reboot is called for from Above, so jail-time was the prescription. While inside, staring at cinder block walls, I studied the Scriptures. A discovery of hope was the Mother Lode.

I hit the pavement hard, changing my perspective to recovery mode. Setbacks, mistakes and misfortunes are plenty and evolving.

Making my diligence and purpose more than problem solving. Changing my behaviors and reactions daily and profoundly.

Finally, exhaustively, at night, I sleep soundly.

21

Seeds of Recovery


A growing tree, rooted in lived experiences and new found wisdom.

No longer living in my dark past, but, embracing it, basking in freedom. At last, this phoenix has risen.

That ghoulish spirit named alcohol broke me down to my core and shadow. But now, I am a mentor, and proudly, one to follow.

Planting The Seed for one to sow.

It is my ultimate goal to watch you recover and grow.

Written by Andee JaideArt by Richard Munoz

Hope Sometimes Comes in Human Form I sat across from my therapist yesterday, ragged stuffed monkey in my lap, monster socks on my feet, like I have every week for a few months now. I sat there and listened to the cacophony of warnings in my head telling me not to trust her; telling me we would only get hurt in the long run yet again.

Yes, again. There have been lots of hurts in our lifetime.

For us, repeated early childhood traumas led to dissociative identity disorder (DID). DID is the most complex of the dissociative disorders and memory loss and presence of two or more separate distinct personality states are two of the unique symptoms of the disorder. I don’t remember a lot and with so many of us sharing this vessel, very often feel like I am not

driving the body — that someone else, with their own set of beliefs and ways of being, is.

I can’t stop what they are doing and I can’t change it. I can yell and scream that I don’t agree with what they choose to fill their time doing, but truly that won’t get me anywhere other than an internal screaming match. Really I’ll get much farther if I keep my voice calm and explain why I think whatever they are doing is a bad idea. But I also have to accept that my argument may still not change the outcome. They may still do things with which I am not comfortable (self-harm, wearing certain clothing, cussing excessively, etc.) and I have to be ok with that to some degree. I have to live with everything every one of us does. We may be separate and different, but we all share this body and we all have to take responsibility for what each of us does even when we don’t have control. We may be separate, but we are still responsible for our actions.

In listening to our therapist talk about a vulnerable subject, and simultaneously listening to the chatter in my head, I zoned out- I dissociated. I lost touch with the present reality. I felt myself detach, float above the body, saw it staring at the floor of her office, and the next thing I knew I was standing up, obviously getting ready to leave. I know an alter (alternate personality) came forward and picked up the conversation where I left off. If I think hard I can sense the basics of what they talked about, but it wasn’t me and I can barely make sense of how the conversation played out. I don’t know exactly why I switched at that moment. I know the conversation was uncomfortable and I felt fuzzy, my head and eyes hurt, but I didn’t mean to blink and exit stage right leaving another there to deal with it. It just happened.

This therapist is still new to us. We’re still learning to trust her; we’re still trying to feel safe in her presence. And she’s working hard to help us feel safe. She’s willing to talk to whoever walks through her door and anyone else who might show up in session. She’s open and she’s consistent. And she listens. She hears and remembers everything. She even hears things we don’t say. She reads body language like a medium in a tarot card booth at a medieval festival. She is intuitive and smart.

And her willingness to be a little vulnerable with us is paying off. She’s modeling that there is safety in sharing. She is showing the little ones in this body that she is safe, that they can attach, that they can trust her. And they want to. But they are being watched over by others who are not so small and don’t want attachment quite so bad. They are being tempered and held back, told they cannot tell their secrets. These older parts are insistent, but are ultimately only trying to keep us all safe.

But this new therapist isn’t fazed; not at all. She’s patient and kind and willing to wait. And this new beginning brings with it a new hope. Hope for the future, hope for healing, hope for life.

22

Andee the Lotus


Living with DID is hard. Feeling like you have to hide all the time because Hollywood has portrayed those with DID as out of their mind serial killers doesn’t make vulnerability and transparency in everyday life very easy. Like most people, the others in this body just want to live life freely. They want to be acknowledged, to have friends, and to feel important. We aren’t serial killers. We aren’t dangerous. We aren’t “crazy.” DID is a child’s mind natural defense to extreme trauma. DID is a child’s very creative solution to an unbearable problem.

Young parts in this body just want to be held and be read to. They want safety and love, just like any other child. And they are children. They have a child’s understanding of things, they talk different, walk different, and they have their own ideas and hopes and dreams. We have soft things for them to cuddle with, clothing with cartoon characters they enjoy for them to feel special, books and Legos and toys.

But the young parts in this body also remember the worst of the past. The things that no child should be made to remember spin circles and do donuts in their timid little heads. The dark underbelly of humanity has gotten to these kids and they remember unspeakable acts. My heart aches for them as they cry and hold in these horrible secrets that claw at the walls in their minds and leave gouges in our skin.

Still in the midst of the darkness of the past is this therapist who seems to truly get it. Who is just waiting to help hold the secrets. Who is waiting to bear witness and teach them how to keep the secrets safe, as well as themselves.

And she gives us hope. Hope for a brighter future and a closed door to the past.

Written by Jamie ReskofArt by Gin Parrick

Cuei was a frame silver-gelatin on plastic fed through spools and into a machine

i’d get one simple chance for illumination that everything should be blindingly revealed of me

how could i be recognized from the others through the hot lamps?

i am only part of an ongoing narrative; i am less than one second of information and not so crucial.

it’s hard not to think of myself this way especially after being cut— edited by the money, of less use than those before or after.

who knows, maybe i’m the moment where the lady blinks her eyes or the man begins to look toward the door— certainly not crucial.

less than a second.

oh, but i plan for other eyes and a cooler light so silver now into lead, alchemy dictates my own light

form and function co-annihilate

because some days it passes through you, searing your only meaning but at other times, you must be the only mystery.

23

Secrets Revealed

http://eyeballcasserole.blogspot.com/2006/12/cue.html


Written by Jennifer KingArt by Cheryl Stanley

THE INTERVIEW State of California, San Francisco

Tuesday, April 14, 2019, 1:35 p.m.

Instantaneous Descent

I bombed it. I have to face my friends and supervisors, let them know that, again, I am pathetic and incapable. I can’t be in San Francisco anymore. This city is forever poisoned; it is a

scornful reminder of my failure, and I absolutely cannot come here again. Why did I take the ferry? Now I have to hate it. I used to like it here. Shame.

I have to escape. I have to leave this job—this reality. I cannot hold myself together nor face them. After a year of medical leave, now three horrifying interviews. I’m sure they are proud to recommend me. Any moment they’ll be done with me. I’m a pathetic liability.

I will leave my job. I will leave California and go to New York; flee to another world far from all associations—start anew. I will be punished for existing. Poor. I should be an artist. I am failing at everything, so at least I can fail artistically. I was compelled by passion! How noble I am! The sympathy it will garnish. Yes, I left to follow my passion! Art is my passion! Sure. So brave.

I will be miserable there, bottom out and trapped even more so than now. I deserve it. I deserve the discomfort because... Because at the end of a sentence. New York. I will be violated. I will be violated, and I will deserve it. No, I will not. Why would I think that? Nevertheless, I will do it to myself. I will go there, it will happen, and I will victim blame myself. You knew this would happen. Look what you did.

Maybe I should move to Arizona with my family. I cannot take care of myself, so I’ll be a parasite. They can take care of me under my guise of helping my dad and sister. I can be a good influence on my nieces. Ha. I am not a good influence. At least they will be eccentric.

Maybe I leech off my current relationship. He’s incredibly caring, but has the white knight complex. He will not cast me out, and I know I can adeptly navigate his needs. First, these “foster” children. They are unbearable, and I cannot take care of myself with them around. At least I do not have to be intimate. I hate my body. Sometimes I love him. I think I do? I remember I felt that way before. My best friend said I’ve never been. I don’t share everything with her. His touch does bring me peace of mind. Is it purely mechanical? I miss my ex-fiancé.

That is not fair to the kids, to my boyfriend. Oh, god. I am a horrible person.

Why do I bother? I cannot function. I am too depressed. Truly, what is the point of enduring this? What is the point? Wake up. Work. Hate life. Hate work. Hate tomorrow. Hate today. Hate myself. Do it all over again tomorrow. Endure moment to moment with the next episode’s hunting, waiting. Why do this?

STOP IT. STOP IT. What about..? No. STOP.

The Skills

1) Objectively, I am aware I do not always feel this way. There’s no getting in touch with those memories right now, but they are there. I know a different state of mind—not always this. All those classes—you know you feel differently. You are incredibly powerful and capable. You are a powerful force. Look, you’re using skills.

2) This is an episode. It will pass in approximately two hours. Breathe. Wait. This is a response to an interview. It is not based in reality.

3) Breathe. Attune to body signals. Repeat.

I am using mindfulness. My therapist will be proud I’m sitting with this discomfort.

This is my disorder.

This is my disorder.

I will not give up. This is my disorder.

I am seeing myself in black and white. I’m not vile but suffering and in pain. Recall a memory of my doctor. “I see a person who is suffering tremendously.” I phone dad. He reacts to my paranoia. “Don’t move to New York. Jennifer…” No dad. I’m purging. It’s not real.

24

In Ter View


Remission

Perhaps I should restrict my employment goals and accept failure. No, I need to recognize limitations and prioritize significant amounts of self-care. That’s the only way I can function.

A song on repeat for the next seven hours. This song exclusively for the next three weeks.

In 2006, I believe I caused an accident, not merging properly. I think I did. That must have been what happened—cars never came around the corner. As I watch my rearview mirror, still. Is that what happened? I’m so terrible. Shame overwhelms me. Why is this arising in the midst of post-interview misery? You are in an episode. Breathe.

Another flashback of impurity and disgust. Why did I do that? I shake it off, my hands expunging this memory. Remember the time I felt Mary Queen of Scots inside me? The burden and anxiety to protect her people? I stare into the mirror. What personality will I be today? Two minutes later—exhalation.

Epilogue

Eight years of therapy. Eight years of therapy, yet this episode happened 14 days ago. I have skills to recognize I am on this rollercoaster, so no drastic measures will occur. Eight years of therapy.

The skills work, but no matter how I rewire these reactions, I descend into this vast abyss instantaneously. We cannot control our thoughts, but we can control how we react and how to perceive them. This is the essence of recovery: recognize thoughts and body sensations to identify and counter negative impulses. It will end. You’re in an episode. It will end.

Find the right therapist. Understand your trauma and put in the work. Push through your rage, understand yourself and most importantly, setting boundaries is not selfish. You are resilient.

Written by Jennifer McHenryArt by Erica Atreya

Exposure Exposure: Some definitions according to my Random House Webster’s College Dictionary; 2nd edition, 1999

The condition of being exposed without protection to the effects of harsh weather

Laying open to the action or influence of something.

Disclosure; as of something private or secret.

The act of presenting a photosensitive surface to light.

