Trigger: Something that sets off a memory tape or flashback transporting the person back to the event of his or her original trauma. A person's triggers are activated through one or more of the five senses: sight, smell, sound, touch, and taste. Children and adults can have triggers. (Definition from Psych Central)
I've been seeing the word "triggered" thrown around on social media quite a bit over the past year or so as a synonym for offended, upset, and/or emotional. It's usually used in a negative sense these days, to imply the whole "liberal or feminist snowflake" idea. A couple of times, though, I've even seen people say they're triggered in a joking manner. That isn't what being triggered actually means, and that's not okay.
When someone, like myself, is triggered, it doesn't mean I'm upset, offended, or just being an emotional snowflake. It means something in my environment has pulled up memories or flashbacks and re-experiencing of trauma. It feels like I'm right back there, reliving the traumatic event, and that can be a terrifying experience. It means I may have to call my therapist to help me stay functional and not panicked in this situation. It means I may have to take medication, depending on how intense the traumatic memories and feelings are. Being triggered isn't something people recover from easily. It can take hours, days, or even weeks to come back to our "normal" after a trigger has re-activated the feelings of trauma.
When we use actual mental health terms like "triggered" outside of their original meaning and context, we're devaluing those clinical terms and making them seem less serious than they actually are. By doing that, we're, in yet another way, making light of people's trauma and suffering. We're telling them, yet again, that their suffering and trauma are less serious and less important, simply because the suffering and trauma are mental health-related. We're giving anyone that hears us use these terms incorrectly and flippantly the idea that it's okay to see triggers as just silly little things that upset people or that it's okay to make suffering into a joke. It's the same thing as saying, "I'm so OCD" just because you like your space neat and tidy or "I'm so bipolar" just because you feel moody.
When we use mental health terms incorrectly, we're actually hurting people. We're keeping the mental health stigma alive and well. When someone with an actual trigger hears us make light of triggers in conversation or sees it on social media, that person is less likely to mention that they have any triggers and less likely to seek help to heal from the trauma.
I'll end with this: Words have the power to hurt or help people. Words like "triggered" used incorrectly or flippantly have the power to stop someone from taking their trauma seriously enough to get help. We should all be a little more mindful of the words we use in our conversations and on our social media.
Source:
https://psychcentral.com/lib/what-is-a-trigger/
Wednesday, January 8, 2020
Wednesday, December 18, 2019
Returning to the Scene of the (Thought) Crime
I have always been a religious person...to an extent. I have also always been an independent, logical thinker. I have always been a person that enjoys being part of a religious community. However, for my entire adult life, I haven't had a "healthy" relationship with religious practice because of the black and white thinking that often comes with obsessive thinking like OCD. My funky brain always told me that religion was an all or nothing thing. I was either perfect in my religious practice and worship or I didn't even deserve to walk through the doors.
As you can guess, I was pretty much always ashamed and guilty because I wasn't a better Christian. (How could I not be ashamed and guilty when my intrusive thoughts made me terrified that I was going to literally burst into flames or be struck down as I sat in my pew?) So, when my OCD was at its worst, I stopped going. I didn't see what else I could do at the time. I didn't enjoying being there when I felt terrible because I was there. My intrusive thoughts were worse when I was in that environment. At points, even driving by a church would trigger my intrusive thoughts.
Well, this past year, I wondered if I might be able to return to church. I had done Exposure and Response Prevention Therapy with my therapist. I had even watched a church service on YouTube without having to stop it because of my anxiety. I was doing well when it came to my religious intrusive thoughts. I brought the idea up with my therapist and she gave me the okay to give church another try. (I did have to promise that I wouldn't stay and suffer, meaning I had to give myself permission to leave the situation if it felt like it was too much.)
It took me three tries to make it through the doors of my church. The first time I tried I got as far as asking my mom if we could go the next morning. I backed out. The second time I asked my mom and laid out my clothes for the next day. Then I backed out. The third time, though, I made it. I gave myself permission to back out this time. I told myself if I could just make it to the doors, I didn't even have to go inside. I could turn around and go right back home. I just had to walk up to the door of the church. I made it to the doors, and my elementary school art teacher was the door greeter that morning. He was a kind, familiar face, and that made me a little more confident. I made it inside the building. I almost cried due to anxiety when I got to the sanctuary doors, but I went inside.
