Before I started going to weekly therapy appointments, even though I was a psychology major, I had some inaccurate ideas about what therapy was like. I didn't think "going to therapy" was a thing that lasted a long time. I had in mind a brief solution focused therapy idea of therapy where it was all focused on the solutions to the problem and minimizing the amount of time spent in therapy (less than a year in my mind). In other words, I thought I'd be almost completely "recovered" from OCD in around a year, possibly less if I worked hard enough on getting better.
I read online at the outset of my mental health journey back to wellness that it can take around a year of weekly therapy (and possibly medications) to treat an uncomplicated case of OCD (according to beyondocd.org). I read somewhere else that it can take up to 2 years to treat a moderate case of OCD. After I read these things, I thought I might be recovered by the end of a two year mark.
Reality check: I've been attending weekly therapy sessions for OVER 2 years now. I'm not "recovered". I'm still a work in progress. (I suppose humans are always a work in progress, though, right?) My weekly therapy sessions aren't winding to a close. I honestly have no idea how long I'll be in therapy.
I used to stress about how long I had been in therapy. Once I got to the 1-year mark I freaked out a little. Then when the 2-year mark blew right past me, I felt even more freaked out. (WHY IS THIS TAKING SO LONG?! I WANT TO BE BETTER NOW!) I mean, I had the tools to work through my OCD. I was using the tools to work through my OCD. Was my OCD worse than I originally thought? What was going on? Was I just milking my therapy sessions and stalling getting better?
Everyone's brain is different. Sure, somebody else might be done with therapy for their OCD in the above mentioned time frame, but that doesn't mean I have to be. That also doesn't mean that I need to give up on therapy and stop going just because it's taking me a longer amount of time. That means I keep going to my weekly sessions and giving my brain the time it needs.
I've heard people say that they used to go to therapy, but they stopped because they'd been going for a while and they just got tired of going. That's like taking your antibiotics and then stopping after the first couple of days because you feel fine. They get sick all over again, possibly even sicker than the first time around. If you only go to therapy long enough to dig through your mind and bring up old issues, you could spiral if you stop going before you deal with those old issues.
Your brain is a complex organ, and only going to a few months of therapy won't be enough to march through the rewiring process. Medications even take 2 to 3 months to bring about changes that you might notice. Give yourself time, and don't give up because you think it's taking too long.
I'll end with this: Your mental health condition didn't spring up overnight. It took time, just like it'll take time to work through it to a place you can consider "recovering". Don't get discouraged or feel embarrassed if treatment takes longer than you anticipated. Hang in there. Give your brain the time it needs to process and change. Cultivating a new, healthier, happier life takes time, and that's okay.
Wednesday, March 21, 2018
Wednesday, February 28, 2018
It's Not That Bad
When someone asks me about my OCD, I tend to list the criteria for the disorder, and then I tend to explain what it's like for me without going into too much personal detail. I should stop the explanation there, but I never do. I usually feel the need to hurriedly add something like, "It's totally not as bad as I made it sound" or "I know it's not as bad as it could be". In other words, I tend to downplay my mental health condition and the impact it has had on my life. My therapist has even pointed out that I do this during my weekly sessions.
I don't downplay my OCD because I think having OCD isn't actually that bad. I downplay it because I feel guilty if I don't. People can't physically see my OCD, and I'm still a high-functioning person. That makes me feel like, sometimes, I shouldn't say anything about my own suffering because I'm not suffering as badly as I could be. Sort of like, I know people have it worse, so I don't need to lump my "invisible" mental health condition in with those that are physically suffering.
The guilt and the idea that I have to downplay my mental suffering comes from the mental health stigma. The mental health stigma tells us all that mental health conditions "aren't that bad" or that mental health conditions are less than more visible health conditions.
Here's the thing: suffering is still suffering, no matter what form it takes. All forms of suffering need to be recognized and treated with compassion so proper care can be implemented. A sick brain is still a sick organ in your body that deserves the same level of respect that you would give a broken arm or a heart condition. A sick brain can take away a life just like any other untreated health condition.
Perhaps the most important reason we all shouldn't downplay our mental health condition is because it makes light of our victory. There were points in my life (both during my struggle with undiagnosed and untreated OCD and for a bit after diagnosis) that I doubted my ability to fight and win against my own mind, and it was terrifying. But I'm still here, and I'm in a much healthier, more positive place. By downplaying my mental health condition and making sure I add, "It's totally not that bad", I'm making it seem like I didn't fight like hell, with everything I had, every single day, for all that time to survive and get to this healthier place.
