All posts by Lisa Lambert

two people with hands clasped

Change Isn’t Always For The Worst

By: Kai Sanchez

two people with hands claspedWhen Anorexia came into my life, I knew I’d never be the same. To be truthful, I haven’t been. Everyday became a battle against myself, a one sided war that could find no victor. I avoided mirrors and meals became more and more difficult. The people around me watched me deteriorate but despite all the pain it caused me, it also saved my life. I know it’s not a common occurrence for someone to say their illness saved them, but for me, I was able to build resilience. I found myself fighting for my own sanity. Even when I had nothing left to give, I fought, and that gave me strength. Mirrors will never be my best friend, but day by day I learned to find hope in the own reflection of my face. I traced my curves until I found a piece of me I could learn to love. Every day, step by step, as I poured all my energy in learning how to survive, I grew as a person, I learned how to cope, I opened up in ways I never had before. I found people who had faith in me; I came to accept that every day changes you. At my lowest point, I heard many times that things get better. This statement felt so far from me- what is better? How do I get there? I was at the bottom, how could I even imagine the top? So instead, I told myself things get tolerable. That I’ll be able to manage this, that functioning on a day to day basis wouldn’t drain me until I had nothing left. Finally, I made it and when I found tolerable, better wasn’t so far away anymore. Life will throw you curves, build mountains in your path, and hills you must climb, but life will show you the light as you look back on how far you have come.

Kai is a young adult who enjoys writing poetry in their free time, obsessing over video games, and plans to go to college in order to pursue a career in the Mental Health field.

A Letter to Anyone Considering an Inpatient Stay

You are much stronger than you believe you are.

I used to see having a stay in a psych unit as a sign of weakness. To me, it meant you were no longer the kind of strong you thought you were. I guess in a way I was right. But when I say I was right, I mean that you aren’t the strong you once were: you are stronger. You’ve learned to accept that sometimes, you need to get away for a while, and take care of yourself. You’ve learned that accepting and receiving help for your symptoms isn’t selfish or some terrible thing. It means that you are taking necessary steps towards mental and emotional wellness. Take pride in that.

I just ended an 18 day stay at a psych unit. I pushed it off for so long, but the pain kept building up. The depression, anxiety, and unprocessed trauma constantly running through my mind were torturous. I was having nightmares. Night after endless night I’d wake up either in a panic, in tears, or both. That started leading to my insomnia. Not sleeping for days on end, terrified of what happens behind my eyelids. The depression and anxiety came crashing in, each day worse than the day before, due to the lack of sleep.

I felt out of control. My trauma had taught me that silence was my enemy. It taught me that I wasn’t worth much at all. Fortunately, I got to get a lot of my trauma out of my head, having been able to talk about my feelings every day. I was under constant monitoring, and although at times I hated it, this stay made me realize, even more than ever, that everyone deserves time to be human. That even those who put on a brave face for everyone else has to get the help they need.

Inpatient stays are scary. I’m not going to sugarcoat it. You have a lot of time to think. You have time to realize just how hard life has been lately. But you also get to talk through and process a lot of things you’ve been burying deep into yourself. Things you never thought you’d share, things you thought you’d take to the grave.

Not every unit is suitable for every kind of person. I personally loved the unit I was on (as much as you can love a psych unit), but not everyone there found it helpful. Regardless, you must try to trust the process. You must try to get the help you need, no matter who you work with. Advocate for yourself. Speak up for what you need, but also what your values are.

If you are currently struggling, I want to let you know that your feelings are valid. A lot of the time, we don’t hear that often enough. You have every right to be upset, mad, depressed, anxious, or tired. But I promise you, it can get better. You can find the light at the end of the tunnel of darkness you’ve been in for so long. It’s right in front of you. There will be obstacles. There will be barriers. But you are strong, brave, and resilient.

I believe in you, even if you are currently lacking the belief in yourself. Remember, an inpatient stay doesn’t equal weakness. It equals a strength that you never believed you had. And when you realize that, you have the power to accomplish your goals. I hope this letter has helped you. And I hope you realize the amazing things you are capable of.

 

Rachel is a young adult who hopes to someday become a peer mentor or a peer specialist. They are currently working on writing and publishing a book of poetry.