I was terrified. I was shaking, but I made it through the hour-long service with very few intrusive thoughts, and I wasn't even worried about surviving the service. The service was nice, peaceful even.
It was the time after the service that wasn't so nice. I was fine for a few hours. Then, by dinner, I was spiraling. The shame, guilt, and worthlessness crept back in. Plus, now I had the added worry that I would lose who I had become, the person I had worked so hard to become and actually liked, in order to fit into the "religious" box I thought I had to fit into to belong there. On top of that, I was worried that, because I didn't want to change myself, that meant I wasn't truly Christian. Suddenly, I was right back to feeling unworthy. Then, I was right back to not liking myself again. (And because I didn't like myself, God felt further away again.)
It took weeks for me to get back to a healthier mental state after that one church visit. It took longer than that for me to feel like I really liked myself again. You see, this was another area of my life in which my logical brain and my feelings brain hadn't caught up to each other yet. Logically, I knew I belonged there and that I was worthy. Logically, I also knew that I had to remain true to myself instead of squishing myself into a box just so I could belong. Emotionally, I was still as guilty and afraid as I had been a few years ago. Emotionally, I was still stuck in the faulty all or nothing pattern of thinking.
My mission feels like a mixed bag of failure and success. It feels like a success because I found out that I could go back to the scene of some of my worst (thought) crimes, and I could be in that environment without extreme amounts of anxiety. The environment no longer felt "tainted" by my intrusive thoughts. It feels like a failure because I realized that I still haven't reached the point where I can have a "healthy" relationship with religious practice. I haven't been back to church, but I won't say that I'm never going back. I just have more work to do with myself before I can be there in a healthy way. Like I said before, I'm a work in progress, and that's okay. I give myself permission to take the time I need to work through these issues without guilt.
I'll end with this: Going back to regular activities after a terrifying incident, like those we experience with a mental health condition, is never easy. It's especially hard when the emotional part of your brain and the logical part of your brain don't quite match. Sometimes, we have to restructure those bits of our lives to stay mentally healthy, and that's okay. Give yourself permission to leave things. Give yourself permission to take the time you need to work through whatever issue that environment presents. We have nothing to feel guilty about we're protecting our mental health.
As you can guess, I was pretty much always ashamed and guilty because I wasn't a better Christian. (How could I not be ashamed and guilty when my intrusive thoughts made me terrified that I was going to literally burst into flames or be struck down as I sat in my pew?) So, when my OCD was at its worst, I stopped going. I didn't see what else I could do at the time. I didn't enjoying being there when I felt terrible because I was there. My intrusive thoughts were worse when I was in that environment. At points, even driving by a church would trigger my intrusive thoughts.
Well, this past year, I wondered if I might be able to return to church. I had done Exposure and Response Prevention Therapy with my therapist. I had even watched a church service on YouTube without having to stop it because of my anxiety. I was doing well when it came to my religious intrusive thoughts. I brought the idea up with my therapist and she gave me the okay to give church another try. (I did have to promise that I wouldn't stay and suffer, meaning I had to give myself permission to leave the situation if it felt like it was too much.)
It took me three tries to make it through the doors of my church. The first time I tried I got as far as asking my mom if we could go the next morning. I backed out. The second time I asked my mom and laid out my clothes for the next day. Then I backed out. The third time, though, I made it. I gave myself permission to back out this time. I told myself if I could just make it to the doors, I didn't even have to go inside. I could turn around and go right back home. I just had to walk up to the door of the church. I made it to the doors, and my elementary school art teacher was the door greeter that morning. He was a kind, familiar face, and that made me a little more confident. I made it inside the building. I almost cried due to anxiety when I got to the sanctuary doors, but I went inside.
I was terrified. I was shaking, but I made it through the hour-long service with very few intrusive thoughts, and I wasn't even worried about surviving the service. The service was nice, peaceful even.
It was the time after the service that wasn't so nice. I was fine for a few hours. Then, by dinner, I was spiraling. The shame, guilt, and worthlessness crept back in. Plus, now I had the added worry that I would lose who I had become, the person I had worked so hard to become and actually liked, in order to fit into the "religious" box I thought I had to fit into to belong there. On top of that, I was worried that, because I didn't want to change myself, that meant I wasn't truly Christian. Suddenly, I was right back to feeling unworthy. Then, I was right back to not liking myself again. (And because I didn't like myself, God felt further away again.)