I'll end with this: If someone is dealing with a mental health condition, their suffering is not less than someone else's suffering with a physical condition. Suffering is still suffering and it deserves recognition, respect, compassion, and proper care. If you're managing a mental health condition and you're trying, and you're still here don't you dare take away your own victory by downplaying the struggle with your mental health condition.
I don't downplay my OCD because I think having OCD isn't actually that bad. I downplay it because I feel guilty if I don't. People can't physically see my OCD, and I'm still a high-functioning person. That makes me feel like, sometimes, I shouldn't say anything about my own suffering because I'm not suffering as badly as I could be. Sort of like, I know people have it worse, so I don't need to lump my "invisible" mental health condition in with those that are physically suffering.
The guilt and the idea that I have to downplay my mental suffering comes from the mental health stigma. The mental health stigma tells us all that mental health conditions "aren't that bad" or that mental health conditions are less than more visible health conditions.
Here's the thing: suffering is still suffering, no matter what form it takes. All forms of suffering need to be recognized and treated with compassion so proper care can be implemented. A sick brain is still a sick organ in your body that deserves the same level of respect that you would give a broken arm or a heart condition. A sick brain can take away a life just like any other untreated health condition.
Perhaps the most important reason we all shouldn't downplay our mental health condition is because it makes light of our victory. There were points in my life (both during my struggle with undiagnosed and untreated OCD and for a bit after diagnosis) that I doubted my ability to fight and win against my own mind, and it was terrifying. But I'm still here, and I'm in a much healthier, more positive place. By downplaying my mental health condition and making sure I add, "It's totally not that bad", I'm making it seem like I didn't fight like hell, with everything I had, every single day, for all that time to survive and get to this healthier place.
I'll end with this: If someone is dealing with a mental health condition, their suffering is not less than someone else's suffering with a physical condition. Suffering is still suffering and it deserves recognition, respect, compassion, and proper care. If you're managing a mental health condition and you're trying, and you're still here don't you dare take away your own victory by downplaying the struggle with your mental health condition.
Wednesday, February 7, 2018
Is This Who I Am?
I have struggled with a mental health condition for my entire adult life. My OCD symptoms hit fast and hard in my last semester of my senior year of high school, and then I just spiraled with an out of control mental health condition for the next six years without treatment. As a result of that, while everyone in college was figuring out who they were and what they wanted, I was literally just trying to survive day-to-day life and hide my symptoms instead of trying to figure out who I was and what I wanted for my life. I just tried to be a who I thought I HAD TO be in order to prove everything my mental illness told me was wrong. (Hint: that never works because your mental health condition will feel like it out-logics everything you think or do.)
I was reflecting on how I've changed and how my life has improved since I entered treatment a couple of years ago, and I just had to sit there sort of in awe for a moment. I felt like everything had changed. My opinions, my thoughts, my political stance, my goals in life, what makes me happy, my hopes and dreams, what I looked for in friends and a partner...all of it had changed in the last couple of years since I had gotten my mental health to a more stable place. I noticed that I even dressed differently because my clothing style was no longer dependent on making sure I projected this "good" image (which, in my mind, meant that I couldn't dress in the way I wanted to dress because I like to wear a lot of black, and that might lead people to think that I was dark on the inside, like my outside projected. I couldn't give other people any reason to question my "goodness" while I was also questioning the same thing. I know that sounds crazy, but, hey, mental illness never makes sense.). Looking back at the girl from a couple of years ago, I didn't recognize her, and as I thought about her, I kept thinking, "That doesn't feel like me..."
I was talking to my mom about this the other night. I had gone on this long explanation about why I felt and thought the way I did now on a certain topic. I dove really deep with my explanation, and then, once I realized how different I sounded from even just a year ago, I stopped and looked at her for a second. I asked her, somewhat jokingly, "Is this who I am now?" Later that was followed up with a more serious question, "So, what..? I've gotten my mental health under control, and now I'm figuring out who I really am?" My mom was just like, "Apparently."