My grandfather, my son and the right thing

I was 9 years old when I noticed that my grandfather dropped my grandmother off for church services every Sunday but never went inside.  Oh, he went to church for weddings, funerals, fairs and Saturday bean suppers.  But he never once attended Sunday services.  My grandmother would say he didn’t like sitting in the pew or that she simply needed a ride.  I asked my mother about it, feeling a little anxious, trying to make it fit into my limited understanding.  “Your grandpa doesn’t believe in God,” she explained, “But he believes in Good.”

I sucked in my breath and my little-girl understanding shifted.  Until then, I had Good, God, having morals, doing good deeds and being a good person firmly super-glued together in my head.  You couldn’t have one without the other, right?  I began to understand the different shape of each thing and how they were not identical.

I saw in my grandfather, whom I adored, a warm, generous, very kind man who adhered to a strong code of conduct.  If you left a dime at his house, he returned it to you at the next visit. But he was agnostic, not religious. I noticed others who did the “right thing” every time, even when it was uncomfortable or a stretch for them, but they had beliefs about the world that startled me.  I gradually became comfortable with the idea that our inner guidance systems are unique and help us navigate the world in singular ways.

Many years later, this would help me understand and love my son during the hardest times.

My son was 7 when I realized that he saw and heard things that no one else did.  He was too old to label it magical thinking and his therapists and teachers were reluctant to call it psychosis.  What he saw and heard often scared him and that fear followed him all day, often even into the night, resulting in nightmares.  His fear, frustration and despair would overwhelm him and he would lash out or fly into a frenzy, hurtling objects and even hurting himself.  In those hours, he changed into someone else, shedding the things that gave him joy: his laughter, his creativity and his curiosity.

Sometimes the voices and visions told him to hurt his younger brother and I would hold him tight while he raged.  I would urge his smaller sibling to close himself in his bedroom, to be safe and out of sight. We did this again and again over the years, our family’s version of a safety drill.  His younger brother went from telling people that “I have a very, very good brother who does very, very bad things” to simply announcing that his brother was bad.  Very bad.  Once, when someone asked what his brother was like, he replied, “I have a bad brother and he is a very bad brother to me.” In his mind you couldn’t do such bad things and not be bad yourself.

It’s hard when you are in the midst of daily chaos to unstick the superglue that binds together your ideas about what children are like, especially your own children.  I thought children were naturally resilient, absorbing life around them, sometimes being silly.  That wasn’t my son’s life at all.  He was emotionally fragile, sometimes lost in his own world and unable to laugh. It was my job to untangle my assumptions and instead put in plain view the things I wanted others to see.   It was my job as a parent to paint that picture, showing the world outside my family that my child could be good and do bad things.  That my child had lots of moments where he was brilliant and vulnerable and caring.

He could be loving and smart, hold my hand, give great hugs and say funny things and still have moments and hours where he made me cry, made me angry and pretty scared for him.

There were no guidelines to understanding my son; I had to create my own.  I began to understand that while he did not always understand what was real, he could understand what was right. Even more, he cared about that. Often, after his rages and being lost in his phantasmic world, he would feel deep remorse.  (He was still unable to stop himself the next time though.)   His sense of what was right and wrong vied with the voices and destructive impulses.

When he was a little older, he announced he had made what he considered a better moral choice.  He began directing the raging and hurting only toward himself, sometimes viciously, sometimes persistently and away from his brother and me. His inner guidance system was trying to make peace between the storms in his mind and his sense of what was right.

We are all nuanced people with complicated beliefs.  It doesn’t get any better when you throw mental health issues into the mix.  On those parenting days when I came up for air, I would channel my mother.  I would talk about my son saying, “My son is not always sure what is real, but he loves knowing what is right.” Then I would add a story or two which showed the shape of our lives, hoping to unstick others’ ideas about good children and bad behaviors.

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What It Is Like to Live, But Not Be Alive

By Rachel LaBrie

Face pictureSometimes, when I tell someone I have been suicidal for 11 years, they laugh. The common response is “Well then, how are you still here?” Let me explain to you what I mean when I say I’m suicidal.

I think about dying every single day of my life. It’s like the exit sign in a store, glowing and inviting. But I talk myself into staying “for just a little while longer.” I never have the courage to leave. I just feel, most of the time, that I’d be better off dead.