It took weeks for me to get back to a healthier mental state after that one church visit. It took longer than that for me to feel like I really liked myself again. You see, this was another area of my life in which my logical brain and my feelings brain hadn't caught up to each other yet. Logically, I knew I belonged there and that I was worthy. Logically, I also knew that I had to remain true to myself instead of squishing myself into a box just so I could belong. Emotionally, I was still as guilty and afraid as I had been a few years ago. Emotionally, I was still stuck in the faulty all or nothing pattern of thinking.
My mission feels like a mixed bag of failure and success. It feels like a success because I found out that I could go back to the scene of some of my worst (thought) crimes, and I could be in that environment without extreme amounts of anxiety. The environment no longer felt "tainted" by my intrusive thoughts. It feels like a failure because I realized that I still haven't reached the point where I can have a "healthy" relationship with religious practice. I haven't been back to church, but I won't say that I'm never going back. I just have more work to do with myself before I can be there in a healthy way. Like I said before, I'm a work in progress, and that's okay. I give myself permission to take the time I need to work through these issues without guilt.
I'll end with this: Going back to regular activities after a terrifying incident, like those we experience with a mental health condition, is never easy. It's especially hard when the emotional part of your brain and the logical part of your brain don't quite match. Sometimes, we have to restructure those bits of our lives to stay mentally healthy, and that's okay. Give yourself permission to leave things. Give yourself permission to take the time you need to work through whatever issue that environment presents. We have nothing to feel guilty about we're protecting our mental health.
Wednesday, December 11, 2019
I Like Myself?
Since my last post in 2018, I've been on a journey of self discovery. I spent my time writing fiction, re-evaluating my life, figuring myself out, and learning about the person I've (surprisingly) become since I started therapy. I've been piecing myself back together since I started therapy, and as 2019 is coming to an end, it seemed like the perfect time to look back at the progress I've made over the year and a half since I took a break from this type of writing.
I was in my session with my therapist a couple of weeks ago, and a weird thing happened. I'm still thinking about it. I was talking about who I am currently, and I said something along the lines of, "I just don't want to have to give up any of these new pieces of myself that I've found. I feel like I fought to become this person, and I actually...like who I am..."
My therapist sat there quietly for a moment. Then she said something like, "Can we just take a moment to recognize how far you've come?"
Of course, I wasn't sure what she was talking about. She went on to explain that the way I was thinking about this issue had changed. I was worried about changing who I was to fit into a box I thought I would need to fit into. I was no longer worried about what a terrible person I was or what a terrible person someone else might think I was. I was no longer worried about being a terrible person at all, because I finally, honestly, didn't FEEL like I was a terrible person. (You can think something for a long time before the feelings part of your brain catches up to the thoughts part. I LOGICALLY knew I wasn't a terrible person for a few years, but now I didn't FEEL like a terrible person.)
Instead of constantly feeling like a terrible person or like a person that was somehow less than other people because of my mental health condition, I was only worried about if I would still like myself if I changed some things. I had, at some point during the last three years, stopped hating myself. I had also stopped needing someone to reassure me that I was an "okay" human.
I sat in my therapist's office that day, and I realized that I honestly LIKE myself. I LIKE the person I've pieced back together. I jokingly say, "Why am I like this?" to my mom and my therapist, but, for the first time in my adult life, that doesn't mean that I don't like being the way that I am.
I doubted that I would ever reach this point. I never thought I'd actually reach a point in my life when I could say, "I like myself," and truly mean it. Yet, here I am. Four years after I started therapy, and I just had the nerve to think it and then say it. It's a weird sensation to not wish I wasn't who I am.
I still struggle with my OCD and panic attacks. I still have bad days, and sometimes even bad weeks. I just no longer feel ashamed or less than others because of it. I'm also glad to wake up every morning. I like myself, and I try not to let my OCD tell me that I shouldn't. I'm still a work in progress, and I might always be a work in progress. The point is that I'm healing.
I'll end with this: Mental illness often tells us that we shouldn't like ourselves. Mental illness also often tells us that we won't ever reach the point of real healing. I know it's the hardest thing to do, but we don't have to listen to it. The first step toward healing is getting help. It'll take time, but healing can happen. You deserve help. You deserve to heal and to like yourself, even if your mental health condition tries to make you think you don't.
