Tag Archives: PTSD

Bright or Blight

There is something strange about being old enough to see fashion recycling itself. I have a degree in fashion design, so I have been finding myself acutely aware of the fact that people half my age are now wearing reissued platform sandals and overalls.

I’m thirty and despite growing up on an island a few hours from Seattle I missed grunge. I don’t remember the kids in my school having many options in terms of fashion, my high school wasn’t awash with much style diversity. A lot of us wore whatever odd second hand clothes we could come by, and even those that seemed to linger on the fringes of the social structure typically didn’t make it all the way into the realm of “goth”.

I was infatuated with punk rock and found myself seeking out skinny jeans before they became a staple. I listened heavily to the Clash as a teenager and, bored with the social norms I had grown accustomed to every day, began dying my hair in bright, new, interesting colors.


Me at the Denver Art Museum in 2003, Photo by Michael Putlack


That was a lot for a small rural town to handle at the time and every day I was greeted politely by someone telling me I didn’t belong. To be fair, they usually said, “you ought to be living in the city!” but no matter how it was phrased, I knew that we agreed on something: I didn’t quite fit where I was.

Experiencing the budding effects of bipolar disorder and psychosis in my teens made it hard for me to see a place for myself among my peers and as funny as it might sound, dying my hair orange (or blue, or pink, or green) was one of the only ways I felt like I could express that. Trying to avoid how different I felt, how much I felt like I didn’t fit in only acted as fuel for my depression and a little hair dye went a long way in helping me accept those differences and realize that being myself was something worth doing.


Living in Seattle the last ten years and working in the fashion industry in particular has meant seeing all kinds of trends come and go, both in style and in my own life. Some seasons I am happy about some cute boots and sweaters, some seasons I am happy with where I fit in the world. Other seasons everything in stores is mustard yellow (which is crap for my complexion), other seasons I find myself hating Seattle. The city has been tumultuous that way, and every March I tell myself I can’t stand anothe Seattle winter… but here I am.

I gave up the neon colored hair almost nine years ago. It was hard to keep up as a broke student and then, even working in fashion, it wasn’t something that was exactly welcomed when the economic crisis hit in 2008. Making my departure from the fashion realm didn’t pave the way for brilliantly colored hair either, there were no studies I could point to that suggested pink hair might sell more condos.

Somewhere in the interim I slipped back down into depression first, and then found myself with post traumatic stress disorder after a slough of unwelcome male attention. It seemed to be something that was all around me, coming from bosses and strangers and people I couldn’t seem to get away from. I found myself wanting to fold myself up like a tiny note and hide in a crack somewhere. I was having so many panic attacks that I had to wear sunglasses on the bus in an effort to hide the fact that I was crying most of the time.

So even when it began, when the citizens of Seattle began showing up more and more with brightly colored hair, it wasn’t something I could celebrate. I was too busy hiding to be willing to put a neon sign on my head, too busy wanting to be invisible.

That hesitation followed me for several years. I felt too afraid of the police, too afraid of anyone noticing how agitated I might be at any moment, how aggressive I might seem without realizing it, how manic I might be acting to feel like drawing attention to myself. I obliterated my wardrobe in an effort to remain unseen, packing anything noteworthy up in boxes or giving it to charity. I became an expert at blending in, even when I found myself so overcome by my symptoms of bipolar disorder, PTSD, & psychosis I was only really blending in with the rampant population of those living with mental illness on the streets in Seattle.

I told this to my therapist a few weeks ago and she seemed confused by the idea that I didn’t want to be seen, she kept asking why I would be afraid of people looking at me and if I was always afraid of attention from other people. Instead of try to explain how much anonymity has eased my anxiety about a local police force with a poor track record regarding those with mental illness and the expanse of men who have always seemed to believe that I owe them something simply for existing I revised my statement to say that so many people are dying their hair “just because” that it didn’t feel punk rock anymore.

Gross, I feel gross for saying that. At this point doing something because it is in fashion is not enough to motivate me, but not doing something just because everyone else is doing it is something I find equally disturbing. I don’t want trends or what people want or expect to play into the decisions I make about what I wear or how I look or the confidence I feel in myself. I want the freedom to look however I want, and even though chipping away at my own anxiety is what will eventually help me tear through all of that (though hypomania seems to work too) it is important to me to work toward doing what I want, regardless of any other opinion.