Let’s continue with the store metaphor. I cannot seem to find anything that is worth buying. Life is the store. I cannot seem to find anything that keeps me here, but yet, here I am. I am breathing. I have a pulse. But that technically doesn’t mean I’m alive.

I don’t think I’ve ever truly been alive. When I say that, it may sound crazy, strange, or like I am living in the state of mind that makes me think life is just a dream, that we don’t really exist. But I know we are real. I just have never been able to fully enjoy things, because my mind keeps telling me that it is only temporary; that my joy won’t stay joyous, that the highs will soon become lows. Therefore, “alive” is not an adjective I think suits me.

I really hope someday I feel alive. I want to wake up, and not dread the day ahead. I want to get up when my alarm tells me it’s morning, and not feel an ache in my heart, one that makes me stay in my godforsaken bed. Sure, I get up every morning, but it’s after minutes or even hours of amping myself up to face another day that will surely have a disappointment or ten.

I’m here though. And I am planning to stay. I want to adopt children, get married, grow old and experience the good things in life. I want to bask in the sunshine, instead of sitting under a cloud of darkness. And some days, I really do want to tell whoever is watching me, and all the people I love, that I am okay with life. I think that’s a great start.

Rachel is a young adult who hopes to someday become a peer mentor or a peer specialist. They are currently working on writing and publishing a book of poetry.

 

What is sick enough?

What is sick enough?  Is sick enough a meaningless number or stupid hospital band?  Is sick enough the size of your thighs? Or that dead look in your eyes?

Is sick enough really what we are trying to achieve? What even is “sick enough” besides some bullshit phrase our eating disorders engrave into us?

I can tell you one thing, I have never felt “sick enough.” Even when I was on my death bed I still didn’t feel sick enough. And why? Because sick enough isn’t real, there will always be another demand from the disorder, inpatient or not, weight loss or not, there will always be more.

Take a moment to think about the stigma around eating disorders.  What does a stereotypical eating disorder sufferer look like, both in society, with this idea of an underweight cis-gendered white woman even within the recovery community and with professionals who deem the severity of this mental illness through the severity of the physical side effects shown on someone’s body. If there is one thing I’ve learned through my various hospital admissions it is that how someone looks has very little to do with what’s going on within their body and mind. Someone may look healthy and can still be severely ill, and gender means absolutely nothing.

That some false measure of “sick enough” exists is engraved into our heads the moment the eating disorder comes in.  And even when we open ourselves up to treatment, many people fear reaching out to ask for help because they are concerned they won’t be taken seriously. The eating disorder and frankly, some treatment providers intentionally or not, preach this idea that in order to be sick enough you have to reach some sort of bullshit status. Whether that be inpatient, a diagnosis, or a weight range this idea of sick enough manifests in various ways. When in reality it doesn’t really exist and everyone is “sick enough” to deserve help.

To go a little further, I’m now going to swim into the pool of treatment centers, how do you get into treatment for your eating disorder? Through a mental but primarily physical exam, which is a whole different issue in itself. If you’re lucky you’re in, assuming providers decide that you are “sick enough”. But what happens when you have an eating disorder plus other mental health issues? How can you receive help for both? Unfortunately overlapping help is often not accessible, so people are treated for one thing or the other, but rarely both. I’ve been turned away from receiving treatment for my eating disorder due to my other mental health disorders and I’ve also been turned away from treatment for my other mental health disorders due to my eating disorder. There is always a major fear factor when treatment centers are faced with multiple issues within a patient, so these other issues are commonly ignored.

Something providers lack is the knowledge that these mental illnesses are completely intertwined. With an eating disorder there is a lot of anxiety and OCD and eating disorder behaviors can be extremely connected. Underneath the eating disorder there are surrounding issues. Eating disorders are often avoidance behaviors, meaning that there is an underlying issue, but when turned away from help for these underlying issues due to fear from providers; what’s left is a lack of coping tools.

The solution, while hard to achieve, is entirely possible.  It’s a more collaborative approach. Because these illnesses are very connected it is valuable to have treatment that is unified. In my opinion, the line between treatment for psychiatric disorders and eating disorders is much thicker than necessary since both disorders are mental disorders.

Emily is a young adult who uses art and social media to express emotion, educate and provide support and hope for peers struggling with eating disorders and mental health challenges.  Follow her on Instagram @ reconstructingemily