At some point I stopped thinking, "My OCD tells me this, so I have to prove it wrong by choosing this option, even if I don't feel like myself." Instead, at some point during my course of getting well and healing, I started to think, "This option would make me happy, let's go with that." The focus shifted from me trying to prove myself to my funky brain to me just trying to be happy. I even got shamed by a lady at a party once for stating an opinion, and I didn't feel like a bad person because I didn't have anything to prove to her about what a good person I was. I didn't even care if she thought I was a bad person because I knew I wasn't a bad person in that moment. I wasn't even motivated by my OCD to concede and change my opinion just so I could be perceived differently.
I was struck by the realization the other day that I can literally just make choices (within reason) that make me happy and that will be what I wanted long term. I don't have to prove how "good" I am with every single decision that I make so that I can make up for my bad OCD thoughts. (Example: I don't have to prove I'm a good person by choosing a career that directly helps people like I thought I did. Instead, I can write for a living because I enjoy it and it makes me happy.) As a result, stable, happier Megan seems to be quite different from OCD Megan.
I'll end with this: Figuring out who you are is hard for the average person, but it can be even harder for a person with a mental health condition. The first step is treatment for your mental health condition. It can take a long time to get out of survival mode enough to find yourself, and there is no shame in figuring things out later. We're only humans and we're always a work in progress.
I was reflecting on how I've changed and how my life has improved since I entered treatment a couple of years ago, and I just had to sit there sort of in awe for a moment. I felt like everything had changed. My opinions, my thoughts, my political stance, my goals in life, what makes me happy, my hopes and dreams, what I looked for in friends and a partner...all of it had changed in the last couple of years since I had gotten my mental health to a more stable place. I noticed that I even dressed differently because my clothing style was no longer dependent on making sure I projected this "good" image (which, in my mind, meant that I couldn't dress in the way I wanted to dress because I like to wear a lot of black, and that might lead people to think that I was dark on the inside, like my outside projected. I couldn't give other people any reason to question my "goodness" while I was also questioning the same thing. I know that sounds crazy, but, hey, mental illness never makes sense.). Looking back at the girl from a couple of years ago, I didn't recognize her, and as I thought about her, I kept thinking, "That doesn't feel like me..."
I was talking to my mom about this the other night. I had gone on this long explanation about why I felt and thought the way I did now on a certain topic. I dove really deep with my explanation, and then, once I realized how different I sounded from even just a year ago, I stopped and looked at her for a second. I asked her, somewhat jokingly, "Is this who I am now?" Later that was followed up with a more serious question, "So, what..? I've gotten my mental health under control, and now I'm figuring out who I really am?" My mom was just like, "Apparently."
At some point I stopped thinking, "My OCD tells me this, so I have to prove it wrong by choosing this option, even if I don't feel like myself." Instead, at some point during my course of getting well and healing, I started to think, "This option would make me happy, let's go with that." The focus shifted from me trying to prove myself to my funky brain to me just trying to be happy. I even got shamed by a lady at a party once for stating an opinion, and I didn't feel like a bad person because I didn't have anything to prove to her about what a good person I was. I didn't even care if she thought I was a bad person because I knew I wasn't a bad person in that moment. I wasn't even motivated by my OCD to concede and change my opinion just so I could be perceived differently.
I was struck by the realization the other day that I can literally just make choices (within reason) that make me happy and that will be what I wanted long term. I don't have to prove how "good" I am with every single decision that I make so that I can make up for my bad OCD thoughts. (Example: I don't have to prove I'm a good person by choosing a career that directly helps people like I thought I did. Instead, I can write for a living because I enjoy it and it makes me happy.) As a result, stable, happier Megan seems to be quite different from OCD Megan.
I'll end with this: Figuring out who you are is hard for the average person, but it can be even harder for a person with a mental health condition. The first step is treatment for your mental health condition. It can take a long time to get out of survival mode enough to find yourself, and there is no shame in figuring things out later. We're only humans and we're always a work in progress.
Wednesday, December 27, 2017
Healing
With the new year just around the corner, I've been reflecting a lot lately and thinking about how I want to live and the things I want to focus on in 2018. I always talk about managing symptoms and coping and self care because those things are super important. I realized that I don't really talk about another important piece of the wellness puzzle: healing.
I remember when I first got diagnosed with OCD, I made an appointment to talk to my priest at the suggestion of my therapist. I explained everything to my priest, and I even took some printouts explaining everything. One of the first things my priest said to me was, "You need healing." He said it matter-of-factly, like it wasn't a big deal, like it didn't even occur to him that I might deserve all the suffering I had been putting myself through. He said it like he believed healing was a real possibility. I was practically floored by the idea.