You know, when the idea came up of changing my hair again I really wrestled with it. I had so many excuses not to, I didn’t want to relive the past (heck, I’d already done every color), I didn’t want to spend the money, I didn’t like the idea of people looking at me… but ultimately I had nothing to lose (well, except hair and mine grows so fast it would only be a travesty for a month or two). Without remembering the sense of peace it gave me the first time around, the confidence, the comfort, I had a hypomanic sort of upswing a few weeks ago and just let it happen.

It’s true the fashion police in my head were in an uproar (“you’re just trying to recapture your youth!” they cried furiously) but something funny happened that I didn’t expect. I didn’t revert to a past version of myself, I just found her in one of the deep recesses of my mind reading John Irving. I tapped into her sense of levity and found that I feel more like myself than I have in several years. That might sound goofy, the idea that orange hair could produce such an outcome, but I find that I’m remembering what it was like back before I felt the need to hide all the time.

Whatever I thought might happen when people looked at me, well it hasn’t. Heads haven’t exploded, I haven’t had strangers trying to talk to me every five minutes, and I haven’t been approached by dozens of creepy stalker suitors because even though my hair is different, that isn’t the key. I am different too. I am older, yes, but also wiser. It has been important for me to realize that I don’t need to hide from unwanted attention, I am strong enough and capable enough to deal with it when it comes, even if there are times I don’t feel that way.




Stepping Stones; Stepping out of PTSD

Trigger Warning – my brand of PTSD came from situations involving sexual assault, and this post may contain loose details about that situation or other sexual topics regarding my recovery. Nothing super graphic though, don’t be gross.

Post traumatic stress disorder seemed to come into my life like a flood. One minute life seemed totally normal, and the next it began to deteriorate rapidly.

It was sort of like, if you could imagine, every time you bought a smoothy someone would walk up and take that smoothy away from you after a couple sips. After a while, you sort of just know to either avoid buying smoothies or, if you do buy one, only expect two sips. This is just the way things are, and because you haven’t known much else there are no real expectations otherwise.

Now imagine someone sits down with you and tells you that we live in a world where you could have (and you deserve) that entire effing smoothy. I mean, more than two sips. And that these people who have been taking this delicious fruity beverage away from you are a-holes who have done something profoundly inappropriate.

Well there’s shock. And anger. And definitely some horror associated with the fact that people can be so awful to one another, and that you’ve let this smoothy-snatching business go on for so long. There is guilt for not knowing things could have been different, and fear that this cycle is something that will never end.

But, maybe you feel a little empowered too. Like maybe now that you know this business about the smoothies you can buy one and enjoy the entire thing. You can break the cycle! So you go out, you buy a smoothy, and after two sips someone walks up, takes it, and walks away.

This time it feels different though, doesn’t it? This time you know you’ve been violated, that the other person is in the wrong, but maybe you just froze and didn’t know what else you could do to stop it. The anger is much bigger, much more difficult to contain. The fear becomes profound, because now you know that people seem cavalier about hurting you and that it can happen anywhere at any time. The shock leaves you frozen, bringing guilt because, somehow, you knew this would happen, didn’t you? Maybe the horror is so overwhelming you decide to pretend the whole thing never happened, just to put it all out of your mind, and ultimately blame yourself. After all, you really just can’t be trusted with a smoothy.

For me there was a series of moments like these that were like seeds being planted. I pushed the memories and my reactions down into the dirt as far as they would go, and once they were there I didn’t feel a need to address them because I thought I won. I thought I put them somewhere that was somehow equivalent to them not-existing, and if they didn’t exist I couldn’t be upset, right?

I admit, it is easy for me to look over this whole process when it is about a deliciously fruity blended beverage or something as seemingly harmless as seeds and connect the dots, but even now, years later, thinking about this process in terms of sexual assault there is a whole host of emotions that come up making it difficult for me to see through the fog that they create.

For several years I did a great job of putting the whole thing out of my mind and ignoring it. Then, after enough time had passed, those seeds that had been planted began to grow.

They broke through the soil and I suddenly began having panic attacks in crowded places. I became physically ill when someone, anyone, would touch me. I couldn’t leave the house without getting into arguments with people, so I didn’t leave the house. I felt powerless and depressed, but also angry and very afraid. Every time I closed my eyes I could sense someone standing next to me waiting for me to be vulnerable, like any moment I was happily unaware or in the shower or asleep.