My mind, at times, seemed to be just a swirl of memories. Memories of sounds, anger,

screaming, hitting, banging. Visions of eyes looking at me in anger or with smiles insisting I smile too, or just some undefined expression on someone’s face that evokes a latent desire to run away. Memories of bearing witness to others’ trauma and shattered broken memories of my own trauma. Memories of inappropriate touches, kisses that were not appreciated, spankings, smacks, shoves, belts, and hands, things that cause me to never want to be touched again, except I get desperate for safe touch.

I grew up not knowing anything could be better or different, and it’s not like there were no happy times. That’s the confusion. I grew up with abuse; with the ambivalence that comes with protectors who love you, hurt you, apologize and then repeat the whole thing again. I was exposed to the storm of abuse trauma before I can even remember. Children don’t know what to do with such conflicting emotions. I bragged about how wonderful my parents were (they did have some very good qualities), and I split the rest off and tucked it all in locked boxes within my soul. I was essentially locking up all of the shame of my life and of my family and making a false story for safety’s sake. The main motivators in my childhood were to hide

25

Illuminated


my family’s mess from everyone and thus my own mess too, and to hold my family together, to never let it come unglued and splinter into pieces. My childhood, looking back, appears soaked in fear and shame, with smiles, jokes, gifts and pretty dresses plastered over it all to hide everything and prevent exposure.

But those kinds of secrets, locked in the boxes of my soul, are not easily contained. I added to the secrets of childhood trauma by permitting more shame and personal secrets to fill my soul in order to hold people close to me. Learning to try to hold a family together at all costs when I grew up, daily experiencing the fear of losing everyone I thought I loved caused me to put very unhealthy mental efforts, seen mainly only in my own mind, into staving off relatively ungrounded fears of losing my husband and children. I was still stuffing secrets into those boxes into my forties. My soul was kind of like one of the canisters of film waiting to be developed in my father’s self-built darkroom in our garage. There were so many scary images imprinted but still hidden, with latent emotions, talents, stories and gifts rolled up with them.

And here’s the crux, I lived in fear of such exposure. I would read those verses in the Bible about God exposing things hidden in darkness to the light and shrink back. That sounds dreadful! “Please don’t expose me!” I would scream in my soul. How was I going to face this? Boxes full of secrets don’t stay closed though, they started breaking up and very dark secrets started coming out. But I had mistakenly assumed He was going to expose them and humiliate me and my family. That is not what is happening. Let the secrets out into the light, in safe environments with the right mix of safety nets, kindness and love, and trust becomes possible while humiliation disappears. I am finding as each secret is exposed to the light, taken out of the old locked boxes, that I am beginning to heal and to find myself, my whole story.

Things weren’t brought to the light for my punishment or other’s punishment (although I wished so sometimes), but for healing. Surrounded by therapists, emotional health classes, support groups, a solid supportive church family, scripture and lots of prayer as well as a newly discovered creative side of myself, the secrets are slowly being brought to the light, healed and are becoming ground for beautiful things to grow. I’m trading my ashes in for beauty.

I was a victim of abuse, a witness to others’ abuse, and my life was silently driven by those secrets for more than 40 years. Now I see myself as a survivor on my way to becoming a thriver as my therapist puts it, exposed to good, healing light.

Written by Jennifer Siazon-ArguellesArt by Vanessa Alford

Low Pay and No Boyfriend/SpouseThe reasons that I don’t feel that I’m the success story that I am are because I only had low-paying work. I never really had a boyfriend except Craig and I’ve never been married. However, at a San Francisco business, I opted for low earnings to stay on Social Security Disability (SSDI under the Social Security Administration) to regroup from racking my brain for university graduate wages/salary. Police officer and stripper are amongst my work history and all my work pay to this point merely reflected no diplomas except a California High School

Diploma and some job experience.

In retrospect, how can I expect to earn as much as someone with a Bachelor’s Degree without having one, and with only clerical level employment in my work history? I have college credit and passed the California High School Proficiency exam in 1983 a year before I was supposed to graduate high school.

During the “tail-end” of working for a San Francisco business, I began to plan for Bachelor’s Degree wages. I had terminated my employment at numerous jobs because I asked for “Fair Market Value” pay when I learned that I was getting paid less than another co-worker for doing the same work after I became mentally ill in 1989. In hindsight, I guess my behavior couldn’t insist on such high wages without graduating UC Berkeley or San Francisco State University, both of which I have attended. I currently have two Associate Degrees from City College of San Francisco in General Studies and Social and Behavioral Sciences. By the time I left that

26

Beauty From Within


employment permanently, I added three State licenses, three certificates and a French Certificate of Accomplishment from City College of San Francisco and I am working on a third Associates Degree in Economics for transfer to a four year college. I became a Cosumnes River College student about two years after becoming a resident of Sacramento County, fueling my persistence for Bachelor’s Degree salary. Almost all of my college/university coursework was done prior to the onslaught of my mental illness.

However, my priority was to find a male significant other since 1989. But I developed a mental illness. I’m 53 years old and still, I’ve never had a boyfriend except disappointing Craig who slept with one of my relatives. I was a Manic Depressive then while he was a Schizophrenic. I’ve had approximately five dates in my whole life and they went badly. It was either that I wasn’t attracted to them or they weren’t attracted to me by the end of the date. I’ve had about 10 marriage proposals after I became mentally ill, and before at the Army base where I went to Boot Camp at 16 years old. (I had two close relatives propose to me twice both before and after I became mentally ill, which was sick.)

Several relatives stole all my potential boyfriends by lying to them. For some reason I assumed that the Army and Marines sent assigned boyfriends. I joined the Army on my 16th birthday when I became an Emancipated Minor on Severe Neglect. (My family continued to neglect me after I became emancipated except for my mom and brother in the last three years.). There is gang involvement, teen pregnancy, mental illness, and drug abuse in my family. I achieved an Honorable Discharge from the Army but I didn’t know until much later. I was led to believe that I got a Dishonorable Discharge and still get confused about it today.

To conclude, I have resolved much of my depressing issues and am given a psychiatric injection every 21 days for my Voices now. I “keep trucking” with more “pep.” After all, I have proven myself in school, the work place and in the Mental Health System. Lastly, I am finally overcoming my life-long depression and my perception doesn’t seem so bleak. Carpe Diem! I’m ready to seize the day after I obtain my third Associates Degree ending my academic life.

Written by Jessie Love Art by Terry McGarvey

Healed Heart: Rejected to be Redirected to Love

The love between a Dad and his daughter is a bond that cannot be measured. I think when a Dad looks at his daughter, he prays that no one would ever cause her heart to hurt. Perhaps this love increases his awareness of how valuable women are and shouldn’t be ill-treated. If he ever mistreated a woman, I think that he mentally asks for forgiveness. Additionally, I think that when a daughter looks at her Dad, she learns identity. Furthermore, she learns how a man is supposed to protect, provide, nurture, care, and love her through life’s

phases. He’s a comforting reassurance when needed.

Though I don’t recall if I was traumatized by the divorce, in my younger years I seemed to have had a nice relationship with my Dad. Why? I can remember him coming to visit after the divorce. Each visit was always an anticipatory event, yet I rarely stayed awake to see him walk through the door. What would alarm me of his presence? I smelled his cologne. Even thinking about it now, it makes me smile because I’d wake up saying, “Dad!” and see him smilingly looking at me almost eyeball to eyeball. Nothing anyone could say would make me turn away from my Dad. I always believed in him. While I never liked white, I distinctly remember that he bought me this white canopy bedroom set that I proudly utilized.

Sadly, by the fourth grade our relationship changed. I don’t know if it was because my Mom had remarried or he was getting remarried, but my Dad started acting differently and distant. Even when my stepfather had a drug-induced rage, tried to kill my Mom, had us on the run homeless and living in shelters, I called my Dad asking for help and he refused. Dagger!

27

Taking Heart


Not only did my Dad stop coming to visit, we rarely talked if I didn’t call. Always reaching out, I started to feel like my Dad didn’t want me. For a little girl, that was a very dangerous position to be in because it opened up the wrong kind of vulnerability and seeking. I went into a very deep depression with strong suicidal tendencies. My self-esteem was close to non-existent. I’d tell my Mom, “A stray dog wouldn’t want me” since my Dad didn’t. It’s peculiar how the universe made that BS, Belief System, turn out to be quite untrue because every dog that I had in California was a stray that gravitated towards me and loved me deeply. Still, a dog doesn’t replace a human. Thoughts of suicide saturated me every time I thought about, and kept trying to pull, my Dad towards me to support, approve, and love me. Even when ninety-five percent of our conversations left me feeling like death would be best, the phrase, “He’s still your Dad” kept me chasing after him to be in my life. It was a losing tug of war.

Throughout high school, he told me, “You won’t make it...” Anytime I had a good report, instead of support, he tore me down. Reverse psychology to push me? Well, it helped me feel ugly and rejected. I was smiling on the outside, depressed and suicidal on the inside. Before graduation, I attempted suicide. It was one of my best “failures” ever! Nevertheless, all of this instability transferred to me chasing after men who did not deserve my presence let alone my love. I sought value, acceptance, and “broken” love via toxic relationships. It didn’t matter that I didn’t like, nor really wanted the guy. I’d mentally separate myself from my body in order to accept the so-called affection, because “at least somebody wanted me.” I was involved in many inconsequential relationships and raped twice, once on my birthday. Rape is traumatizing and I created more mental damage by letting males misuse me just to get themselves off. I believed that I was not valuable. I’d see and ignore the red flags only to ask, “Do you even want me?” when I already knew the answer. Regardless of which body part they used, I’d mentally “leave my body” until they were through. Psychologically tormented, I wished that I would die in the act because there was no genuine pleasure for me. As tears flowed down my face, each experience drove me deeper into depression. One year in Texas, I left my identification in the house and went to jump off a freeway overpass. No ID meant only my tattoo would identify me. I was drained, tormented, and triggering depression and suicidal tendencies by accepting the toxicity from males. On the edge of a severe mental breakdown, I wrote a forgiveness message entitled “The Sea of Forgetfulness.”

Although my biological Dad never attended a pivotal moment, I was blessed with strong and healthy “Dads” and “Uncles” who did. They accepted and helped me see that I’m worth a wonderful love. These men showed that they were proud to call me their “daughter.” While we did not always get along, my perspective shifted to have a better comprehension of loving me. Learning to love me was not easy, but I knew that my efforts

would be worth it. Even if the timing seemed late, thankfully, I lived long enough to feel my heart healed! No, I didn’t initiate the wounds, yet healing was my responsibility. Rejection is truly Redirection to a greater blessing! Even though I’m not married yet, I have more clarity on what to accept from a healthy and secure man who will love my peculiarity and me. Gratefully, suicide is no longer my option and I actively practice getting rid of toxic connections that feed trauma instead of soothing my soul. I don’t put on a façade as if my light always shines. Being enlightened with authenticity, comeback power, awareness, self-forgiveness, humor, and relentless will, my mirror now reflects an irreplaceable, beautiful, and intelligent gift determined to see what all can happen in my life’s journey regardless of my depression experiences. LOVE continues…

Written by JP PriceArt by Anne Duncan

FlyHow old were you when you learned to fly?

No?

I was about 6 years Old and it came in handy since…

I didn’t know how to drive.

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Becoming Grounded


Flying above the danger And the fires with intense Heat … was harrowing.