I was in my session with my therapist a couple of weeks ago, and a weird thing happened. I'm still thinking about it. I was talking about who I am currently, and I said something along the lines of, "I just don't want to have to give up any of these new pieces of myself that I've found. I feel like I fought to become this person, and I actually...like who I am..."
My therapist sat there quietly for a moment. Then she said something like, "Can we just take a moment to recognize how far you've come?"
Of course, I wasn't sure what she was talking about. She went on to explain that the way I was thinking about this issue had changed. I was worried about changing who I was to fit into a box I thought I would need to fit into. I was no longer worried about what a terrible person I was or what a terrible person someone else might think I was. I was no longer worried about being a terrible person at all, because I finally, honestly, didn't FEEL like I was a terrible person. (You can think something for a long time before the feelings part of your brain catches up to the thoughts part. I LOGICALLY knew I wasn't a terrible person for a few years, but now I didn't FEEL like a terrible person.)
Instead of constantly feeling like a terrible person or like a person that was somehow less than other people because of my mental health condition, I was only worried about if I would still like myself if I changed some things. I had, at some point during the last three years, stopped hating myself. I had also stopped needing someone to reassure me that I was an "okay" human.
I sat in my therapist's office that day, and I realized that I honestly LIKE myself. I LIKE the person I've pieced back together. I jokingly say, "Why am I like this?" to my mom and my therapist, but, for the first time in my adult life, that doesn't mean that I don't like being the way that I am.
I doubted that I would ever reach this point. I never thought I'd actually reach a point in my life when I could say, "I like myself," and truly mean it. Yet, here I am. Four years after I started therapy, and I just had the nerve to think it and then say it. It's a weird sensation to not wish I wasn't who I am.
I still struggle with my OCD and panic attacks. I still have bad days, and sometimes even bad weeks. I just no longer feel ashamed or less than others because of it. I'm also glad to wake up every morning. I like myself, and I try not to let my OCD tell me that I shouldn't. I'm still a work in progress, and I might always be a work in progress. The point is that I'm healing.
I'll end with this: Mental illness often tells us that we shouldn't like ourselves. Mental illness also often tells us that we won't ever reach the point of real healing. I know it's the hardest thing to do, but we don't have to listen to it. The first step toward healing is getting help. It'll take time, but healing can happen. You deserve help. You deserve to heal and to like yourself, even if your mental health condition tries to make you think you don't.
Wednesday, June 27, 2018
Saving My Own Life
I always say that my therapist saved my life. I was in a pretty rough place when I started weekly sessions with my current therapist, and I've made leaps and bounds of improvement since I started treatment with her. So, to me, it felt like she saved my life.
A couple of weeks ago, I realized something. My therapist didn't save my life. I saved my own life. I don't mean this to sound ungrateful because I am more grateful than my therapist could ever guess. I just mean that I put in the work. My therapist gave me the tools and the information that I needed, which means she facilitated the changes I made, but I went home and I put in all the hard work to save myself from drowning in my own mind. I chose to take everything she had given me and use it to get better. I could have just shrugged everything off and not used any of the tools she gave me, but I didn't. I chose to work on myself.
This realization came about in a terrifying. My therapist told me that she would be leaving private practice, which meant I wouldn't be seeing her anymore after a certain date. I knew this day would come, but I WAS NOT READY. I freaked out. I cried in her office. I had a panic attack in the car on the way home. I had flashbacks to Christmas break my freshman year of college when I literally couldn't function to the point that my mom thought I was having some kind of breakdown. I had to take medication.
My anxiety was so high at the thought of being on my own again that I started to spiral. How was I supposed to deal with losing the person that saved my life? How was I supposed to continue to grow and continue to get better and stay better if she wasn't there to help me when I needed her? What if I relapsed back to those awful, dark days that I don't even like to think about?
Then logic kicked in. I literally said, "Hold up...she didn't technically save my life...she just gave me the tools and information that I needed to save myself." I could breathe again. I wasn't going to just forget everything I learned from her after my last session with her. I'm going to keep all that for the rest of my life. That means that I'll be (mostly) fine when my time with my therapist is over. (I can also always find another therapist if I need help maintaining wellness or if I start struggling again.) I can continue to pull myself out of dark places and check my OCD and manage the anxiety ups and downs just like the I do the other 6 days of the week that I don't see her. Now, I see why she always liked to point out how hard I was always working to get better...for a moment like this, when I wasn't sure I could do it.