The most infuriating part of this process for me was not being able to see how one person could get from the situation I was in to something better. My PTSD symptoms (mostly the anxiety and panic) were just as treatment resistant as my bipolar symptoms so I couldn’t rely on any anti-anxiety medications to help with the panic attacks and fear I was having. My doctors suggested deep breathing and reading boring case studies about PTSD, and while the deep breathing only really helped keep me from constantly screaming the reading seemed to trigger my symptoms over and over again.

Having said that, (spoiler alert) I am sitting here today really feeling like I have finally made a big dent in untangling myself from those awful PTSD plants and I found myself wondering just what I did to make it here. I thought that perhaps sharing what helped create a makeshift ladder for me might be useful to others in a similar situation, and while I am not suggesting you go out and do any of the things I am about to share I can honestly say they helped me, and all of these things were done with the consent of my healthcare team (including my therapist and psychiatrist).

For Anxiety and Panic Attacks

Basically I needed to desensitize myself to being around people and sort of re-learn that people (in general) aren’t trying to hurt me. The real trouble was that any time I was in a more crowded place (the bus, downtown, the grocery store) it would just trigger the panic attacks over and over again. Even at house parties of people I knew and loved I felt overwhelmed and would panic, so I entered into the realm of medical marijuana.

I realize this might not be a popular idea, but totally legal here in Washington State. Also, like many of the medications I have tried, it turned out there are some forms of cannabis that actually made my anxiety and panic symptoms worse, so the process of narrowing things down was a little frustrating. Thankfully, as someone with treatment resistant symptoms I have a lot of experience trying treatments that either aren’t effective or have some rough side effects so I already had a system for taking detailed notes on the effects I was experiencing.

I wont lie, I felt pretty weird about this idea at first. Growing up in a time where I was led to believe that the slightest proximity to any and every “drug” out there (D.A.R.E!!) would immediately make me an addict or banish me to hell or make me lose everything I loved made me initially totally recoil from the idea.  The legalization of medical cannabis only dampened this mindset slightly, but after speaking with three different psychiatrists and four separate therapists, all of whom who told me [given the nature of my treatment-resistant symptoms] I should proceed with anything I found that was helping, I felt a little more comfortable. Even so, it took some time for me to feel ok when other people were being judgmental about it but the fact that my doctors had my back (and heck, even my grandmother agreed) made me feel less squeamish about the whole thing.

Once I was able to pinpoint a couple strains that helped alleviate the anxiety and panic I was feeling (without sabotaging something else, like my mood for example) it was a matter of using it strategically (not all the time) to introduce me into settings where I might normally totally freak out, but because the cannabis removed the elements of anxiety and panic I was able to experience triggering situations in what felt like a non-threatening way.

Basically, cannabis allowed me to remember what it was like to be around people and feel safe, or at-ease, and after long enough it became the default setting for my brain again.

For Regaining a Sex Life

This has been very tricky, and while the cannabis was helpful enough to get me to the point of being able to be touched in general (like a back rub or foot massage) I had a big blinking red stop light in my brain around sex for a long time. Not super helpful, considering my PTSD symptoms didn’t actively show up until several years into a committed and safe relationship! Even though it had been years since I was in a place where I was in danger, once those seeds sprouted it didn’t matter.

I am sure it will sound a little funny, but the most helpful thing to removing fear and panic around sex for me was when I had surgery and my doctor told us we weren’t allowed to have sex. That’s right! Having even the possibility of having sex taken off the table made me feel more comfortable because then it wasn’t this awkward thing (or an obligation) I felt compelled to dodge constantly because I felt uncomfortable. Effectively we had to almost start our physical relationship over at square one (I recognize I am really lucky my boyfriend is the most patient person I’ve ever met) and in doing so we re-built the trust that I knew was there, but couldn’t feel because of my anxiety and panic.

For Fear and Paranoia

First I would say going to therapy and spending a lot of time talking about being assertive about boundaries helped me feel a bit more confident, but I was still really afraid that if something happened again I would freeze up and be unable to assert myself.

Something that really helped solidify a confidence in my ability to protect myself was taking a self-defense class with a friend at Fighting Chance Seattle. The staff was really knowledgeable and our male instructor made me feel very much at ease and did not require us to practice defensive moves with him, instead with anyone we felt comfortable with. Being able to connect a physical action to a feeling or desire to protect myself made me believe that if there was ever another situation I knew what to do and would be less likely to freeze in the moment. The class was only one day, but it really helped me feel like I was moving forward.