But the alternative, staying put, was even Worse.

I could go to places far away and I was in Control.

For I flew solo.

Funny, I didn’t even Notice that …the

Only one in the skies… Not my brother, my mom, nor my

Grandparents; that lived just down the Street and over two blocks.

Many years later… I discovered someone who could help,

To explain the reasons for flight and The inability to stay

Grounded… Even when there was no danger in sight.

Turns out flying

Solo…while in an Enclosed space

Is now called depersonalization disorder; Or simply a way to cope without the benefit of flying lessons.

Thinking back it is so faint, that I’m not even sure it ever happened?

Yet, occasionally, I still take it out for A flight, but just for a moment to Catch a breath … then I’m back

Down to the ground.

Written by Kim Frisella Art by Amanda Baker

My “Psyche On The Run” November 9.

That’s the day I met him.

My assigned doctor, in the hospital the first time I voluntarily admitted myself. My first official shrink.

We developed a bond, this patient and doctor, from 2 different worlds. Ironically, he was opening his own practice right around the time of my discharge. I was the first patient to

follow him from inpatient to his start-up clinic. Over the years, we drove each other nuts: times when I didn’t comply with my meds, or he didn’t return my calls.

I saw how busy he was, and often referred to him as my “psyche on the run.” In fact, the clinic’s number is still under that in my contacts in my phone. A few years later it became obvious that something had to give; no human being could continue the busy schedule the running psyche did.

So it shouldn’t have surprised me when he said he was closing his clinic. But it did.

And it broke my heart.

I think it broke his a little bit, too,

We had learned from each other. I saw his humanity and let go of the SuperDoctor cape I thought he wore. I introduced him to the importance of Girl Scout cookies in American culture and warned him about the “cougar” – an older woman I was one inpatient with.

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Humanity Ahead


Four years later. January 4. The day I was his last patient in his soon-to-be-closed clinic.

I’m so thankful he was there for me for so long.

I’ve got a new doctor now, so my medical care hasn’t changed much.

But I don’t think my heart will ever be the same.

Written by Laura BemisArt by Keith Cromie

Don’t Judge a Book by its CoverAs the voices get louder and my mind drifts away, I lose touch with reality. Then moments later, or was it hours, I don’t know, I feel a slight pain on my arm. I move my long sleeve and see what will be another scar and another explanation to myself, and maybe to those who love me. I pull down my sleeve and pretend everything is okay, after all, it

isn’t the first, second or third scar. It will be lost among the many.

Time may go by but the shame remains. For me, shame is more than an embarrassment. It is a very deep rooted and painful feeling that I am very familiar with. Shame is part of who I am. It can be debilitating. It is an emotion that is full of guilt. However, shame has taught me great life lessons. As you have read, part of me is a Cutter or person who practices self-harm. I am in remission but there is a part of me that can’t fully escape the self abuse.

Because my arms and legs have numerous scars, I use to keep them hidden with long sleeves and pants. Summers were especially hot because short sleeves were not an option. Through therapy and self talk, slowly I began to push up my sleeves until I, once again, could wear short sleeves. The scars are still there and some days the sight of them is too much and I must cover up once again.

One day, when I worked for a local newspaper as a photographer, I was on a photo shoot that required images of inside a restaurant. I was wearing a polo short and my arms were fully exposed. Concentrating on my work, I did not notice a woman sitting by herself in a booth right next to where I was shooting. I was joking with the waitresses, trying to get them to smile for the camera. As I began to wind up the photo shoot, the woman in the booth called me over. In a very soft, almost a whisper of a voice she asked “how did you stop hurting yourself and become a productive member of society? I am a therapist, and I have patients that self-harm.” I stared at the woman. I was amazed and all the shame came back. I had worked for the newspaper for 30 years and never really thought I was unproductive. But in that moment I felt so self conscious and ashamed that my entire mind shifted. I could not think. All I could say is “I have not stopped but am trying to deal with it.”

I went to my car and started obsessing on the words ‘productive in society.’ I felt like a small child who had done something terribly wrong. This incident had me again wear my long sleeves for a brief time. Anger set in and I kept thinking of what I should have said to that mystery lady. I wish I had let the woman know that my outer appearance does not define who I am or if I am productive! ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover’.

As a society, we need to stop shaming people, and seeing each other as more alike than different. Assumptions get us nowhere. I learned from this experience that even the most educated people, the people who are supposed to understand others, still need to learn. I had the perfect opportunity to let that woman know who I was and how productive I was. To teach her that some things are not what they appear to be. She had only seen me for maybe five minutes and thought she knew my productivity. That is true ignorance.

Now, when I wear short sleeves and when someone comments on my scars, I try not to make excuses or give false stories. Notice the word ‘try’ in that statement. In some cases I have a long way to go; yet, I will persevere. I still self-shame at times. I believe this is normal but overcoming the shame can be a process.

I grew up with shaming as a way of control. I am not sure if my parents shamed me when I was young, but I know I felt the fear of not being perfect. This fear made me self-shame from an early age. And, to this day,

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My Shame is True


I find that I have such high expectations of myself, that when I don’t meet those expectations I feel ashamed. I must have learned this somewhere.

We all experience shame. I believe the only way to get past it is to share the experiences with someone we trust to ‘get over’ or move past the emotion of shame. I am trying to get past the self-shame of small incidents like getting a B instead of an A in grade school, to the large events in my life like being sexually assaulted. No one deserves to be assaulted. Yet, I blame myself for the assault. Moving past this type of shame is not easy; but, it is necessary. I find it easier to forgive someone else for their actions then to forgive myself. My hope is that one day I can stop experiencing self-shame. And when this happens, I believe my self-esteem and self-worth and self-respect will increase dramatically. Then I will feel more confident, and self-assured.

Written by Leah SilkArt by Michelle Lueth

Curses and BlessingsI participated in a NAMI Peer to Peer Class for people who have lived experience with mental illness. One of the exercises was listing the number of diagnoses one had in one’s lifetime by a show of raised hands. There were still a number of hands raised even at 10. I am one of those cases, and in my case, my mental health providers got it all wrong. In some cases

it was just plain neglect. But in other cases, it was the lack of information about Trauma Disorders that fueled the repeated misdiagnoses. I saw many mental health providers in my life.

I was diagnosed with Major Depression with Psychotic Features, then ten years later, with Schizoaffective disorder. After 20 years of being overmedicated, I worked with my psychiatrist to decrease the medication

because of severe side effects and feeling generally dull-witted. He worked with me to reduce the dosage to a fraction of my original dose, and then, I forgot to take my then very low dose of antipsychotic medication! It was unusual for me to do this. But I was fine without it.

Early on in my illness, I was terribly sick, and that same medication probably saved my life. But it had limited usefulness in my case, because I did not have those biological disorders that those mediations typically treat, often for a lifetime. Trauma-based disorders can appear to be psychosis, severe depression, anxiety, or mimic the wild mood swings of Bipolar disorder. Suicide attempts are common. At times medication may be the only answer that makes sense. But again, its usefulness is short-term and temporary when an individual has a trauma history, because there is little or no medication to treat it. The treatment is long-term therapy that is based on gradual acknowledgment and understanding of the effect that trauma had on someone’s life, and how to create a new life perspective. While this is oversimplification, a metaphor for it is apt: A phoenix rising from the ashes.

I had PTSD from being a victim of a crime some 40 years ago. It was never treated. I didn’t know that it could be treated. I received a lot of bad advice. For instance, a psychologist who I finally just stopped seeing after being a faithful client for a decade, told me that “PTSD doesn’t go away,” (I was dismayed hearing that information). But he also told me that I was not in good enough emotional shape to benefit from treatment for my PTSD. He continually told me that he was monitoring me because I had a severe mental illness. I told him I was going to him for “personal growth,” and rejected his pathologizing me. I was seeing him during the time that I was reducing and then finally stopped taking the antipsychotic medication. Things began to change after I was no longer so heavily, and inappropriately, medicated. His unwillingness to address my concerns about my unreasonable fears that bordered on phobia with no useful response became too frustrating to continue seeing him.

I even went to see another mental health provider at the same time that I was seeing the psychologist, who was skilled in EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing), which is one of the standard treatments for PTSD. My insurance paid for both providers at the same time because the psychologist never put it in his treatment plan that I had PTSD, even though the original diagnosis came from the psychiatrist who referred me to him. The other mental health provider was an older woman who was so helpful. But she suddenly passed away. However, she told me something that I will never forget: “One day you will see that this terrible thing that happened to you actually benefitted you in some way.” At the time I told her that I thought she was out of her mind. How could she say something like that to me when I had been attacked by someone who was actually convicted of the crime?

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Embracing the Wounded Healer


I had not been back to the area where the crime occurred in 35 years. When I remarried my ex-husband around that same time, he asked me if I wanted to go back to the area and try to face some of it; to master the feelings. I had been left with fear of walking alone anywhere, even in my own neighborhood. Being alone with a strange man still makes my skin crawl. But, I thought, maybe my husband was right. It was an area where we had met and fallen in love. We made the trip and I almost got through it without a hitch. But at some point, I told him I had to go home. I was overwhelmed and felt defeated by something that was no longer happening. Except in my mind, it had never stopped happening.

Five years later was the 40th anniversary of our meeting. My husband wanted to plan something special, so he asked if I would like to go to a Bed and Breakfast in the same town where we met. I agreed, and told him that I would like to really face things this time, to go back to the exact spot where it all happened. He was supportive. We had a wonderful time, we went to the spot, I walked around, thought about how far I’d come and then we went out to a wonderful dinner. I got so drunk during dinner that I was staggering, because I realized that I couldn’t handle the sudden onrush of bad memories. This is not how I usually handle things. I resolved to find another therapist who was willing to help me.

And then the flashbacks started. All that psychotropic medication had just put everything to sleep for 30 years. My mind woke up where it had left off, protesting about the terrible things that had happened to me. I found a therapist whose specialty was trauma. One thing led to another, and I ended up with some very good care, much to my surprise.

I now have a correct diagnosis, which is a trauma-based disorder. I used to say that there was mental illness in every generation in my family as far back as the first immigrants to this country. However, those immigrants had to run for their lives, leaving behind relatives and friends who had been victims of genocide. Trauma does not skip a generation. Trauma changes one’s genetics. It’s called intergenerational trauma as a psychological term. Biologically, it is called epigenetics, something in the environment that literally changes the genetic code. People pass those changes to their children. Many ethnic groups who have been persecuted have these characteristics. That “mental illness” that I thought my ancestors had may have been simply a trauma history. Trauma-based disorders like PTSD are mental illnesses, but it is psychological injury that causes them. Crimes, abuse, neglect, war, natural disasters. The list is endless.

Now I am in treatment. It is painful, but my condition is completely treatable. I really like the wacky woman who is my present therapist. She is into wearable art and has a no nonsense approach to life, similar to

my own. But sometimes I dread going to her office because of what we are going to dredge up. After a lifetime of therapy, I now face years of therapy—but there is an endpoint. Healing is possible. I will eventually leave behind the “trauma survivor” role.