I told my therapist all these things at my next session. She might have even smiled about it. Her reply was, "I'm glad you realize that." She said it ever-so-calmly and in a matter-of-fact tone. She followed that with, "You're the one that's been doing the work." It felt weird to me that she knew that the whole time and I just realized it after an almost-spiral. She obviously had much more faith in me than I had in myself this whole time.
It's weird to realize that I did a thing that I never thought I could do. I feel like some kind of superhero to myself or maybe some kind of warrior queen. It's also weird to know that my therapist has all this faith in me when I didn't have practically any in myself. I can do this. I can continue to save myself when I have to. I can keep up the work we started together. I don't need to be terrified.
I'll end with this: A therapist's job isn't to save us. A therapist's job is to help us learn to save ourselves. That one small clarification makes all the difference to me. Therapists show us the tools, but we put in the hard work. We keep those tools and practices even when we no longer need the therapist so we can continue to put in the work it takes to get well.
A couple of weeks ago, I realized something. My therapist didn't save my life. I saved my own life. I don't mean this to sound ungrateful because I am more grateful than my therapist could ever guess. I just mean that I put in the work. My therapist gave me the tools and the information that I needed, which means she facilitated the changes I made, but I went home and I put in all the hard work to save myself from drowning in my own mind. I chose to take everything she had given me and use it to get better. I could have just shrugged everything off and not used any of the tools she gave me, but I didn't. I chose to work on myself.
This realization came about in a terrifying. My therapist told me that she would be leaving private practice, which meant I wouldn't be seeing her anymore after a certain date. I knew this day would come, but I WAS NOT READY. I freaked out. I cried in her office. I had a panic attack in the car on the way home. I had flashbacks to Christmas break my freshman year of college when I literally couldn't function to the point that my mom thought I was having some kind of breakdown. I had to take medication.
My anxiety was so high at the thought of being on my own again that I started to spiral. How was I supposed to deal with losing the person that saved my life? How was I supposed to continue to grow and continue to get better and stay better if she wasn't there to help me when I needed her? What if I relapsed back to those awful, dark days that I don't even like to think about?
Then logic kicked in. I literally said, "Hold up...she didn't technically save my life...she just gave me the tools and information that I needed to save myself." I could breathe again. I wasn't going to just forget everything I learned from her after my last session with her. I'm going to keep all that for the rest of my life. That means that I'll be (mostly) fine when my time with my therapist is over. (I can also always find another therapist if I need help maintaining wellness or if I start struggling again.) I can continue to pull myself out of dark places and check my OCD and manage the anxiety ups and downs just like the I do the other 6 days of the week that I don't see her. Now, I see why she always liked to point out how hard I was always working to get better...for a moment like this, when I wasn't sure I could do it.
I told my therapist all these things at my next session. She might have even smiled about it. Her reply was, "I'm glad you realize that." She said it ever-so-calmly and in a matter-of-fact tone. She followed that with, "You're the one that's been doing the work." It felt weird to me that she knew that the whole time and I just realized it after an almost-spiral. She obviously had much more faith in me than I had in myself this whole time.
It's weird to realize that I did a thing that I never thought I could do. I feel like some kind of superhero to myself or maybe some kind of warrior queen. It's also weird to know that my therapist has all this faith in me when I didn't have practically any in myself. I can do this. I can continue to save myself when I have to. I can keep up the work we started together. I don't need to be terrified.
I'll end with this: A therapist's job isn't to save us. A therapist's job is to help us learn to save ourselves. That one small clarification makes all the difference to me. Therapists show us the tools, but we put in the hard work. We keep those tools and practices even when we no longer need the therapist so we can continue to put in the work it takes to get well.