Another milestone was getting a tattoo that would act as a reminder that the fear I was feeling was coming from me, not from threats around me.

Over the last few years I have tried to keep my apartment feeling like a safe space for me. At first that meant coming home and looking behind every curtain and in every closet to be certain it was safe, but now that I have made some progress with my fear and paranoia I try to talk myself through the fear and visualize every detail of the apartment when it is dark to remind myself it is empty and safe. It is funny to me sometimes to think that my brain wants to imagine all kinds of horrors waiting for me when I close my eyes, but I spend a lot of time actively un-imagining them!


While I can’t sit here and say, “and that’s how I kicked PTSD in the face! It is gone forever!” Things have gotten significantly better.

I still get triggered from time to time, but I’ve got enough tools to keep myself from replanting that same seed over and over again. After taking that self-defense class I felt quite empowered when I was faced with a situation on a city bus, a creepy dude next to me put his hand on my leg.

Initially I started to freeze. I could feel myself starting to shut down as I had in the past, but somehow I managed to turn things around and do the total opposite of the cowering I felt like doing.

“Excuse me?!?” I yelled in his face and then stood abruptly, pushing past him to sit in another seat. He looked over at me and I scowled, shaking my finger at him. Even though my hands were shaking and my heart was racing I turned away to look out the window and my scowl turned into a faint smile.

I was free.

Revenge of the Emotions!

It seems that sometimes when I am in a very stressful or emotionally overwhelming situation my mind likes to go on vacation. It totally checks out, teleporting from my skull-cavity to somewhere a few feet above my body where it takes a nap, or dances, or sometimes swims with dolphins. The resulting husk (me) can no longer effectively communicate, but I also can no longer feel the distressing emotions that situation x-y-z would normally bring on.

I’m pretty sure the clinical term for moments like this is “disassociation”. I leave the situation, my consciousness goes away to avoid undue stress or traumatic factors. What is left behind can be on autopilot and at other times a still, blank meat puppet.

When this happened last weekend, I [operating as a detached husk] found the result almost a little funny. Things I would generally consider horrible were no longer an issue. While friends and family members were writhing in agony, my mind was dancing the cha-cha. Frankly, I was a bit glad because I knew going into the specific situation that it would be difficult… and having checked my senses of despair or concern at the door felt, well, nice.

I realize how that might sound, but imagine you’ve found a jack in the box and you know without a doubt that causing that clown to come out of the box will be disturbing, yet you feel compelled (and even obligated) to do it. You wind the little lever, hear the delicate chimes playing “pop goes the weasel”, but nothing pops out.

No clown, no demon, no carnage.

My life is full of these boxes that I am constantly opening, constantly being wrecked by outrageous emotional turmoil over a simple plastic clown, or a ceramic chipped demon. I admit, when nothing emerged (or maybe it did and I couldn’t see it) I felt a profound, perhaps even spiritual sense of relief.

That relief began to grow into feelings of hope that I might have somehow stumbled onto the secret management technique for mood swings and reactivity that would inevitably save me. Hope that maybe I have finally become desensitized enough to some of these clowns and demons to live comfortably with the acceptance of their existence but without judgement or the need for them to change. I pat myself on the back, good job, I thought. Maybe I am evolving.

My brain came home slowly. It might have come through the door into my void skull on Monday but by Tuesday it still hadn’t settled in. It was still unpacking the damp bathing suits and stolen hotel mini shampoo from the vacation, and by Wednesday with the suitcase put away and the laundry done it sat down in it’s chair and went to work plugging in all of the electrodes back into itself to reconnect to the husk.

Sure enough, as my brain reconnected every moment of the few days prior began to replay in my mind but the unconcerned and relatively emotionally blank tracks fixed to the images began to change. Every humorous moment became a punch to the gut. Every jack-in-the-box that hadn’t opened now erupted with laughing clowns, doubled over and demons waggling their fingers, satisfied that my sense of relief and self-satisfaction were a sham.

As I saw the true nature of things and the way these emotionally binding moments have been for many years sprung at me all at once, I felt ashamed for thinking I had somehow skated past them. For thinking I had evolved. For thinking I had won.