That statement and the idea of healing has stuck with me over the last couple of years as I've muddled my way through coping and self care to try to figure out exactly what healing looked like for me. I had only ever thought of surviving, not legitimately healing and overcoming. But there the idea was.
I didn't really understand what my priest was talking about when he said I needed healing. It took me a while to realize that healing was different from just managing symptoms and getting back to my pre-OCD life, but I couldn't figure out what healing would look like for me or even if I would ever be able to get to a point that could be considered as "healing" from the trauma I caused myself through for all those years. I didn't even know if I would recognize the true, deep soul-healing process that I knew I needed and desperately wanted.
Then I was writing the other night, and as I read over my writing, I realized that I was no longer thinking of my OCD as a cage that trapped me or a demon that I had to fight against to make my way out of the darkness that had become my mind. I no longer thought of myself as somebody who wasn't really worth saving. I had, at some point over the past year, started to think of myself as someone worth saving, and I thought of my OCD as just as piece of myself that I had finally accepted and made friends with, if you will, so I could let the good things back into my life again. I no longer thought of my soul as broken, and that meant that I was able to believe that I wasn't broken. I looked back at some of my other writings, and sure enough, among the darker pieces of the past year, some writings about recovery and redemption were mixed in as well.
It was then that I finally realized, after two years, what healing looked like for me. Healing looked like grace, redemption, and love that I deserved in my own eyes after all that time of believing that I didn't. To heal, I had to find grace and redemption in my own eyes because, at that moment, that was the most important thing..to change the way I saw myself. It doesn't really matter how positively the world sees you if all you can see is negative, so I had to finally start seeing myself in a positive way before healing could begin. Healing looked like honestly believing that I deserved good things because humans are basically good and that means they deserve a good life with happiness and love and friends. So, for 2018, I want to try to focus on the healing piece of my wellness and hoping for good things in my life.
I'll end with this: Healing is so important to wellness, and healing looks different for everyone. To me, it seems like healing begins when you change the way you see yourself from negative to positive. Don't give up just because you think you won't ever reach that point or that you can't ever change the way you see yourself. We can all get there. We all deserve healing and love and happiness.
I remember when I first got diagnosed with OCD, I made an appointment to talk to my priest at the suggestion of my therapist. I explained everything to my priest, and I even took some printouts explaining everything. One of the first things my priest said to me was, "You need healing." He said it matter-of-factly, like it wasn't a big deal, like it didn't even occur to him that I might deserve all the suffering I had been putting myself through. He said it like he believed healing was a real possibility. I was practically floored by the idea.
That statement and the idea of healing has stuck with me over the last couple of years as I've muddled my way through coping and self care to try to figure out exactly what healing looked like for me. I had only ever thought of surviving, not legitimately healing and overcoming. But there the idea was.
I didn't really understand what my priest was talking about when he said I needed healing. It took me a while to realize that healing was different from just managing symptoms and getting back to my pre-OCD life, but I couldn't figure out what healing would look like for me or even if I would ever be able to get to a point that could be considered as "healing" from the trauma I caused myself through for all those years. I didn't even know if I would recognize the true, deep soul-healing process that I knew I needed and desperately wanted.
Then I was writing the other night, and as I read over my writing, I realized that I was no longer thinking of my OCD as a cage that trapped me or a demon that I had to fight against to make my way out of the darkness that had become my mind. I no longer thought of myself as somebody who wasn't really worth saving. I had, at some point over the past year, started to think of myself as someone worth saving, and I thought of my OCD as just as piece of myself that I had finally accepted and made friends with, if you will, so I could let the good things back into my life again. I no longer thought of my soul as broken, and that meant that I was able to believe that I wasn't broken. I looked back at some of my other writings, and sure enough, among the darker pieces of the past year, some writings about recovery and redemption were mixed in as well.
It was then that I finally realized, after two years, what healing looked like for me. Healing looked like grace, redemption, and love that I deserved in my own eyes after all that time of believing that I didn't. To heal, I had to find grace and redemption in my own eyes because, at that moment, that was the most important thing..to change the way I saw myself. It doesn't really matter how positively the world sees you if all you can see is negative, so I had to finally start seeing myself in a positive way before healing could begin. Healing looked like honestly believing that I deserved good things because humans are basically good and that means they deserve a good life with happiness and love and friends. So, for 2018, I want to try to focus on the healing piece of my wellness and hoping for good things in my life.