It is not necessary to share the gory details, which believe me, are plentiful in their “gory-ness.” What is more important is that it is possible to overcome trauma-based disorders. One cannot erase personal history. But sometimes curses do turn into blessings, just like that wise older woman therapist told me so many years ago. I now am preparing to enter graduate school with one of my areas of interest being trauma therapy. I swore that I would never do that kind of work. But here I am now, where that curse has turned into a blessing. That interim therapist I hired before I was able to find a specialist called me a “wounded healer.” At the time I wasn’t sure I liked that description, but now I’m embracing it.

Written by Lina Liu LeeArt by Ellen King

Depression Is Not A ChoiceSad. Anxious. Lonely. Hopeless and in despair. These are some signs of Depression. Nobody would choice to feel like this. Depression is not a choice, it’s a mental illness.

I have been a survivor of depression and anxiety disorder for 15 years. I am 39, married, and have 2 children. I live in Sacramento and I graduated from UC Davis. I love to stay active. I work out at a gym, and play basketball, and tennis. I am involved with Toastmasters and also the PTA.

I grew up as the stereotypical Chinese student: quiet, obedient, respectful to my teachers but at home I was outgoing and talkative. My parents probably wished I was more respectful to them. I went to a Chinese Christian Church which was strict and conservative. I didn’t drink, smoke, or use drugs. But I struggled with feeling left out. I grew up in Maryland and faced prejudice and racial slurs being the only Chinese person in my whole school, except for my brother.

Mental illness: it’s not always what you think it is.

I had my first suicidal thought when I was only 12. It wasn’t so much that I wanted to die or to kill myself, but I just wanted to disappear. I wanted

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the loneliness I felt to go away. I felt like I had nobody who I could share with. Depression was a taboo topic in the Chinese culture. My depression continued into high school and I struggled with high expectations, peer pressure, and fitting in. Maybe it was my accent, being poor, my funny clothes, or not understanding American social norms. I remember wishing I had

blonde hair so I could look more American. I also remember going back to China and even though I looked Chinese, they knew I wasn’t one of them. I was stuck between 2 cultures- neither culture fully accepting me. Even now, as I walk through my neighborhood in Sacramento, I wonder- when will I not feel like an outsider?

When I was 24 years old, I hit rock bottom. I had the “American Dream.” I had graduated from college after 3 years, had a job with IBM, married a wonderful and supportive husband, and had bought my first home at age 23. I had everything checked off on my list, but I felt so empty inside. It was December 2003 and I felt stuck in my job, that I didn’t have any close friends. I was physically ill with a sinus infection and it was the holidays. The holidays were a time when everyone is “supposed” to be happy, but I didn’t feel happy. I was tired of living. I started having racing thoughts, one thought after another went through my brain until was fatigued and exhausted. I was irritable and it was hard to make decisions. I felt hopeless and I didn’t see the point in living. It wasn’t so much that I wanted to die, but I wanted the pain to stop. I felt stuck and that there was no way out. Finally in desperation, I asked my husband to take me to the hospital. In the hospital I learned more about my condition, received medication, and tools for managing my depression.

I tried for many years to live without medication, but could barely survive. I did everything that the doctor recommended. I ate 5 times a day, exercised daily, reduced my stress, went to therapy. I didn’t drink, smoke, or use drugs. But what made the biggest difference in my life is medication. Before, I felt like I was walking on egg shells, ready to crack at any minute. The medication just calmed me down a bit, took the edge off, and made me less irritable and anxious. I was a perfectionist, but with medication, things didn’t need to be perfect or go exactly as planned. For me, medication made a world of difference. As you can imagine my life became easier to live, and I probably became easier to live with!

Depression- it’s an illness, not a choice. Depression doesn’t care if you are White, Black, or Asian, poor or rich, male or female. Depression does not discriminate. It impacts all races and ages. I had everything I thought I wanted at one point in my life, but I was still not happy. It wasn’t until I took medication, went to therapy, changed my self talk, and learned new

coping skills that I started to feel much better. I became a public speaker to share my story to help others find recovery. For those of you reading this, possibly living with anxiety or depression, I want to let you know that you are not alone and that there is hope and recovery. It is easy to feel like you are alone, that nobody understands you or knows what you are going through. The truth is, you are not alone. 1 out of 5 adults will experience a mental illness in their lifetime, but many never seek help or take action because of the shame and stigma. Join me and Stop the Stigma! For more information, visit http://www.stopstigmasacramento.org/.

Written by Lissette GalvanArt by Laura van der Meer

BreathsI wake up in the morning a different person with a purpose. I have meaning and goals I look forward to. I have people whom I am love and care for. I feel life has meaning and I wake up feeling grateful I get to keep trying. I wake up trying to find the positives and encourage myself to explore. My mind is my companion and I wake up taking deep breaths.

Rewind to the past 8 years ago I stopped breathing and held in my words. I was not waking up till sometime in the afternoon. I did not want to wake up. I did not have any close friends and hated most people. I woke up feeling ungrateful I had wakened. I did not want to explore and I saw no meaning in life. My emotions held me prisoner and my mind was a prison.

There is such a difference in those eight years. Eight years of growth, eight years I learned to take steps to heal and seek help. Eight years I learned to forgive. Eight years I learned positive self-talk. Eight years I learned how to breathe. I learned how to love myself.

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Breaths

http://www.stopstigmasacramento.org/


Written by Liz OsornoArt by Acid Rain

Hope and DreamsMy name is Liz, I’m 38 yrs old and I grew up here in the Sacramento area. In my life I have been through a lot. I have PTSD and I am Bipolar I. With all the challenges I have, I have never given up on my hope and dreams. As a kid, I knew I was

different. Things happened to me that did not happen to others kids. I had a hard time in school because I was different. I could not read or sit down long enough to learn how to read. No matter what, I didn’t give up. I played sports and that was good because I could run off my energy and aggressions. There were times I was so depressed I wanted to give up. I even tried to commit suicide but my coach saved me. She picked me up and told me never to give up on my hope and dreams.

Sometimes I am up for days in mania. Like they say, “What goes up must come down,” and then I get so depressed. When I am in mania, I have some crazy behaviors, I spend a lot of money, do risky things and that is usually when I get in the most amount of trouble. I always seem to get thrown in to mania if I’m under a lot of stress or if I am worry too much and I will not be able to sleep for 3 to 5 days. I have the support of my amazing therapist and some special friends. These are the people who know me well enough to see it and bring it to my attention. I am involved in some special groups that are a big part of my life. It helps so much to know there are other people just like me. For a long time, I was not open about my struggles in my life or what I have been through. I’m not afraid to show people who I am today. Yes, I still struggle daily but I do not let that define who I am.

I used to be this kid that didn’t want to talk or let you in because I thought you would judge me for being who I was. I had no coping skills, so if I was frustrated, sad, upset or depressed and felt alone, I would take it out on myself by doing self-harm. I also have a tendency to isolated or act out so people know something is wrong. At one point, my coach, again, saw me struggling and checked in with me every day, reminding me again to not give up on my hopes and dreams and she even taught me how to read, in the school broom closet. Because of this, I trusted her so I told her everything that was going on. I graduated high school in 2000 and went on to play college soccer. I wish I could say I out grew of my mental health but it is not something we can graduate from. After college I also tried to hide and ended up with more suicide attempts. I am so grateful I can sit here today and share my story. I have learned that I never have to do this alone. There is always someone that is willing to help.

I got a lot of help after college. I sought therapy and some other groups. My trauma group has helped me so much. All of us are like a family. I have been through some life changing experiences. I have been learning how to work through it, not beat myself up, and not get stuck in shame. For a long time, I thought everything was my fault and I was the problem. With my PTSD I have a lot of flash backs, I disassociate often and I have nightmares that I can’t get out of. I have worked very hard on this and have learned lot of tools to get through every day and to stay grounded. What I know is we can’t change the past, but we don’t have to get stuck there anymore. It is hard and it take lots of work.

Today my outlook on life is very different. I still struggle but I don’t give up. I have followed my dreams in every way of my life. I am a good example in my community and to my friends that are still struggling with mental health. My motto is, if I can do it, so can you. I learned how to read and got a career job. I help others in any way I can and I am just like that coach who helped me. Now I tell people to never give up on your hopes and dreams.

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Balance within Bi-Polar


Written by M DanielArt by Margaret Munson

Getting Over the StigmaI thought back to the past years in which I knew he had “issues,” this loved one of mine, but it took over three years for me to realize that his “issues” went beyond the “normal teenage issues”. After that, it would take close to five years to convince him that his mood swings were not just mood swings. The isolation that I saw starting to envelop him like a heavy fog went beyond a teenager just wanting people to leave him alone. As he started having strong feelings against attending school and society

in general, but couldn’t explain why, another worry was added to the worry of my limited observations - limited because as his relative who lived over a hundred miles away, it was challenging to stay on top of the situation of this person so close to my heart. His migraines and self-removal from social contact worried me. I worried when I would call and not receive a timely response.

Was he still at home? Was he now roaming the streets? Had he started to self-medicate?

I came up with different scenarios that were common to this population. As a teacher, I knew the signs. I’d often seen those same signs in my students, and it tore my heart to now see those same signs in the bright life of a young man. I knew I had to do something.

Family members know how hard it can be to convince someone to seek professional help, and this was the case. He flatly refused to see a therapist or seek counseling. I worried that I had lost any opportunity to help him. I worried even more knowing statistically the strong correlation of untreated mental conditions to the rate of dropouts, homelessness, and prison inmates.

Year after Year, on a daily basis, I wondered if that day would the day when my worst fears would be realized.

With heartfelt prayers, I gave my worries to God. I asked for guidance in bringing my relative to understand the benefit of therapy. I asked for patience in bringing this about as he fought against my entreaties. As time went on, the prayers grew stronger and my burden of worry felt lighter. I didn’t know when it was going to happen, but I knew that it would. Two more years went by as I continued to let him know he was in my thoughts and prayers.

One day, at a low point when I was visiting him, I saw that he was extremely anxious, saying things triggered by his anxiety. I tried to speak calmly but, as I witnessed an escalation of crazy talk, I began to think he had crossed a line of no return, that no one would be able to bring him back to some sort of normal semblance. I was worried to the point of tears, and he saw that. It was then that he realized he was hurting the ones who loved him the most. He finally agreed that he needed help. It was the worst and best day.

As a starting point, he has been seeing a therapist twice a month. I do not need to pry as to what their sessions cover because I have already seen changes in the way he handles situations. But most of all, he openly tells me that he has been able to get over the stigma he thought would go with admitting he needed help in handling his anxiety. He has shared that he wakes up feeling happy. He finds himself smiling and able to stop negative thoughts from distracting him.

I am extremely thankful for the light appearing at the end of our tunnel. I find myself relaxing and enjoying his company again. His anxiety disorder could easily have fallen into the numbers of other untreatable conditions in which 80 percent of kids with a diagnosable anxiety disorder and 60 percent of kids with diagnosable depression are not getting treatment, according to the 2015 Child Mind Institute Children’s Mental Health Report. While there are a variety of factors that explain the statistics, the fear among young people being “found out” as having a mental condition and being seen as not normal is common.