When the emotional flood hit me, it took my breath away. The best I could do was to sit and wait and cry until it was over, and even then -even today my guts and ego and emotions feel bruised.

Exploring Mindfulness; Anxiety and Bipolar Rage

I have a new therapist. So far I haven’t decided if I like her because we are total opposites in terms of our beliefs and methods. While this has been pretty helpful in terms of learning new things (like mindfulness techniques), it can also be entirely exasperating when it comes to explaining my point of view.

The first day we spoke she seemed confident that the practice of “mindfulness” would help solve a lot of my problems.

For those of you who haven’t come across this technique, mindfulness comes from a Buddhist practice involving keeping your focus on the present, including “regarding your emotions in a non-judgmental way” (that is a direct quote, I can’t say I totally understand).

The mindfulness meditation I took on takes about five minutes and involves taking deep breaths, focusing on relaxing my body, looking at my surroundings and finding 3 things that are pleasing to me (colors, textures, etc.) and then formulating an appropriate emotional response.

What I found was that after a week of using this technique (several times a day, sometimes 10 to 15 to 50 times as needed) my anxiety was somewhat responsive. I say somewhat because I often found a bit of relief after the exercise, but it wasn’t uncommon for the relief to last about five minutes and then I needed to do the exercise again. I could see how it would be easier to continue doing the exercise for someone who is seated much of the day, however when walking down the street or overwhelmed at the supermarket I was having a really hard time dropping everything to breathe and relax.

At the same time, I also was curious about using this technique to combat bipolar mood swing reactivity, but the results I experienced were somewhat catastrophic.

If you’ve ever seen the episode of Seinfeld (yes, I know, a common theme lately in this blog) George’s father begins using the mantra, “serenity now!” to help combat his rage. What we find out at the end of the episode however is that this practice was only bottling his rage up to a critical breaking point.

However comical, this is actually fairly similar to what happened to me when I was trying to use the mindfulness meditation to address (primarily) bipolar reactive rage. At first it seemed like it was working great and I felt quite pleased (less like breaking things or shouting or hurting myself), but within a span of four or five days the rage suddenly exploded out of me, and I leapt off the couch, threw the remote control in one direction and my glasses in the other and made a mad dash for the hallway where I very seriously expected to throttle whoever was on the other side of my door.

It wasn’t as if this was a situation that had gone on all day and I had been “stewing”, I felt perfectly fine one moment and then within two or three seconds (literally) I was ready to break someone over my knee like a piece of kindling. All I can say is thank goodness for my boyfriend, because if he hadn’t been home to divert me… well I am still shuddering at the notion of what might have happened. Instead I just stood in the bathtub and screamed and cried for a solid half hour.

I have a couple theories about why this happened.

The first involves George’s father from Seinfeld screaming “serenity now!” The thing about rage that I find makes it so difficult to deal with is the energy that comes with the feelings. For me, it has never felt like the emotion builds up if I don’t express my anger, frustrations, and rage, it is the energy. Since childhood my methods of expressing rage have all been physical because they allow me to address and release the energy that is overwhelming me. Unfortunately, they also have all been more or less unhealthy.

With this mindfulness technique I used, I was addressing the emotion I was experiencing, but not the energy that came with it. Once it built up it only took the tiniest moment to trigger it and… kaboom.

My second theory involves PTSD as I have encountered several situations where very minor things have seemingly flipped an invisible switch in me. Frankly I find this to be less likely in this situation because it did not involve any of my typical triggers (being in close proximity of a stranger, the bus, etc) but I can’t discount this as a possibility.

Finally, one could suppose the incident and meditation were not related. Frankly, I can’t say with absolute certainty that they are, but I am nervous to try again given how close I came to, well, certain incarceration.

At any rate, being able to try new “treatment options” that don’t involve pumping my body full of chemicals has definitely been a welcome change. And as frustrating as my new therapist can be, I think a little change can do me good.

At this point we are brainstorming ways to potentially address that rage-energy in conjunction with mindfulness meditations so stay tuned, I am sure there will be more to come on that topic!

Good Boundaries Make Good Neighbors

If there is one thing I could say is my least favorite thing about living in the city (and that is putting it mildly) it would be living in an apartment building.

To say that sharing walls with other people is enough of an inconvenience for me that it blows past trying to avoid stepping on used needles, people entering and exiting the bus without any concept of keeping other people from being on time, and parades for “most annoying city thing” might be something of an indication that my real problem is this; the people thing.

