Today is Worldwide Suicide Prevention Day.
I don't feel suicidal, so that's awesome.
But maybe you do. Or maybe you're just crawling out from that dark place. Or maybe you're simply someone who feels down a lot of the time, or has a hard time handling stress.
(Welcome to the club on that last part, by the way. I'm the queen of Lousy Stress Management, Supreme Ruler of Anxiety Island, and the former Duchess of Depression. With all those titles it's a wonder I have any time to blog. Or see my kids. Or look this incredible all the time.)
Depression sucks. It can take a perfectly happy human being and throw a raincloud over her faster than a Kardashian can say "divorce."
It's important to know that the chemical imbalances leading to depression are a very real foe. If you get stuck in that deep and slippery rut they carve into your brain, it can be next to impossible to climb out without the right kind of help. For some people, that help comes in the form of cognitive therapy; for others, medication. In my case, all those years ago, I needed both. That combination saved my life. I am here, alive and coffee-swigging, because the people in my world encouraged me to get help. Their encouragement and what felt like my last bit of strength are what allowed me to grow into the fabulous human being I am today.
Unless you think I suck, in which case it allowed me to grow into a much better human being than you see here. I just play it down so that nobody feels inferior. (I am not above using any amount of self-deprecation required to get you the help you need.)
There's one thing I learned in therapy that has stuck with me all these years: I am not a victim.
Yes, Bad things have happened to me that are beyond my control. But how I choose to deal with those things is entirely up to me.
I remember the therapist (the most recent one in an impressively long line) taking out a sheet of paper and asking me to tell him a little about myself. I knew this part well. I did this with all the therapists. I scoffed and said he would need more than one sheet. He nodded and placed a second one on his clipboard, then asked me to continue.
When I was depressed, I saw everything as a negative. I believed the world had dealt me shitty cards throughout the years, and that I was well within my rights to be very bitter. Because of those circumstances, I was robbed of a "normal" life. Because of certain people, I was left feeling resentful or hurt or angry. Life was cruel to me, and I was just trying to deal with it the best I could. It was no wonder I was depressed, I explained. How could I not be?
The therapist looked at the two full sheets he had written on. He nodded, and agreed that life had given me some bad stuff. I felt vindicated.
Then the fucker grabbed the sheets, crumpled them up and threw them over his shoulder. He locked eyes with me. "Do you know what your problem is, Maven? You're a victim. Poor, poor Maven. Look at what the world has done to you. It's sooooo unfair. I'll admit that you haven't had an easy life, but you owe it to yourself and those you love to move past this."
I was dumbfounded; more so when he gave me my assignment for the week.
"I want you to go home and write 'I AM NOT A VICTIM' 1000 times in a notebook. Bring it back to me next session or don't come back at all. You can't move forward until you stop feeling sorry for yourself. This medication you're on isn't a long term solution. You need to change your thinking patterns."
I hated that guy all week. Me, dealing with a busy toddler while writing out I AM NOT A VICTIM over and over and over. Me, wondering why this guy couldn't just understand that things aren't always as easy for everyone as they are for him.
Me, who was, surprisingly, starting to feel a little better after the third anti-victim writing session...
I went back the following week with roughly one-thousand lines declaring my new state of mind. That bastard changed my life more than the drugs (although those helped tremendously for a few months until my brain wrapped itself around these new thought processes). I owe him so very much.
Here's the thing: Bad stuff happens to all of us. It's okay to feel horrible about it for a time. It's okay to hurt, to cry, to get angry. It's okay to grieve, to wish things could be different. Pain is a very real emotion, and it should be dealt with in a very real way. The people who stuff it down are the ones who eventually have breakdowns, and end up making clothing out of Fruit Loop boxes and talking to stop signs. We should definitely allow ourselves to feel the pain.
And then it's time to let it go.
I always know I'm moving past the hurt when I can find the positive in an otherwise awful situation. Most of the time, I've learned something important about the world or about myself. And, in every situation, I've grown as a person.
Growth doesn't take place during the easy times. We are stubborn souls who learn when we're neck-deep in angst and sadness. If we can claw our way out, we emerge wiser, stronger, more resilient creatures. It's not fun work, but it's important. Otherwise we'd end up those shallow people that seem to be drawn to reality television stardom.
The day I began to see my past as a gift was the day things started to get better. Yes, a gift. After all, check out who emerged out of that puddle of angst and whatever. Not half bad, am I right? These days - on those darkest of days - I try to hold on to the knowledge my past has taught me: Things will get better. They always do, no matter how bad it seems at the moment. I will heal from whatever this is, and I will come out of this asexy bitch stronger person.
If you're feeling at your lowest and you need help, please get it. Talk to someone - anyone. Your life is waiting for you. There will be happy days, chocolate, lattes and unicorns ahead.
Okay, I might have made up that last one.
PS: There are some great exercises over at Tiny Buddha that you can start doing today. I want to print these up and put them on my wall, except that the kids will end up drawing on them and I won't be able to see them and I'll feel totally victimized until I remember that this is some kind of gift or something. That sounds like too much work.