For the first time in a long time, I can hope that this wonderful special young man will be able to handle adulthood with the tools he needs to take a journey towards a normal life.

35

Getting Over the Stigma


Written by Marilyn NorrisArt by Penny Hanscom

Darkest DarkWhen we began to write on that Friday at my “Write to Heal” group, I had to tell myself to slow down. I was so excited about the fun I was having in the drawing class at Women’s Wisdom Art. The approach to drawing was to sketch in the parts of the thing you were to draw, neck, head, wings or legs, before you start to draw. I even drew a figure of a heron at the top of the page before beginning to write.

Women’s Wisdom Art is a nonprofit program to which I was referred by the psychiatric nurse after I suffered a breakdown when my husband passed away in 2010. I was isolating at home in a cavernous depression. It was as if I were in my own depression chamber or solitary prison, twenty-one-hundred-and-twenty-five-square-feet.

I could not step outside, even into my own yard, I hated to hear the phone ring or the sound of mail delivery. I didn’t want to converse about what my psychiatrist’s opinion was on a medication I was hoping would help me. It seemed if I said something about what was going on, what my experience was, the follow-up reaction would be about what I was doing about it. “Have you asked your doctor?” Reaching my doctor was difficult process to be avoided. I didn’t want to talk about what made it so hard.

Group therapy was offered at a location seven miles away. For a few visits, someone, at a great sacrifice due to his location, drove me to those appointments. When it became necessary for me to drive there myself, I was very uncomfortable. I drove at a maximum of sixty miles per hour, which is slow, thus a bit dangerous on highway 99.

The method used in group was what’s called cognitive therapy. If you can think it, you can do it. It doesn’t work for me. Before this time I had participated for two years in an ongoing workshop, through my HMO about

the importance of feelings and emotions for good mental health. It was useless for me to switch to the think-it approach.

At my final visit to this group in a consult with a psychiatrist, I was told it would be necessary for me to find a therapist on the outside of the plan to help me. The limited number of visits they could offer was not enough. They recommended a few names, but it was a friend who gave me the name of the clinical psychologist who has helped me all these years. She told me there was hope, though I could not see it. She is invaluable to me. I realize I am so fortunate to have her accompany me through the good and bad times which still occur in my life.

I persevered at the art program, though it was so difficult to cross the threshold and walk down to my car and go there. And once there, it was a challenge to get out of the car and make it to the entrance registrar’s window. It is hard for me now to imagine that experience.

The activity easiest for me to enjoy there was sewing, which I had done in 4-H. Having a project that was easy had a magical effect. I didn’t dwell on my misery. A few hours passed toward the completion of a day. Because l often dreaded how many hours remained in the day until I could legitimately go to bed, it reduced that number by as many as three hours, that is if I didn’t suddenly decide to bolt out the door, before the class ended a freedom I had.

Another benefit of the art program was the free lunch. On losing my husband, I lost the cook in our family. I was learning to cook all over again and mainly ate scrambled eggs. When the program made a rule that you had to be checked in by 12:00 noon, I would make every effort to get up and get there by that time so I could eat. Later at an appointment with my therapist, I had the audacity to refer to that food as “that crummy meal.” It actually wasn’t fancy, but the director described to me the love the cook put into it when she prepared it.

It is remarkable the selection of classes offered to us at Women’s Wisdom Art Project, the name of it when it was at the Sacramento Food Bank: weaving, ceramics, watercolor and acrylic painting, poetry taught by a volunteer poet laureate, collage, sewing, lunch and for a time, drawing. I found friends and support there.

It didn’t necessarily mean when 10:00 PM came, I would fall asleep easily or stay asleep for long, but I could move from a terrible day to another. I was told I should not take naps during the day. I had to avoid passing the door to my bedroom and not walk into it because I couldn’t resist falling into the bed.

During my recovery, I placed myself in a psychiatric hospital and found it to be a bad experience, one I wish I had not undertaken. It was the same for a

36

Come Out into the Light


small six-person rehabilitation location in the suburbs which I stayed in for over two weeks because of a whole-body rash requiring a visit to my doctor and strong medication. Next door to it was a noisy auto shop.

The choice I made to admit myself was because I was having such a difficult time managing at home alone. I did know there were companies that provide care at home, but I was not in a condition to make that happen.

There is so much room for improvement in these facilities. I lost almost thirty pounds in my recovery due to the effects in my mouth of one of the antidepressants prescribed for me. Though promised an appropriate diet at the small facility, it just was not followed. In the condition I was in, it was hard to advocate for myself.

It has taken a long time of ups and downs, medication adjustments, talk therapy, finding a support group, exercise, and fun or joy in life… I consider the growth I have made to be a gift, and I am filled with gratitude.

Written by Marissa MontelongoArt by April Breis

Becoming BraveThere was a time, not so long ago, when every morning began with a heavy chest pounding sensation. My heart thundered against my ribs powerfully, warning me that devastating doom was nearby. I woke with a fearful feeling that I was not liked enough, good enough, successful enough, pretty enough, smart enough or capable enough.

The fear living in my chest told me that I was not enough and that I never would be enough.

And once I got married to my husband in 2016, the fear demons roared loud inside of me: Your husband will cheat on you, he will leave you and you will be hurt.

In order to remedy the stomach churning demonic head shouts, I used food to cope. My mornings began at McDonald’s, my lunches happened at Taco Bell or wherever my coworkers wanted to eat and my dinners came with fries from a fast food drive-thru window. Every night, my husband and I would indulge in unhealthy junk food until it put us in a coma until the next morning.

There was a time when I pushed everyone away from me in fits of fear and anger so that I could run away into my room and lock the door behind me. My favorite thing to do there was to turn all of the lights off, seek refuge under the safety of my thick, furry blanket and shed hot, salty tears of grief. The tears poured out of me.

I cried because my husband didn’t love me enough, because my parents had abandoned me in my youth and because I believed that I was a terribly unlikeable person. Once I was done feeling sorry for myself, I would emerge from my room cavern, only to consume as many carbohydrates as I could, before sneakily dodging my family and returning back to my hermit cave.

I didn’t want to hurt my body, but self-medicating with food was the only thing that seemed to make the blood thirsty head demons shut up. This downward spiral continued for about a year until I did some serious re-evaluation. I was twenty-five and “happily” married, however I didn’t feel happy inside. I was working a chaotically stressful job and had an extra forty pounds around my waist that, by the way, was not baby fat. I couldn’t understand how my marriage felt “happy” but other areas of my life didn’t. How come I didn’t feel happy?

In August of 2017, I began to embark on a journey of self-love. I worked with a Holistic Health Coach, Candyce Pirtle-Smalls, LVN, author of Amazon.com Bestseller Mindful Meal Prep Guide. She helped me learn how to organize my eating and deal with the emotional baggage that I had compartmentalized in the form of crappy eating and hidden clutter throughout my house. I decluttered my car, pantry, personal life and began to set boundaries for myself.

I found healing through my work as a wounded healer. I worked as a Chaplain Resident in Kaiser Permanente’s Spiritual Care Department, as a Mental Health Clinician with children suffering with mental health illness, and now, as a Clinical Social Worker within the HIV community.

Once I slowed down my life and acclimated to the positive life changes, I realized that I needed some play-time in order to heal some more unhealed wounds, so I transitioned to a part-time schedule and I was able to focus on creative writing, spending time with my daughter, exercising and improving my home environment.

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Within


During that time, I published two poetry books, two fiction books, began a blog and am now working on my third poetry book. I went to an LMFT for a year, and began to heavily focus on self-care. I began to experiment and do things that I wanted to do. I was called to nature, sunshine and natural beauty. Once I began to love myself, my gifts were seen by me and thus, more visible to others.

I am now 40 pounds smaller and back to feeling refreshed, hopeful, brave and excited about life. I no longer use food to cope with my terrifying feelings; instead, I feel the feelings and push through them by breathing and trying not to react. I tell myself that I am interrupting a past cycle that no longer serves me. I tell myself that I am safe and loved. I tell myself that my husband is not any of the people who hurt me, that he can be trusted, and that it is safe to love him. I walk away from triggering situations.

It’s been a long time since I woke with fear in my chest; however the PTSD is never cured. I still have triggers on a regular basis, with most of them brought on just by simply loving my husband. I fear he’ll abandon or betray me. To love him is the most frightening thing that I have to do each day, but I remind myself to be strong for our family. I can’t rewire my brain, but I can learn how to observe the fear and push through it towards recovery.

Devastating destructive poison ivy overgrown atop my body, you paralyze me to defeat as your viney hands close around my throat.

I cannot breathe and I am going to die.

I close my eyes and count to five, channeling the divine spirit who tells me that the mini-thorned green plantrope does not exist.

I open my eyes and hungrily swallow down a gulp of oxygen and rejoice; for I have weeded the devil’s spider forest.

– I am a survivor of PTSD.

Written by Michael ThornArt by Sonja Binner

An Uncommon RoutineIt’s been a year since I last wrote about my story for the Journey of Hope. In my last submission, I wrote a poem where I tried to communicate the rage, grief, and euphoria that typifies my illness, type 2 bipolar disorder. It was not a terribly hopeful poem, because at the time, I was not feeling that way. I was feeling frustrated, lost, overwhelmed, sad, and angry. And yet, the artist produced a beautiful painting that I found stunning. This had a tremendous impact on me. I had never seen my inner self captured on a canvas like that. I cried when I saw it.

This year, I have been working on refr aming my illness as a thing of beauty, like the painting that the artist so generously created from my poem. My therapist often says that anger can be useful, and I am learning to work with it; I have learned that the expression of grief can bring enormous relief; and euphoria brings me tremendous energy during which I can be very productive (and sometimes entertaining).

Learning about my illness has forced me to have an uncomfortable amount of self-

awareness. I simply can’t live in denial about my feelings or mental state. If I do, it results in harmful situations - both for me, and for the people around me. For example, unexpressed grief or anguish can result in rage, which can lead to me blowing up at people for seemingly no reason. Part of acknowledging my illness is accepting responsibility for my feelings and committing to explore and express them in healthy ways, so that blowing up is not as frequent.

Another piece is knowing there will be times when no matter how much I work to avoid it, I may get triggered and blow up anyway. For those cases, I now have an action plan in place, so that I quickly remove myself from the triggering situation and handle the outburst in the best way possible. I have

38

From Dark to Light


had to follow this plan twice in the past year, and while those situations weren’t necessarily a cakewalk, they at least were a big improvement over how they would have gone in the past.

Perhaps the mo st difficult issue to confront has been the depression. My depressive episodes can last just a couple days, or they can last weeks. During these times, I can feel apat hetic , cranky, desperate , lonely, tired, obsessive, or despairing. I can have difficulty getting out of bed, even for important things. I can experience suicidal thoughts. I can become very angry, sometimes for seemingly no reason. I often feel a deep sense of shame about all of these things, because I feel like I always need to be “on” - entertaining, productive, and above all, not being a burden to anyone. It has been very difficult for me to learn to ask for help and to accept that a lot of these feelings are simply out of my control. This comes back to having an action plan. Just as it is important to prevent blowing up at people, the plan helps me avoid unhealthy behaviors that exacerbate my depression: for example, isolating my self or drinking a lot.