No, people on the streets in Seattle aren’t nice. They call it the “Seattle freeze,” people here will honestly just pretend you don’t exist when it is convenient for them to do so. Even worse is that these folks, when snuggled into their apartments at the end of the day, seem to also believe that whatever happens in the walls of their little unit has no effect on anyone else -and why should it? This is my home.

This is not something I can pass off like a torch and say, “ah, well, this weird and overwhelming rude-neighbor-noise-problem has nothing to do with me!” I know very well that it does.

You see, most of the time I have a very hard time asserting myself. I realize that might sound odd to anyone who knows me because I tend to have a bit of a controlling reputation, but it is true. I really struggle in situations where I feel like my boundaries are being violated and I need to stand up for myself.

Part of the problem is that I don’t really know how to assert the boundary in the first place, especially with a neighbor. So when my neighbor spends two or three weeks encouraging their children to scream as loud as they can over and over again and I do nothing (“just ignore it,” right?) a precedent has been established; screaming all day and all night is ok.

At my last apartment, that was my method… and not because I have a great time ignoring horrible sounds, oh no. In fact, I am pretty sure I don’t have access to that part of my brain, or it broke, or never quite grew in. This is especially true with repetitive noises, nothing will make me psychotic faster than a repetitive sound that I cannot avoid.

At the same time, I was terrified of what might happen if I did say something. If I waited to reach out to my neighbor when I was already agitated from the noise, wasn’t there a risk I might have a panic attack at their door or, even worse, snap at them? What if the psychosis brought on a moment where I couldn’t control myself? What if I acted like such an asshole it made things worse? What if they called the police on me for not making sense and seeming threatening?

Ultimately, no matter where I tried to go with this, the final result seemed thus; no matter what I do, pissing off my neighbor could be the biggest mistake I could make. An angry neighbor can make your life hell. 

The truly funny part was that right before I moved some gentleman went to some of my neighbors and asked them about me. I figured that since I hadn’t ever approached any of them, their responses would probably be neutral.


The responses they got were overwhelmingly negative. I was a hermit. I was cold. I was rude. I was constantly on autopilot.

And while these things are probably true (because I was always pissed off at those people for making stupid amounts of noise) it became clear that avoiding confrontation was not making people like me. In fact, they probably liked me about as little as I expected they would if I had said something to them about the noise!

One of the things I really took away for my hospitalization a couple weeks ago is that I need to work harder at being assertive and setting up boundaries with people. Again, this is something that is pretty easy to put on the list, but following through with it can seem like a daunting task.

My first day back from the hospital I approached neighbor-with-screaming-kids (I call him the butcher since it constantly sounds like he is murdering children two doors away -I dare say I would be more nervous if the kids didn’t seem to keep multiplying or answering the door grinning) when I couldn’t rest because (you guessed it) his kids were screaming.

Though he seemed somewhat incredulous that seven blood curdling screams happening simultaneously could be heard in my apartment (really?) he kept the kids quiet for a good 12 hours before the screaming started up again.

Last night I had a panic attack while trying to eat dinner because I could hear an adult over there encouraging the kids to scream louder. This unit is not next door to me, it is on the other side of the building! So, for a second time I approached my neighbor, this time with the blank pallor and the uncontrollable twitching that accompanies a panic attack. After he smiled and laughed a little a six inch Bugs Bunny sporting a pink beret, a shaggy pink sweater, and a green pencil skirt appeared on my shoulder,

“And of course you know this means war!”

Maybe my neighbor doesn’t like me, but chances are he probably wouldn’t have liked me anyway.

I’ve made the first step in establishing a boundary. Screaming at that level = inappropriate. Having established this idea with my neighbor, I feel much more relaxed about calling my building manager or the police if (or when) the screaming starts up again.

There are often times in my experience with bipolar disorder where it feels like I’ve suddenly woken up. They don’t last long anymore, but when it happens I look around me and see how much of my life has been reduced to nothing… then I spend the better part of the next few days trying to set something up again. Just enough that the ball will keep rolling without me pushing it every few feet. Practicing being assertive and setting boundaries (um, no, pizza with no sauce is not pizza!) while I briefly have the frame of mind to do so will hopefully help it stick when I don’t.