I'll end with this: Healing is so important to wellness, and healing looks different for everyone. To me, it seems like healing begins when you change the way you see yourself from negative to positive. Don't give up just because you think you won't ever reach that point or that you can't ever change the way you see yourself. We can all get there. We all deserve healing and love and happiness.
Wednesday, December 13, 2017
Defining Success
I've mentioned before that I started doing desensitization exercises with my therapist. I do them as often as I can (meaning I do them when I don't have other things to cope with or that my anxiety is low enough to do them safely). Currently, my exercises are to listen to some Christian music, usually church hymns, that I heard as a child in church or as an adult in college chapel services. This past week, I chose a song that I began desensitization exercises with (what feels like) a long time ago, and things did not go as I expected.
I had been doing well with the exercises for the past few months. No tears. No panic. No shaking as I tried to force myself to hang in there until the end of the song. Sometimes, I didn't even feel like I was forcing myself to hang in there at all. I was so proud of myself and my improvement. Then I went back to the song that I began my exposure exercises with because I wanted to go back to that song and prove that I had improved, I guess, and for a nice change from the Alan Jackson renditions of traditional hymns. I only made it about halfway through the song before I had to turn it off.
I got this rush of anxiety. Then came a couple of intrusive thoughts. Then came the guilt. Tears threatened to spill over. So, I made the decision to turn off the song and take a moment in my mind library (the safe place I created specifically for exposure exercises in case my anxiety got too high). I felt like I was right back there in my pew during a college chapel service, terrified to the point of shivering that the intrusive thoughts were going to come and that some well-deserved by still terrible divine punishment was going to rain down upon my head.
Because of this recurrence of old feelings and fears and the fact that I had to stop the song, I felt like I had failed. I chalked this exercise up to a failure that I needed to work on. I was pretty upset about the setback after so many months of doing so well.
My therapist did not agree with me. On the contrary, she thought my decision to stop the song and take a moment was a success. I didn't understand that, and so she explained it to me. I made the decision to stop the song, and I gave myself a moment to regroup and manage the anxiety. By allowing myself to stop the song and take a moment, I had taken control of the situation instead of just helplessly subjecting myself to torture because I felt like I had no other option as I had done for the past eight years of living with OCD. For the first time ever, I basically said, "I don't have to prove how good I am by subjecting myself to this. I can choose to turn this off, and that doesn't say anything about who I am as a person." For the first time, I was in control, and my actions weren't motivated by my OCD.
I used to be the person that would sit in church or chapel services and shake uncontrollably, and I'd swear to myself that I'd stay there even if it killed me. I used to be the person that would listen to Christian music wherever I had to, and I'd swear I'd hide my anxiety even if it killed me. I'd also purposefully hold my rosary or my cross necklace that had been a confirmation gift blessed by a priest, just to see if anything bad happened to me while I held them just to prove to myself over and over and over again that I wasn't evil or possessed. Looking back on those things and my desire to prove to everyone, and most of all myself, that I was good, the decision to stop the song was a success. For the first time in eight years, I had decided that I didn't have to prove anything to myself.
I've been thinking about that for a few days now. That exercise has changed the way that I think of successfully dealing with my mental health condition. I realized that success doesn't mean sitting through song after song and hoping that it doesn't bother me so that my anxiety doesn't spiral out of control. Success isn't counting the number of days that are free of symptoms. Success is being in control of my OCD enough to say, "This is affecting me, but I don't have to prove to the OCD that I'm a good person by enduring this mental anguish until it's over." Success is realizing that I don't have to suffer just to prove something.
I'll end with this: Success with a mental health condition isn't defined by the number of exercises you complete or the number of days you don't have any symptoms. Success is realizing that you don't have to believe everything your funky brain tells you. Success is admitting that something is affecting you and your willingness to take the necessary steps to lessen the negative effect, even if those steps aren't the ones you wanted to take. Success is sometimes picking your battles instead of constantly fighting a war with your mental health condition because a small victory is better than no victory at all.
I had been doing well with the exercises for the past few months. No tears. No panic. No shaking as I tried to force myself to hang in there until the end of the song. Sometimes, I didn't even feel like I was forcing myself to hang in there at all. I was so proud of myself and my improvement. Then I went back to the song that I began my exposure exercises with because I wanted to go back to that song and prove that I had improved, I guess, and for a nice change from the Alan Jackson renditions of traditional hymns. I only made it about halfway through the song before I had to turn it off.