People ask me a lot about medication, so I’ll add one thought about that. There is no doubt that my medication works to prevent the worst of my symptoms. There is also no doubt that it is not the only part of the solution. Therapy, having a support network, and healthy living are all also important for me. In other words, the medication isn’t an escape from doing the hard work to stay healthy, but I still need to take my medication. It’s all part of having healthy routines. The problem is that having wild mood swings isn’t the best framework for sticking to routines. This can be a struggle.

Written by Michael WinsorArt by Lorna Baker

It Flows Like Water There is a scenario that most people have experienced. Standing at the edge of a pool, nothing about the situation is dangerous, just unnerving. There is someone friendly already in the water. “Get in! It’s not that cold! The water’s nice!” A toe test

reveals…it’s pretty cold. There are three ways this could go: edge in slowly, jump in to adjust swiftly, or don’t go in. There is a fourth possibility, though. Sometimes you are pushed.

I was pushed in. I didn’t even know the water was there. With a sudden jerk I crashed into an icy surface and sank. There were no friends waiting for me, just silhouettes of twisted creatures rising from the depths. I was in a panic, thrashing upwards, not knowing if I had enough breath. I felt that at any moment I would be dragged back down. I got away – but not back. When I burst up, gasping, I was met with choppy seas under grey skies. The unknown threat still loomed below.

I had a psychotic break. It was an event that gave very little warning. I didn’t see it coming, nor did those around me. I severely depersonalized. I flipped back and forth repeatedly between two states. The first state was like being a different “me” inside my body. I acted bizarrely and said even more bizarre things. I scared all the people I lived with. No one ever expected to be in that situation. In the other state I was lucid. I had clear memory of what was happening, but no way to understand it. I was very aware that something was wrong, but I didn’t have even a whole minute to try to wrap my head around it before I was back to being some alternate self. I was completely terrified. And then I was hospitalized.

Shivering violently, I blended insignificantly into the grey backdrop of the sky and the sea. I watched familiar ships turn and flee into the distance,

39

Albatross


falling far below the horizon. The sun followed suit, mocking me as it disappeared, casting crimson hues in its wake, skeletal hands ripping at the sky.

Coming out of the hospital, I felt like I had lost everything. I lost my apartment, my significant other of five years, possessions, and all my friends. I came out with no diagnosis. I had been bobbing up and down, apathetically, for some time. It all melted together. I was shrouded in fog so thick that I thought I might disappear.

Finally something pulled me out of my daze.

Gusts of wind cleared away the fog, dispelling the haze.

The clouds above parted and light poked through in brilliant rays.

I looked up, squinting, as the sky revealed itself - the promise of better days.

Color washed onto the watery world around me. The sea was calm now, warm. Gentle swells lifted me up and down hypnotically. Waves began to form. They started to form more and more perfectly before my eyes, and without realizing it I had caught one – it caught me.

I found myself emerging from a long bout of depression. I became more excited about life and the things I once enjoyed, and I had the energy and motivation to pursue it all. I was actually feeling good about myself. The world felt like my “oyster.” Somehow I’d figured it out. All my problems were solved. It all was effortless. I didn’t know how or why but didn’t think much of it.

The wave, in perfect form, continued to grow. Eventually I was flying down its ten meter face with impeccable form and iron focus. I was competing in a big-wave contest off of Kauai’s north shore. In reality only the best of the best come here to compete, and they respect the risk. There was no risk for me, though. I knew I could overcome any odds.

The few people still in my life were expressing concern. I took it as if they were suggesting something wrong with me. No, that couldn’t be. I had figured everything out, and they wanted to pull the rug out from under me? I refused to let the message through. I don’t think it would have helped anyway. It was a crash course.

The wave became so enormous that I couldn’t maintain control. Nothing could contain it. I wiped out spectacularly. The giant swell swallowed me, claiming me for the sea. I was engulfed in torrents of sand and stones, bouncing off of sharp reef and jagged rocks. I tumbled in the undertow for a long time.

That was the first time I experienced full blown mania. I always took off and disappeared when it happened, lost to everyone else, inevitably succumbing to psychosis — delusions of grandeur and doubles. It always ended badly. It took something extra to bring me back: hospitals, police, 3 a.m. in the Tenderloin, multi-assailant mugging, jail. But I did always come back.

I don’t always recognize progress, but it’s there. So many times, everything has gone from totally dim and shrouded in fog, to bright and clear, and then back again. In the chaos it’s hard to have perspective. “Maybe there’s no such thing as sunlight.” “That dim, grey world I was just in couldn’t possibly have been that bad.”

I’ve focused a lot on struggle, in this story and in life. But there is hope. Things are a lot better now. I haven’t had a manic episode in nearly a decade. I would not have made it to this better place without all the help I’ve had from family, friends, Psychiatry, and therapy. Maybe most important of all though is commitment to self- improvement and my perseverance.

Floating in this ocean doesn’t always mean being lost. The appearance of the sun doesn’t always lead to tidal waves. Lighthouses beam through the fog and sea birds lead me toward shore. I find driftwood to rest on, or I make a raft, no matter how janky or impermanent it is. And in the worst times I find myself being thrown a tow-line, looking up to see familiar faces. I haven’t figured everything out. My star map isn’t near complete, but it continues to fill out. I know that when darkness falls somehow I will always find my way to safer waters.


Written by Mitzi MeriwetherArt by Belle Darsie

CHANCES AREDear Chance,

Although we’ve never been formally introduced, you are my brother. You are my sister. We have the same genes, the same genetic predisposition for something being a little or a lot off- ‐kilter. The dam in my brain broke and burst open when I was two years older than the age you are right now. Thankfully, I got a second Chance and a third.

Chances are 20- ‐25%, maybe more, that you’ll experience some kind of mental health challenge at some point in your lifetime. Maybe you already have.

By Chance, I’ve seen pictures of you. Our eyes are the same—a hazel brown you don’t see everyday. Through the lens of my life, this is how I see things. You are not broken. I see you whole. You have a better Chance of hope rather than relapse. No matter how much people look at you askance or shake their heads in pity, know this:

Big Chance, you will prevail. Do not give up. Ever. Have Faith in something greater than you. Hold tight, hold fast, hold the line as steady as you can. Unearth the best version of you. When you lose your mind, you clear the slate to forge your new life, your joy, and your happiness. Your right mind will be filled with compassion molded from all the pain to which you have borne witness. Loving- ‐ kindness will spring forth from your endless list of losses.

I write these notes to my younger self: Be. Patient, Heal Thyself.

Create your customized cure. Write your own prescriptions for:

Yoga, Meditation, Gluten- ‐free diet, Love, Laughter, Light, Happiness, Exercise, Forest Bathing, Massages, Walks along the River, Bike Rides, the Rising Sun, Church. Take these healing elixirs as seriously as you would

anything you pick up at the pharmacy. When it comes to this, leave nothing to Chance.

Close your eyes; perChance to rest your weary brain.

Know Yourself, Express Yourself, and Love Yourself. Take a Chance. Look Outside Your Self. Pursue your Passion.

Sprinkle Kindness like Pixie Dust.

Think of Aunt Gladys. 108 years old and still alive and kicking. Talk about strength and fortitude. At the age of 100, she could still bend over and touch her toes. “Use it or lose it,” she would say. Same goes for your mind.

Chance, any Chance you can make me more familiar with the rest of our family? Reacquaint me with Hope, Mercy, Grace, Faith, and Charity. Pull them in close to me. Let us all join hands and say each other’s name aloud, lifting every voice to sing.

Huge Chance you stay well.

Written by Neda CarrollArt by Darrci Robertson

Still VoicesLanguages Crumble No one understands through my mumbles

Born for more, I crave to know what’s in store Translucent memories, gone before I can remember

Fight,Flight,Freeze,Fawn I had protection all along

Endless oceans of tears without effort Battling the rush of unrequited laughter, Forever

Say good-bye, its been enough I can’t tell which mask is a lie

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Chance Reflecting, Mindfully 41

A Fractured Optimist


What to do, where to go, bound for life, without a doubt Breathe life into these weary lungs

Lift my still voice up, let me sing my own way Making me proud, look, I’m standing with the crowd

Catching colors on my way Wrapping them around old scars today

Holding on and gaining traction Not alone anymore, now I have a plan of action

Pave my way, I’ve come far Twinkle for a little star…

Written by Nefertiti KhemetArt by Emily Winsor

My life began in the mud

The murky water under the pond provides me sustenance

My roots remain in the sludge

Though my stem is long

It reaches the surface of the pond

And there above the algae

You find a juxtaposition; my beauty

I am a Lotus

The long, colorful and pointed flower petals

That rise and set with the sun and the moon

My beautiful flower is all others see

Never realizing

Where I’ve been

And where I’ve come from

Or that the roots that sustain me

Stay buried

And hidden

In darkness

The mud at the bottom of the pond sucks me into dark places

Places I never want to be

But you’ll often find me there

Fighting my myself in my thoughts

The anxious thoughts,

The dark thoughts,

The depressed thoughts,

The running thoughts,

The never-ending list of worries,

The self-doubt,

The guilt,

The difficulty concentrating,

The endless distractions,

That cause me to find myself

Frozen,

Tense in every muscle of my body,

Unable to breath,

Unable to focus,

And sometimes I feel lost, out of control, and overwhelmed

My story of living with mental illness didn’t suddenly announce itself

With a single defining event

My story of mental illness is more like that of the lotus flower

To the outside world

I might look like I have everything figured out

While on the inside

I feel panic and despair

Like the mud that the roots of the beautiful lotus flowers grow out of,

Life-long mental health illnesses may not be readily identified

Due to the strengths and abilities an individual may also possess

I hope that telling my story today,

Will help spread awareness of types of life-long mental health illnesses,

That it’s okay to be different,

That it’s okay to ask for help,

And that there is BEAUTY in all of that

Because,

We ALL Belong; Despite Mental Illness

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My Petals and My Roots

We ALL Belong; Despite Mental Illness


Written by Nicole McVeyArt by Kestrel Owen

SilentlyLost within, lost without.

Drowning in the rain, no way out!

Love within, love without.

Am I good enough, a shadow of doubt.

Fear within, fear without.

Falling, crawling, the typical route.

Pain within, pain without.

Standing there, screaming, shout!

Beauty within, beauty without.

Unwanted, rejected, what’s that about?

Words within, words without.

Don’t speak up, don’t let it out.

Written by Patricia BaxtedArt by Jamie Reskof

Mental Illness: Indeed, it is not always what you think.

I am a rock, hard and cold.

Dis c o n n e c t - e d from others.

Not like other rocks, not at all like others. i Am odDly shapeD. InConsistANT. I have a complicated chemistry.

I fear not like the trees either. Not growing tall, thriving, dancing in the wind. No branching out. I cry I have no roots.

Deeply buried. I feel lost, confused. Forgotten, invisible. Afraid of being seen, I hide.

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Drowning

44

Wellness Rocks!


I am a rock, hard and cold.

I ponder. Might be stuck. In one place. Forever.