Support Needed for Mental Illness in the Workplace

Happy Monday! Today I want to share a recent article from USA Today that seems to address some issues I’ve been seeing (and living, let’s face it) about a lack of support around people with mental illness in the workplace.

I’ve been hitting a lot of big roadblocks when it comes to applying for SSDI, and I’ve honestly had some big questions about how our disability system works (or doesn’t work) here in the US. I’ve come across countless people who are against the whole idea of SSDI because it doesn’t support people who are disabled and want to work part time, and the current system seems to only support an “all” or “nothing” style of support. There have been so many situations I’ve found myself in where I know I could mentally benefit from working a few hours a week (giving my life a better sense of structure and a bigger sense of accomplishment and purpose) but the way the system is set up, trying to help myself this way is extremely frowned upon.

The article I’m sharing today addresses the idea of a “supported employment program” that potentially allows employers to do a better job of bridging the gap between the needs of their companies and realistic employment abilities of those with mental illness (which, let’s be honest, can widely vary for any given person over time). Personally, I consider this to be a stellar idea… I am just not sure how well this could realistically be executed. If companies aren’t currently willing to make the necessary accommodations for exceptionally well qualified applicants with mental illness as it is (something I have experienced several times), what would encourage them to use a program like this one?

At any rate, you can check out the article here. Give it a read and let me know what you think!

The Heart of July 4th

Propaganda of the American Colonies

Propaganda of the American Colonies

I would never refer to myself as an ardent patriot, but I do (on occasion) have the opportunity to spend time researching history and then living in a manner that our forefathers (and mothers) were accustomed to. The time of the American Revolutionary War is one that is of particular interest to me.

What is it about the period leading up to the war and the transition into a unified country I find so fascinating? Well, while others are roasting their hot dogs today and lighting off fireworks, I’m thinking about why July 4th is a holiday in the first place.

It is a story of a group of people being taken advantage of; an example of a true tale of the underdogs fighting for the rights they believe they deserve until they have achieved them.

This is an important story, and though it is one that comes up again and again in US history focusing on many different groups of people, this is a story that is still in its early stages when it comes to our story.

The American Revolution itself faced difficulty in reaching unity within the colonies. It provided a period of thought and contemplation about what basic rights should be afforded to all people, and (what people usually remember) also included a brutal struggle through the physical act of fighting.

You might be surprised to hear it, but I see a lot of similarities between the fight for American independence and the fight for fair, competent mental health services in our country and the need to bring people together on this issue. I don’t expect our journey to involve a navy or muskets, but I’m sure that is for the better!

The snake, for example, in the propaganda banner above is broken down into pieces representing each of the colonies that needed to come together to create a unified force. I think we face similar issues when attempting to unify people behind the cause of mental health because many of us have different viewpoints, different backgrounds, different disorders, different symptoms! Still, if we can find a way to work together we will find we are a force to be reckoned with; a snake you’d better not step on again!

Guerilla Warfare

Guerilla Warfare

During the American Revolution the British soldiers greatly outnumbered the colonist militia, so the militia changed the rules of war; hiding in wooded areas in an attempt to shield themselves while making an attack.

Most of us with mental illness have felt like we have needed to hide in order to keep ourselves safe, and being smart about when we share our experiences or staying calm and choosing our battles is a strategy that has already began to show some improvement in our nation’s social dialogue.

I know that while I feel comfortable coming forward and being open with everyone in my life about my experiences, I understand there are others in situations (like in a questionable workplace, family, or school environment) who have to be very careful about the battles they choose to fight and when they can fight them. I know these situations can be distressing, but I don’t consider this to be a drawback because when a hidden warrior chooses to finally make themselves seen there is a big impact.



One of the things I’ve found is that the act of hiding makes discovering a sense of community ten times more rewarding. This is part of what makes us strong; we truly appreciate much of what each other has to offer. Though I know there is still a little work that needs to go into unification for our cause, our community is constantly growing.

I expect that this 4th that there will be picnics and a sense of community and giddy children lighting off fireworks in the streets, but I hope that today you will also think about the reason behind it all.

No, it isn’t our right to bear arms, nor our hatred of paying taxes. It isn’t about guys in powdered wigs or military prowess. July 4th is about being someone who has struggled, someone who has been walked on, and demanding a better life.

If nothing else, that thought inspires me because I see myself in itIf that is what it truly means to be an American, maybe I’ve been a patriot all along?