I got this rush of anxiety. Then came a couple of intrusive thoughts. Then came the guilt. Tears threatened to spill over. So, I made the decision to turn off the song and take a moment in my mind library (the safe place I created specifically for exposure exercises in case my anxiety got too high). I felt like I was right back there in my pew during a college chapel service, terrified to the point of shivering that the intrusive thoughts were going to come and that some well-deserved by still terrible divine punishment was going to rain down upon my head.
Because of this recurrence of old feelings and fears and the fact that I had to stop the song, I felt like I had failed. I chalked this exercise up to a failure that I needed to work on. I was pretty upset about the setback after so many months of doing so well.
My therapist did not agree with me. On the contrary, she thought my decision to stop the song and take a moment was a success. I didn't understand that, and so she explained it to me. I made the decision to stop the song, and I gave myself a moment to regroup and manage the anxiety. By allowing myself to stop the song and take a moment, I had taken control of the situation instead of just helplessly subjecting myself to torture because I felt like I had no other option as I had done for the past eight years of living with OCD. For the first time ever, I basically said, "I don't have to prove how good I am by subjecting myself to this. I can choose to turn this off, and that doesn't say anything about who I am as a person." For the first time, I was in control, and my actions weren't motivated by my OCD.
I used to be the person that would sit in church or chapel services and shake uncontrollably, and I'd swear to myself that I'd stay there even if it killed me. I used to be the person that would listen to Christian music wherever I had to, and I'd swear I'd hide my anxiety even if it killed me. I'd also purposefully hold my rosary or my cross necklace that had been a confirmation gift blessed by a priest, just to see if anything bad happened to me while I held them just to prove to myself over and over and over again that I wasn't evil or possessed. Looking back on those things and my desire to prove to everyone, and most of all myself, that I was good, the decision to stop the song was a success. For the first time in eight years, I had decided that I didn't have to prove anything to myself.
I've been thinking about that for a few days now. That exercise has changed the way that I think of successfully dealing with my mental health condition. I realized that success doesn't mean sitting through song after song and hoping that it doesn't bother me so that my anxiety doesn't spiral out of control. Success isn't counting the number of days that are free of symptoms. Success is being in control of my OCD enough to say, "This is affecting me, but I don't have to prove to the OCD that I'm a good person by enduring this mental anguish until it's over." Success is realizing that I don't have to suffer just to prove something.
I'll end with this: Success with a mental health condition isn't defined by the number of exercises you complete or the number of days you don't have any symptoms. Success is realizing that you don't have to believe everything your funky brain tells you. Success is admitting that something is affecting you and your willingness to take the necessary steps to lessen the negative effect, even if those steps aren't the ones you wanted to take. Success is sometimes picking your battles instead of constantly fighting a war with your mental health condition because a small victory is better than no victory at all.
Wednesday, November 29, 2017
Expectations
We've probably all been in that place in our lives when we, for whatever reason, didn't live up to someone's expectations of who we were or what we should be doing with our lives. Maybe we didn't live up to our parents' expectation and become a doctor or teacher. Maybe you didn't live up to your own expectations when you changed jobs to forge a new career path to protect your happiness and your sanity. And you maybe didn't live up to so-and-so's expectations as they interrogated you over Thanksgiving dinner about your life choices (like why you might have dropped down to part time in college to be able to better manage your mental health condition or why you do/don't take medication for the aforementioned mental health condition).
I know I've been in plenty of situations like that. In some way, I didn't live up to someone's expectations. Many, many times I didn't live up to my own expectations. I have a habit of not doing what is expected of me, apparently. Sometimes it's intentional (like deciding in the second semester of my senior year of college to try to build a freelance career and write fiction for a living instead of going to grad school or law school). Other times, I didn't live up to expectations because of things outside of my control (like the sudden derailing of my life for a year or so because of my mental health).
People that are older and "wiser" than me comment on my life choices sometimes. Family members and some family friends had expectations that I missed along the path of honoring who I am, and those people tend to scoff or be disappointed because I took my life in a less conventional direction. Sometimes knowing that I disappointed someone, or seeing someone scoff at something I've been working so hard on because they may not understand just how hard I've been working, can really make me second guess myself. I'll catch myself asking, "Is this really who I am? Is this really who I want to be? Am I really happy with this life that I am creating?" The fact that they saw something or someone different can shake me up a bit because I start to wonder if I'm really living up to my full potential. Other times, my reaction is something like, "How dare you scoff and be disappointed just because I'm not the person you expected me to be. I am who I am, and I have worked hard to become this (mostly) happy person that I actually like (most days, anyway)."