I don't feel suicidal, so that's awesome.
But maybe you do. Or maybe you're just crawling out from that dark place. Or maybe you're simply someone who feels down a lot of the time, or has a hard time handling stress.
(Welcome to the club on that last part, by the way. I'm the queen of Lousy Stress Management, Supreme Ruler of Anxiety Island, and the former Duchess of Depression. With all those titles it's a wonder I have any time to blog. Or see my kids. Or look this incredible all the time.)
Depression sucks. It can take a perfectly happy human being and throw a raincloud over her faster than a Kardashian can say "divorce."
It's important to know that the chemical imbalances leading to depression are a very real foe. If you get stuck in that deep and slippery rut they carve into your brain, it can be next to impossible to climb out without the right kind of help. For some people, that help comes in the form of cognitive therapy; for others, medication. In my case, all those years ago, I needed both. That combination saved my life. I am here, alive and coffee-swigging, because the people in my world encouraged me to get help. Their encouragement and what felt like my last bit of strength are what allowed me to grow into the fabulous human being I am today.
Unless you think I suck, in which case it allowed me to grow into a much better human being than you see here. I just play it down so that nobody feels inferior. (I am not above using any amount of self-deprecation required to get you the help you need.)
There's one thing I learned in therapy that has stuck with me all these years: I am not a victim.
Yes, Bad things have happened to me that are beyond my control. But how I choose to deal with those things is entirely up to me.
I remember the therapist (the most recent one in an impressively long line) taking out a sheet of paper and asking me to tell him a little about myself. I knew this part well. I did this with all the therapists. I scoffed and said he would need more than one sheet. He nodded and placed a second one on his clipboard, then asked me to continue.
When I was depressed, I saw everything as a negative. I believed the world had dealt me shitty cards throughout the years, and that I was well within my rights to be very bitter. Because of those circumstances, I was robbed of a "normal" life. Because of certain people, I was left feeling resentful or hurt or angry. Life was cruel to me, and I was just trying to deal with it the best I could. It was no wonder I was depressed, I explained. How could I not be?
The therapist looked at the two full sheets he had written on. He nodded, and agreed that life had given me some bad stuff. I felt vindicated.
Then the fucker grabbed the sheets, crumpled them up and threw them over his shoulder. He locked eyes with me. "Do you know what your problem is, Maven? You're a victim. Poor, poor Maven. Look at what the world has done to you. It's sooooo unfair. I'll admit that you haven't had an easy life, but you owe it to yourself and those you love to move past this."
I was dumbfounded; more so when he gave me my assignment for the week.
"I want you to go home and write 'I AM NOT A VICTIM' 1000 times in a notebook. Bring it back to me next session or don't come back at all. You can't move forward until you stop feeling sorry for yourself. This medication you're on isn't a long term solution. You need to change your thinking patterns."
I hated that guy all week. Me, dealing with a busy toddler while writing out I AM NOT A VICTIM over and over and over. Me, wondering why this guy couldn't just understand that things aren't always as easy for everyone as they are for him.
Me, who was, surprisingly, starting to feel a little better after the third anti-victim writing session...
I went back the following week with roughly one-thousand lines declaring my new state of mind. That bastard changed my life more than the drugs (although those helped tremendously for a few months until my brain wrapped itself around these new thought processes). I owe him so very much.
Here's the thing: Bad stuff happens to all of us. It's okay to feel horrible about it for a time. It's okay to hurt, to cry, to get angry. It's okay to grieve, to wish things could be different. Pain is a very real emotion, and it should be dealt with in a very real way. The people who stuff it down are the ones who eventually have breakdowns, and end up making clothing out of Fruit Loop boxes and talking to stop signs. We should definitely allow ourselves to feel the pain.
And then it's time to let it go.
I always know I'm moving past the hurt when I can find the positive in an otherwise awful situation. Most of the time, I've learned something important about the world or about myself. And, in every situation, I've grown as a person.
Growth doesn't take place during the easy times. We are stubborn souls who learn when we're neck-deep in angst and sadness. If we can claw our way out, we emerge wiser, stronger, more resilient creatures. It's not fun work, but it's important. Otherwise we'd end up those shallow people that seem to be drawn to reality television stardom.
The day I began to see my past as a gift was the day things started to get better. Yes, a gift. After all, check out who emerged out of that puddle of angst and whatever. Not half bad, am I right? These days - on those darkest of days - I try to hold on to the knowledge my past has taught me: Things will get better. They always do, no matter how bad it seems at the moment. I will heal from whatever this is, and I will come out of this a
If you're feeling at your lowest and you need help, please get it. Talk to someone - anyone. Your life is waiting for you. There will be happy days, chocolate, lattes and unicorns ahead.
Okay, I might have made up that last one.
PS: There are some great exercises over at Tiny Buddha that you can start doing today. I want to print these up and put them on my wall, except that the kids will end up drawing on them and I won't be able to see them and I'll feel totally victimized until I remember that this is some kind of gift or something. That sounds like too much work.