Sometimes I come to accept my L O N E L I talk to the mountains: I dream of being one with you N E S S

I try hard to reach this goal. To be #a good rock. Accepting, trusting in all things. But through and through,

I am a rock, HARD and COLD.

At times When I surface, I worry. Who will step over me? Who will pick me up toss me through the a i

r

Trigger Uncontrollable Spinning?

I am anxious. Who will reject me? I pretend To be someone I am not.

Whispering I hear the mountains say: It takes time to evolve. Utilize your strength. I believe in you!

I attempt to stand up tall, Gently move Like the Redwoods and Pines. Not tumbling over and over.

I feel heavy, weighted down. Not in the mood to move. I am comfortable Staying in one spot, it is familiar.

I just need to rest a while. I slip into a nook, nap a bit. I fall into a dream…

A flat, round, blue rock appears next to me. I embrace the addition. A Higher Power groups us together. I am on top. I have a new foundation. I see things from a different perspective, now standing on the shoulders of another. I start branching out. I begin hearing others talk like how I feel. I start moving around in this new environment and notice a bunch of us clustering together. I am not alone. We paint each other new colors and patterns. The paint softens our hard edges and reflects warmth to one another. Collectively we beautify the landscape.

W e l l n e s s R o c k s !


Written by Patricia WentzelArt by Valerie Dacpano

After All Of Thatafter the clanging rooms crimson shame violent delight

after the locked ward therapy groups psychiatrists

after one medication and another and another

after handouts process forms lectures

after rest patience compassion

after all of that comes relief balance joy

Written by Shawn KramerArt by Dee Tschida

My Monsters I wore a jacket and jeans on my first day of seventh grade, despite the triple digit temperatures, to hide the hives that covered my body. In all six class periods, each teacher after the next cracked a joke about my long sleeves or somehow called attention to my

outfit. I didn’t dare expose my itchy, spotty arms to my classmates and ruin my chances of having a social life.

This wasn’t the first time I experienced overwhelming anxiety — nor would it be the last — but it was the first time in my short life I realized I might have a problem.

As I grew older and entered high school, this crippling anxiety appeared in different ways though it was always lurking and listening. It snuck up before big exams, school dances and holidays. My anxiety was mean. It was violent. It caused awful, stupid arguments. It ruined special occasions. It beat me up. But it was all I knew.

Despite years of therapy here and there, several panic attacks, lots of blood work and medical tests, and “sick” days at home, nothing changed. I wasn’t changing. And my anxiety made a new friend — depression. Together, they were unstoppable.

As these two monsters crept deeper and deeper into my life, they eventually became my identity. All I knew of myself and all others knew of me. My anxiety and depression were so good, they convinced me I was in control. They convinced me I was fine. But I wasn’t.

My family held an impromptu mental health intervention that was sparked by another anxiety-induced fight. Typically after an emotional battle like this, we’d forget about it until the next argument. This time felt different.

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Beautiful Monster

46

All of Me


Whether I was different or it was just chance, I’m alive today because of it.

I sought professional help and began to understand that I have a mental illness. Though it was a scary realization it was also freeing. After a lifetime of unwanted visits from my invisible monsters, I finally had something tangible to grasp. I finally had names for these uncontrollable, persistent feelings.

Though I can recognize the monsters, I’m still learning their many forms. My anxiety and depression don’t always announce their arrival and they have horrible timing. But I know now that they are only a piece of me. I know now that it’s ok to acknowledge them.

Written by Sherrie Ranee TylerArt by Debra Ledsinger

Letter of Purpose Stanford University

I think the most important thing in life is to find a purpose. I have been tested many times through mental illness, homelessness, and the sheer fact that no matter what happened in life I never gave up on myself or my dreams.

When I was nineteen I was diagnosed with a mental illness and was frightened of my future…however, I went back to school and received my BA degree even though

I was hospitalized many times throughout my scholastic career. Each time I was hospitalized I would jump right back on track and continue my dream of completing school. I was the first in my family to graduate from a university.

College is extremely important to me and I wish to continue to become the best advocate for those with mental health issues. I love to write and have

written for an online newspaper “Sacramento Press” where many of my articles made it to the front page. Writing is a passion of mine and I love it!

While I was in college, I became homeless but that did not stop me from following my chosen path. I still went to my classes and thought up my own business “Someone Hears Everybody’s Rights” (S.H.E.R.) I write and encourage others to write our congressmen about mental health. It is important to let our voices be heard and to ensure that there be improvements and laws that aid in our well-being.

While in college I was a Teacher’s Assistant and Research Coordinator. My professor left me in charge of all his classes when he was summoned for jury duty. Although I didn’t have to lecture, I did proctor exams and graded papers. It was so much fun! Since then, I have taught classes to those with mental health issues at the clinic I go to. It was very challenging as there were many different levels of mental capacity. But I enjoyed it very much.

There are so many things I like to do. One thing is to spread joy where I can. I send out cards to everyone I know to encourage them to follow their dreams and to never give up hope no matter what life may throw their way. Everyone has obstacles to overcome; It is how you perceive a situation that effects the outcome. For example when I was homeless I realized I could rely on myself and continue to progress. Even though my resources were limited, I got the penny saver and bought an old word processor to write my letters to the current Governor and Mayor regarding mental health. Since then I have received letters from President Bill Clinton, First Lady Rosalynn Carter, California Mayor Darrell Steinberg, and President Donald Trump. It is very exciting to know my letters are being read.

One of my attributes is kindness. I vow to be kind in every situation. It can be quite challenging, but it leads to a happy productive life. If you dwell on the negative, life can be unrewarding.

Some say nice guys finish “last,”,,I think the operative word here is FINISH. I will finish what I started no matter what.

I would like to continue on my path to Mental Health Advocacy and I think attending Stanford Psychology Graduate Program would be a wonderful place to pursue my goal. I wondered if I was smart enough to attend Stanford and asked God for a sign. 33 minutes later as I stared out my living room window a large white truck with the letters STANFORD in bright red whisked by.

I believe in dreaming big and overcoming obstacles in my way. Never give up hope. Live your life and make it a happy one!!

Thank You, Sherrie Ranee Tyler

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Smart Enough


Written by Stephen Daly Art by John McNeal

Fog Fog envelopes my mind.

Indecision clouds my judgment.

Depression sets in.

I’m looking through a tunnel

Searching for an escape.

Where can I go? What can I do?

I can’t tell if I am coming or going—

The pain inside overwhelms me,

With no way out in sight

Stress

Nervous as a child’s jumping bean,

my hands shake like leaves trembling in the wind.

As a helium balloon expands to its limit,

my mind stretches and snaps like a rubber band.

Scattered thoughts swirl in a bowl of dust,

my emotions twist in circles spinning like a top—

lost in the corridors of my mind.

Written by Sue DalyArt by Raquel Lushenko

Beloved Oh, how blessed the day I let go of my suffering to grasp

the outstretched hand of joy!

I whispered a prayer that I would remember this sweet day

and not let anyone steal my “joie de vivre” again!

That prayer still floats to Heaven on angels’ wings

as I remember who I really am...

A beloved child of God sent to this time and place to be healed

and to pray for the healing of the world.

Written by Syrah CaparasArt by Jen Berry

“Finding Beauty in the Breakdown” In the last few years, depression has stolen so much of my life. Although it has always been there, one particular event triggered a massive breakdown that lead to a diagnosis of major depression—something I’ve been battling for years.

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Stress

49

Beloved

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Isolation


Before that experience, I was a completely different person. I was fun, adventurous, and passionate about the things I loved. I traveled the world, cared about social and political issues, and spent as much time as I could with the people I loved. I experienced depressive episodes here and there, but it was never to the point where medication was being prescribed, where suicidal thoughts became actions, and where hospitalizations were a reality.

As hard as I fight these intense episodes, there are moments where the symptoms are so strong that it feels as if nothing can alleviate the pain. During times like these, parts of my life are stolen.

1. Depression steals your family and friends…

When I’m in the midst of my depression, I become this ugly person. My family and friends do as much as they can to support me but of course, there comes a point where it becomes too much. Depression isn’t just sadness. It’s irritability, moodiness, and sometimes anger.

With that being the case, I tend to withdraw and isolate myself straining all of my relationships. I push others away, ignore my phone, and disappear. What they think is me being uninterested and not caring, is really me keeping my depression from spreading. I’m aware of how difficult it is being around this and often times choose to be alone rather than make anyone else uncomfortable.

2. It steals your pride and distorts your self-image…

Depression has convinced me that I’m ugly, worthless, and unlovable. All of my insecurities come out, which has caused other monsters to surface. Monsters such as eating disorders, debilitating anxiety, and extreme panic attacks. You’re convinced that everything is your fault, that you’re the reason why terrible things happen, and that you’ve become this hassle to those around you. This distorted self-image can be so intense that thoughts of death and suicide sadly emerge. When this happens, I reach out to my friends, my therapist, or talk to my doctor about adjusting my medication. Half of the battle is reaching that point and having the strength to ask for help.

3. It steals your physical health…

When someone I haven’t seen in a really long time compliments me on my weight loss, they usually ask if I’ve been working out. Usually, when this comes up, I smile and say yes. In reality, the result is a combination of extreme depression and a self-image so poor that it enables bad eating habits. What you really want to say is, “Thanks. It’s the depression.”

When you’re in the midst of it, your appetite becomes nonexistent, your energy is so low that getting out of bed becomes a chore, and body aches

and pains become a daily occurrence. And if you’re put on medication, starting something new or adjusting your current dosage—a different kind of physical trauma can occur. The side effects can include anything from manic behavior to experiencing tremors throughout the day. Luckily, they usually go away within time, but when you’re in the throes of it all, it can feel never-ending. As much as depression affects your mental state, it can affect your body just as badly.

4. It steals meaningful moments…

There have been several moments in the last two years that should have been amazing. Moments that should make you smile when looking back at them. Instead of living in these moments, the heaviness of depression outweighs any laughter or happiness that you should be having. It robs you of the enjoyment, the excitement, and that infinite feeling of being alive. When looking back at photos of trips, concerts, and time spent with friends and family, everyone sees this beautiful person with a big smile looking like she’s having the time of her life. Me, I see the loneliest person in the world who’s dying on the inside.

5. It steals your youth…

“You’ll never be this young again” is what I hear constantly from friends trying to get me out and about. Instead of these statements inspiring me to begin living my life, they make me feel incredibly guilty and regretful. I’m aware that I’m letting these years slip away. It destroys me knowing that I’m spending my youth fighting this illness instead of having fun like normal people my age.

When I do finally find the energy to go out and be with friends, everything feels forced. You force yourself to have a good time, to smile and laugh, to be that young carefree person that’s expected of you. But when depression is there, it’s nearly impossible to “snap out of it,” no matter what’s going on around you. Depression steals the time you could be spending enjoying life. It steals your weeks, months, and years. Time stops for no one, not even depression.

Whether it is just a phase in your life or a constant battle that lasts for years, the common thing we can all agree on is how amazing it feels when the heaviness lifts. It’s that beautiful moment when you think to yourself, “I feel a lot better.” It’s that moment when you hear yourself genuinely laugh, feeling both foreign and familiar all at the same time.