Here's the thing that I always need to remember, and it's something that my therapist regularly talks about with me: I do not have to live up to anyone else's expectations. I have to honor who I am, and I have to make the choices that will keep me on the path to being a happy, healthy, and well-adjusted human. So what if someone else doesn't understand the choices that keep me happy and healthy. Other people's disappointment has nothing to do with me, really. Their expectations were a projection of their idea of me, and it isn't my fault that their ideas don't match who I am. It wouldn't matter if I had a mental health condition or a healthy brain, I still don't have to feel bad for not living up to someone else's expectations.
I'll end with this: You are under no obligation to live up to other people's expectations. You only have to live the life that makes you happy and keeps you healthy. If you want to change majors, career paths, or anything else about your life to protect your mental health and honor who you are, then do it. Don't let the weight of everyone else's ideas of what your best life should look like keep you trapped in a box that you didn't even ask to be put into.
I know I've been in plenty of situations like that. In some way, I didn't live up to someone's expectations. Many, many times I didn't live up to my own expectations. I have a habit of not doing what is expected of me, apparently. Sometimes it's intentional (like deciding in the second semester of my senior year of college to try to build a freelance career and write fiction for a living instead of going to grad school or law school). Other times, I didn't live up to expectations because of things outside of my control (like the sudden derailing of my life for a year or so because of my mental health).
People that are older and "wiser" than me comment on my life choices sometimes. Family members and some family friends had expectations that I missed along the path of honoring who I am, and those people tend to scoff or be disappointed because I took my life in a less conventional direction. Sometimes knowing that I disappointed someone, or seeing someone scoff at something I've been working so hard on because they may not understand just how hard I've been working, can really make me second guess myself. I'll catch myself asking, "Is this really who I am? Is this really who I want to be? Am I really happy with this life that I am creating?" The fact that they saw something or someone different can shake me up a bit because I start to wonder if I'm really living up to my full potential. Other times, my reaction is something like, "How dare you scoff and be disappointed just because I'm not the person you expected me to be. I am who I am, and I have worked hard to become this (mostly) happy person that I actually like (most days, anyway)."
Here's the thing that I always need to remember, and it's something that my therapist regularly talks about with me: I do not have to live up to anyone else's expectations. I have to honor who I am, and I have to make the choices that will keep me on the path to being a happy, healthy, and well-adjusted human. So what if someone else doesn't understand the choices that keep me happy and healthy. Other people's disappointment has nothing to do with me, really. Their expectations were a projection of their idea of me, and it isn't my fault that their ideas don't match who I am. It wouldn't matter if I had a mental health condition or a healthy brain, I still don't have to feel bad for not living up to someone else's expectations.
I'll end with this: You are under no obligation to live up to other people's expectations. You only have to live the life that makes you happy and keeps you healthy. If you want to change majors, career paths, or anything else about your life to protect your mental health and honor who you are, then do it. Don't let the weight of everyone else's ideas of what your best life should look like keep you trapped in a box that you didn't even ask to be put into.
Wednesday, November 8, 2017
The Suffering Artist
Since my anxiety struggle began and I got my OCD diagnosis, I have found it more difficult to write than before I struggled with anxiety. With a mental health condition, it's so easy to get lost in the suffering and mental turmoil that comes with life with a mental health condition. Everything else becomes blurry background scenery and static when I'm just trying to survive from one day to the next. I can barely even hold it together enough to go to the grocery store, so of course I can't sit down and write a novel or short story or even a poem.
I am at my most creative when I am well. Sure, I write about life with a mental health condition, and that includes the mental turmoil, but I can only write about that after I have survived and come out on the other side of it. While I'm in the middle of it, nothing but survival matters. Art doesn't matter while I am in the middle of suffering through an OCD spiral. It's only later, after I have taken care of myself and gotten back to a healthier place that I can think clearly and logically enough to put anything down on the page.
I started to notice this suffering artist trope in movies, TV, and even online in articles and cute Pinterest pins. These things romanticized suffering, and they made it seem like the artist had to suffer to create something great. Some artists even refused help because they could only create so beautifully while they were suffering so terribly. I also started seeing things about the link between mental illness and creativity. Those articles pointed out that creative types are more likely to be mentally ill. The romanticizing of mental illness continues...