Wednesday, May 23, 2018
High-Functioning Mental Illness
Before my diagnosis, I honestly had no idea that what was happening in my brain could even be considered a mental illness. Aside from the spiritual nature of my obsessions, I was still functioning moderately normally. I was able to get into a good university. I was able to excel in my classes. I was able to go out, laugh, and have fun. I was able to maintain friendships (thinking the whole time that I was such a terrible person that I didn't deserve friends). Even after I graduated, I was able to maintain my level of functioning for a time. Sure, I had bouts of anxiety that made me cry myself to sleep, and sure, I had times when I thought it'd be a divine act of mercy if I didn't wake up the next day. But...those REALLY bad times didn't happen all the time, and most days, I could be outwardly fine while I felt like a terrible human being on the inside. It was more like a moderate level of a bad time all the time inside so that that became my normal so that I got used to feeling that way all the time.
My ideas of mental illness included only the severe cases that seriously impacted a person's ability to function. Someone in and out of hospital as they struggled with bipolar disorder I recognized as mental illness. Someone home from a combat zone, tormented by flashbacks and nightmares and unable to handle the unpredictability of crowds or to sleep at night, I recognized as mental illness. Someone so terrified of germs that they washed their hands until they were raw, cracked, and bleeding, I recognized as mental illness. Someone so depressed that they literally can't get out of bed, I recognized as mental illness. Someone (me) who only had trouble functioning sometimes (like on Christmas break my freshman year of university when I couldn't eat, was afraid to be out my mom's sight, and cried at night so that my mom thought I was having a nervous breakdown), I didn't recognize as mental illness since it only happened once.
I was still functioning, and I wasn't exhibiting any symptoms for mania or psychosis, so I thought I was (mostly) fine. I thought I was just having a rough time brought on by stress. I blamed it all on the stress of going from a high school to a university student (and the fact that I thought I was probably possessed). I would have low periods like this, and then as soon as I was able to get back into a routine I would be okay. I couldn't be mentally ill if I was still functioning in society at a "normal" level without mania or psychosis, so it had to be demons and stress, right? Wrong.
I had what you call a high-functioning mental illness. I was basically a functioning pit of despair and anxiety clothed in human skin, but I didn't see that as "true" mental illness (aside from the times I hoped I had schizophrenia instead of demonic possession) because I could still get up and go to class and do my homework like everyone else. I thought I didn't need treatment because I was still able to do everything I had to get done everyday, and so that meant my anxiety (and the thoughts that later turned out to be part of my OCD), weren't actually a mental illness. That was just how my life was and how my life would be. It would be a rough time, but everybody felt like they had a rough life to an extent, right? I had gotten so used to the low to moderate constant anxiety and feeling like a terrible human, so I could just keep on dealing with it.
Here's the thing about high-functioning mental illness: it's still mental illness, and it needs treatment. It might not affect your ability to function outwardly, but it does affect your quality of life. Anything that brings down your quality of life deserves to be addressed, whether it's through lifestyle changes, a self-help workbook, or therapy. Don't let it eat alive on the inside just because you still have the ability to go to school or work everyday. If something doesn't feel quite right, even if it's only sometimes, you don't have to just power through until the next spiral.
I'll end with this: High-functioning anxiety, depression, and PTSD are still mental health conditions that deserve the time and care of treatment. Trust me, just because you can manage your high-functioning mental illness right now doesn't mean that it won't get worse later without treatment. The goal of life isn't just to a functioning human. The goal of life is to be a healthy, happy human.
My ideas of mental illness included only the severe cases that seriously impacted a person's ability to function. Someone in and out of hospital as they struggled with bipolar disorder I recognized as mental illness. Someone home from a combat zone, tormented by flashbacks and nightmares and unable to handle the unpredictability of crowds or to sleep at night, I recognized as mental illness. Someone so terrified of germs that they washed their hands until they were raw, cracked, and bleeding, I recognized as mental illness. Someone so depressed that they literally can't get out of bed, I recognized as mental illness. Someone (me) who only had trouble functioning sometimes (like on Christmas break my freshman year of university when I couldn't eat, was afraid to be out my mom's sight, and cried at night so that my mom thought I was having a nervous breakdown), I didn't recognize as mental illness since it only happened once.
I was still functioning, and I wasn't exhibiting any symptoms for mania or psychosis, so I thought I was (mostly) fine. I thought I was just having a rough time brought on by stress. I blamed it all on the stress of going from a high school to a university student (and the fact that I thought I was probably possessed). I would have low periods like this, and then as soon as I was able to get back into a routine I would be okay. I couldn't be mentally ill if I was still functioning in society at a "normal" level without mania or psychosis, so it had to be demons and stress, right? Wrong.