Because you know that an episode can return at any moment, you hang on to this newfound relief, never taking this feeling for granted. Until those waves of depression are a lot shorter and a lot less frequent, I will not give up. I have accepted the fact that it will always be a part of who I am, but I refuse to let it define me.


When I look back and think of the massive breakdown that changed my life, a mix of emotions usually comes over me. I feel sad that it happened, sometimes embarrassed, and even bitter wishing that the wires in my brain weren’t so tangled up. But like most disasters that cause destruction, there is a chance to rebuild. There is a chance to start over and make something that was once broken into something symbolic and beautiful. There truly is beauty in the breakdown.

Written by Terry McGarveyArt by Malek Paige

How are you?How are you?

A simple question that begs an answer. Any answer. What is there to say when depression and anxiety, close cousins, visit daily, acting like mourners that wail and weep together in the back of my mind? I try to dredge up a response that is palatable for mixed company, healthy and ill, pausing to await inspiration that is slow in coming. My eyes become distant, my lip trembling against restrained tears, as I struggle to express this pervasive, spirit searing agony and yet not

overwhelm the casual questioner. Do they really want to know?

How are you?

A question about my wellbeing or an offhand pleasantry? Does it really matter to them? Will I mention the ache that steals my breath each day, making me sob in despair? Will I share the tightrope I walk and the edge I am so close to stepping over? The cliff, often neither frightening nor unwelcome, whose path I wander all too frequently these days, anticipating a relief that I find more alluring than I should.

How are you?

Shall I tell you of the Halloween costume I settle about my shoulders each day, the mask that protects the world from the vitriol and acid that eats putrid holes in the me inside? Keeping society safe from my ghastly true self that carries the stench of infection and death and cowers, shuddering in fear? Shall I share how hard it has become to keep the facade in place? That it has become too tight, binding and then tearing as I turn and bend leaving gaping wounds exposed to view.

How are you?

How can I tell you that I can barely remember what we spoke of 10 minutes or 3 days ago. That I cringe at loud noises, startle at minor bumps in the car and lash out at family for no reason. Tears fall at kids in parking lots and I can barely stand my own skin. Shall I tell you all this?

How are you?

Should I tell you that I drag myself from bed each morning more exhausted than when I went to bed the night before? That I forget to eat and feel sick when I finally do? That my body aches for no reason and I struggle to move in the early dawn? How I feel betrayed by both body and mind? I look at you, opening my mouth but nothing comes out as I try to find words to express this maelstrom of emotions.

How are you?

A question to which there is no simple reply. Shall I say all this or just smile benignly and answer,

“Fine. How are you?”

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Beautiful Mind


Written by Valerie DacpanoArt by Melani Grube

Art Therapy I started drawing when I was very young. As a baby I took my aunties lipstick and drew all over her carpet. As a toddler if I didn’t have a canvas I would improvise and use my body as a canvas. In elementary school I had so much fun

making art with my dad. He was my art mentor and the one who got me into art making. He helped me with my art projects and he showed me how to use simple everyday objects to turn them into works of art.

When I was 10 years old I had lost my father, my best friend, and art mentor. He had passed away suddenly due to kidney problems. And as much as I wanted to go back in time just so I could thank him I could not. There were no words to describe the heartache and immense pain I was going through. Over time, I realized that there is so much I can do with my life and be thankful for. Growing up I struggled with telling others how I felt and so instead I’ve hidden those special feelings and meanings into my art.

In 8th grade I had another big struggle and that was when I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. I felt like I had already had so much to deal with already in my life that having this mental illness was just another problem I didn’t need in my life. With my delayed grieving and new mental illness diagnosis I tended to bottle in my emotions even more strongly. But in the midst of all the chaos I continued to make art and that was my form of therapy and way of self-care. Making art is very therapeutic for me because it helps me in my self-exploration and allows me to create a positive self-narrative. When I make art, I am able to transform my struggles into something beautiful.

Pablo Picasso once said, “The meaning of life is to find your gift. The purpose of life is to give it away.” By making art it has helped me to vent the loudest, dream the largest, and by being able to give back to my family, relatives, friends, and community through my talent I am able to live purposefully.

Written by Veronica MartinezArt by Marsha Mees

Hope I share my story to bring awareness to mental health; to advocate for those suffering in silence due to both social and self-stigma. I’ve learned that my purpose in life is to share my story and when I speak I’m also speaking to my 15-year-old self. I wish that I would’ve had someone telling me that I wasn’t alone or weird for feeling the way I felt at 12 when I had my first suicidal thought; or at 15 when I attempted to hang myself; or when I was suffering from postpartum depression after

both pregnancies. I’m also speaking to myself when I have a bad day, and I have to remind myself that the dark cloud that slides into my life during winter won’t last forever.

I’m 36 and finally feel like I’m complete. I feel the joy for simple pleasures, but it’s been a journey getting to this chapter in my life. I’ve had to learn how to advocate for myself, to let my provider know that the medication that I was prescribed wasn’t working for me, or that I didn’t feel comfortable taking medications from a provider after only meeting them for 10 minutes. I’ve had many therapists and I’ve learned on how to change my negative thinking, and to redirect my mind to a more positive and healthy way of thinking about my life.

On my bad days I wake up feeling paralyzed. I feel a lot of pressure on my chest, and I can’t breathe easily. I feel my heart rate increasing, and I

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Flowing Over

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The Warrior


household were strangers. I think we all dealt with our childhood trauma in our own way, or choose not to deal with it at all.

My kids have been my motivation to keep on going even on my worst days. I have found various things that help me cope on my bad days like the suicide hotline. I am thankful for this hotline because I was referred to a wellness recovery program and received cognitive behavioral therapy until I was no longer feeling suicidal. I also have a very supportive partner who gives me space when I need it. He doesn’t judge me for the way I’m feeling, and never throws it in my face when I feel better. He understands my past has a lot to do with the way I am now, and has shown me that he is someone I can trust. He knows it’s important for me to feel safe especially when the PTSD symptoms show up.

My outlook on life is now positive. I recently connected with a great psychiatrist and she is letting me take the lead in my recovery. She recommends changes to my medication, to my lifestyle, and she takes time to listen. I don’t feel rushed on my appointments and I feel validated. I feel empowered in my recovery. My psychiatrist’s philosophy is that I’ve been victimized enough and they are empowering me to take lead in my recovery. I had never seen myself as a trauma survivor, but just as someone being treated for anxiety and depression. This new way of seeing myself allows me to take my medication without any self-stigma. It empowers me to stop the negative thoughts as soon as they begin, to practice deep breathing exercises when anxiety attacks, and to take it easy when depression tries to settle in.

I hope that my story encourages you to advocate for yourself and others who are struggling with a mental illness. Let’s work together to empower one another on our journey of hope.

struggle getting out of bed. I bend over to try to grasp myself, to feel like I have some control. If anyone talks to me while I’m having these feelings, I get overwhelmed easily because I’m struggling with my own thoughts and can’t handle much external interaction. If I don’t handle these feelings right away, I begin to have thoughts that I’m worthless and that I’m better off dead. What helps me calm down during this time is having someone who reminds me that it’s okay; having someone who doesn’t judge me, and lets me vent so that I can make words out of my bad thoughts. After venting, I can begin to challenge the negative thoughts and realize my brain is lying to me.

Before being treated, these feelings would escalate and I would be in depression for months. I remember going to the park to sit and cry, just feeling empty and my soul hurting. I felt a heavy burden in my heart. I wanted to sleep and when I was awake. All I could do was cry.

When I became a single mother, I functioned normally around others, but I stayed in bed when I didn’t have to be in public. Luckily, I’ve always pushed myself to have a full-time job. I would ignore my suicidal thoughts, complete my 8-hour shift, and go home where I slept the majority of the time.

My family didn’t believe in mental illnesses and this is why it took so long for me to get treated. Depression is seen as laziness, attention-seeking, or as a weakness. I remember my mother telling me that if I ever committed suicide, I would end up in hell. At 15, I knew I didn’t want to go to hell, but I didn’t know how to feel better either.

Based on my personal experiences, it is more likely that people are known as drug addicts or alcoholics than they are known for being treated for a mental illness. I am one in 5 siblings and all 4 of my brothers have dealt with drug addiction at some point in their lives.

When I was 14, my four brothers and I all witnessed our father shoot our mother in the face. She survived and our father went to prison. Our mother went into survivor mode. Although she was there physically, raising us and making sure we had a shelter and food every day, she wasn’t there emotionally. Now as an adult I understand that she couldn’t because she wasn’t dealing with her own emotions. She didn’t understand how difficult this condition was for me until my daughter’s father called for her to help him with me. I wouldn’t stop crying and didn’t want our daughter near me. I was an angry person and had very little patience.

Today my family is very close. We are open with each other, there are healthy boundaries, and we show love and respect to each other. It was not always this way. Although we lived under the same roof for the majority of our lives, we all dealt with our situations as if the other people in our


Written by W.R. TaylorArt by Geana Davis

Testimony “It’s okay to use a hard name for a hard thing,” my brother tells me.

Instead of some polite euphemism like “emotional distress” or “mental health challenge” I name it for what it is. Sugar coating minimizes and denigrates my experience.

I have a mental illness. A challenge is a tricky crossword. Emotional distress is locking your keys in the car or breaking up with your boyfriend.

Mental illness is my experience. Desolate years of abject

depression followed by holy visions in a musty apartment chain smoking through the steady pulse of fear that beat in my temples spiked by waking nightmares that twisted me in convulsions of terror when I felt his hands groping me twenty years later accompanied by lightning flashes of violence that exploded before my eyes as I sat in front of my work computer voices in my head shouting I was garbage in such creative ways they convinced me to hate myself until I learned to argue back, to treat myself with respect, to believe my life could be better.

I use those words “mental illness” to testify. These things I’ve overcome. They don’t define me.

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No Sympathy


Notes and AutographsNotes and Autographs

StopStigmaSacramento.org

MentalIllness:It’s not always what you think.

Funding for this project has been made possible through the Sacramento County Division of Behavioral Health Services Mental Health Services Act (MHSA).

The Mental Illness: It’s not always what you think project was initiated by Sacramento County Department of Health Services/ Division of Behavioral Health Services (DHS/DBHS) and is funded through the voter approved Proposition 63, Mental Health Services Act (MHSA).

Stigma and discrimination are the largest barriers or obstacles to recovery, treatment and societal acceptance for people living with mental illness. The “Mental Illness: It’s not always what you think” project has ongoing support from the community and stakeholders and expands the MHSA goals and objective by fundamentally changing negative attitudes and perceptions about mental illness and demonstrating that people living with mental illness are everyday people leading meaningful lives. The project aims to:

• Reduce stigma and discrimination

• Promote mental health and wellness

• Inspire hope for people and families living with mental illness

This anti-stigma and discrimination project ultimately seeks to eliminate the barriers to achieving full inclusion in society and increase access to mental health resources to support individuals and families. All of us can make a difference by making a commitment to end stigma and discrimination.

To provide any questions or comments regarding the Journey of Hope Exhibit, please email [email protected]

mailto:[email protected]

of hope 2019stopstigmasacramento.org/get-involved/joh-program-2019.pdfii | october 5, 2019 –...

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