Here's the problem I have with the suffering artist trope: People romanticize the suffering with mental health conditions as the CAUSE for the creativity, like almost everyone that creates something beautiful must be suffering, which is an incorrect assumption. That makes it seem like if a person gets help, all their creativity will be gone, which, of course, is going to make some people afraid to seek help for a mental health condition, especially if they believe their art is all they have.
I think some people come into the world innately creative, and then some of those people develop a mental health condition while other creatives do not because mental health is unpredictable. Then the people that were already creative use that creativity as a way to cope and process life with their mental health condition. They use creativity as an outlet, but that doesn't mean their mental health condition caused them to be creative. I think the creativity is a way of healing and recovering. I also think that if a creative person got help for their mental health condition, their creative powers would flourish instead of vanish because the turmoil and suffering wouldn't weigh the mind down.
Your mental health condition didn't make you a creative genius. You were already a creative genius, your mental health condition was just the piece of life that made you feel deeply enough to realize you needed to say something about it, much the same way love, anger, and heartbreak make people realize they NEED to say something to the world.
If we're going to romanticize anything about mental illness, we should romanticize recovery. Romanticize the strength it took to fight your way out of a spiral and get the help you needed, and think of yourself as the hero of your own epic story. Romanticize the kindness you show yourself in getting well instead of the suffering you're clinging to for the sake of art.
I'll end with this: The suffering artist idea is a myth. Creativity isn't a side effect of mental illness, and mental illness isn't a side effect of creativity. An untreated mental health condition and the suffering it brought didn't turn anyone into a creative genius. Suffering with an untreated mental health condition isn't something we should romanticize. You don't have to cling to the stereotype of the suffering artist to create something beautiful because beauty also comes from being kind to yourself and allowing yourself to recover.
I am at my most creative when I am well. Sure, I write about life with a mental health condition, and that includes the mental turmoil, but I can only write about that after I have survived and come out on the other side of it. While I'm in the middle of it, nothing but survival matters. Art doesn't matter while I am in the middle of suffering through an OCD spiral. It's only later, after I have taken care of myself and gotten back to a healthier place that I can think clearly and logically enough to put anything down on the page.
I started to notice this suffering artist trope in movies, TV, and even online in articles and cute Pinterest pins. These things romanticized suffering, and they made it seem like the artist had to suffer to create something great. Some artists even refused help because they could only create so beautifully while they were suffering so terribly. I also started seeing things about the link between mental illness and creativity. Those articles pointed out that creative types are more likely to be mentally ill. The romanticizing of mental illness continues...
Here's the problem I have with the suffering artist trope: People romanticize the suffering with mental health conditions as the CAUSE for the creativity, like almost everyone that creates something beautiful must be suffering, which is an incorrect assumption. That makes it seem like if a person gets help, all their creativity will be gone, which, of course, is going to make some people afraid to seek help for a mental health condition, especially if they believe their art is all they have.
I think some people come into the world innately creative, and then some of those people develop a mental health condition while other creatives do not because mental health is unpredictable. Then the people that were already creative use that creativity as a way to cope and process life with their mental health condition. They use creativity as an outlet, but that doesn't mean their mental health condition caused them to be creative. I think the creativity is a way of healing and recovering. I also think that if a creative person got help for their mental health condition, their creative powers would flourish instead of vanish because the turmoil and suffering wouldn't weigh the mind down.
Your mental health condition didn't make you a creative genius. You were already a creative genius, your mental health condition was just the piece of life that made you feel deeply enough to realize you needed to say something about it, much the same way love, anger, and heartbreak make people realize they NEED to say something to the world.
If we're going to romanticize anything about mental illness, we should romanticize recovery. Romanticize the strength it took to fight your way out of a spiral and get the help you needed, and think of yourself as the hero of your own epic story. Romanticize the kindness you show yourself in getting well instead of the suffering you're clinging to for the sake of art.
I'll end with this: The suffering artist idea is a myth. Creativity isn't a side effect of mental illness, and mental illness isn't a side effect of creativity. An untreated mental health condition and the suffering it brought didn't turn anyone into a creative genius. Suffering with an untreated mental health condition isn't something we should romanticize. You don't have to cling to the stereotype of the suffering artist to create something beautiful because beauty also comes from being kind to yourself and allowing yourself to recover.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)