I had what you call a high-functioning mental illness. I was basically a functioning pit of despair and anxiety clothed in human skin, but I didn't see that as "true" mental illness (aside from the times I hoped I had schizophrenia instead of demonic possession) because I could still get up and go to class and do my homework like everyone else. I thought I didn't need treatment because I was still able to do everything I had to get done everyday, and so that meant my anxiety (and the thoughts that later turned out to be part of my OCD), weren't actually a mental illness. That was just how my life was and how my life would be. It would be a rough time, but everybody felt like they had a rough life to an extent, right? I had gotten so used to the low to moderate constant anxiety and feeling like a terrible human, so I could just keep on dealing with it.
Here's the thing about high-functioning mental illness: it's still mental illness, and it needs treatment. It might not affect your ability to function outwardly, but it does affect your quality of life. Anything that brings down your quality of life deserves to be addressed, whether it's through lifestyle changes, a self-help workbook, or therapy. Don't let it eat alive on the inside just because you still have the ability to go to school or work everyday. If something doesn't feel quite right, even if it's only sometimes, you don't have to just power through until the next spiral.
I'll end with this: High-functioning anxiety, depression, and PTSD are still mental health conditions that deserve the time and care of treatment. Trust me, just because you can manage your high-functioning mental illness right now doesn't mean that it won't get worse later without treatment. The goal of life isn't just to a functioning human. The goal of life is to be a healthy, happy human.
Wednesday, April 18, 2018
Why Consent Matters
Consent is always important. Consent is important even when we're just talking to other people. What I mean by that is, consent is important when you are discussing the personal matters of another person, be it your friend, your family member, or even your child. You wouldn't discuss something highly personal, like a traumatic story, with other people without asking the person involved in the story, right? (At least, I would hope that everyone else would recognize that as a boundary.)
Recently, I found myself in situations when my mental health was discussed without my consent. I know I write this blog publicly, but that's a bit different. I decide what to share and when to share it in an effort to help another person who might be struggling with the same things as me. I consent to everyone seeing what is written here.
The situations that I'm talking about are different. Situation 1: Person A talks to Person B, and Person A says, "Megan sees a therapist." Person B then calls my mother and demands to know why I didn't tell them that I saw a therapist. I didn't tell them because I wasn't comfortable telling them because I don't trust them. Situation 2: I was in a group setting, and I only knew 2 people in the group. One of the people that I knew decided to tell practically the entire room of people that I did not know that I had "severe" OCD. They didn't ask me if we could discuss this before they brought it up, and I was angry as well that they thought they knew enough about me to be able to classify it as severe, which I do not. I did not give consent for these discussions either time, and neither person checked with me before putting me in that position.
I might not seem like it because of this blog, but I'm actually a pretty private person. Discussing my mental health without my consent is a boundary of mine. I don't talk about it over family dinner with extended family. I don't talk about it when I don't feel like I'm in a safe space. I don't talk about it when I have a day that my OCD has flared up and I'm easily triggered by things (because sometimes even just talking about my OCD can bring up the intrusive thoughts). I don't tell certain people, and they don't read my blog, because I don't feel safe giving them that information. Both of the above mentioned incidents felt like a betrayal of trust to me.
I'm not just being picky, I promise. Mental illness is traumatic. You really shouldn't discuss a person's trauma at any time without checking that it's okay with them first. You have no idea what it could do to the other person. By bringing it up when they aren't prepared, you could cause them to relive the trauma, you could send them into a spiral, you could make their intrusive thoughts worse if they have OCD, or best case scenario you could just really, really embarrass them. If it's something like Situation 1, you could actually be giving another person ammunition to bully them or belittle them, or best case scenario you've just started an argument when the person with the mental health condition has to explain why they didn't tell someone. Luckily, in both situations, they caught me on good days so that my dominant emotions were anger and awkwardness.
I'll end with this: Like with any traumatic thing, you should never talk about a person's mental health or share details about it with anyone unless you have the consent of the person involved. If you've been in situations like mine, it's okay to stand up for yourself and say that you don't want to talk about something or that you don't like what someone said. It's your life and your story, and you should get to decide with whom and when you share information.
Wednesday, March 21, 2018
Putting in the Time
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.
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.
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