Dammit!!

Well over a year ago, I published this blog, an account of my more recent mental health problems:

http://jesusbeanlaiho.blogspot.com/2013/03/im-feeling-very-frank-today.html

And about 4 months ago I posted this blog, my background and history with depression, written to mark the 10 year anniversary of my suicide attempt:

http://jesusbeanlaiho.blogspot.com/2014/04/seriously-reader-discretion-advised.html

I fully intended to write another blog about the 10 years since, but I never got around to it.

Well, here we go.


About an hour ago, I read about the death of Robin Williams. The death is believed to be a suicide. Now, I've never met Robin Williams, never spoke to him, never even seen him in person, but somehow I, along with the rest of the world, feel like I almost know him. He was the voice of the Genie in Aladdin, he was in Jumanji, he was Mrs. Doubtfire. Years and years before I was born, he was Mork, of "Mork and Mindy".

He was an actor, yes, a great one. But I think the world will always remember him as a comedian. He could always make us laugh, and the fact that his death was probably a suicide is hard to understand, hard to handle.

Everybody dislikes depression and suicide. How could you not? But I just HATE it. It's like this awful, greedy monster that feeds on unhappiness and isn't satisfied until it's taken every bit of joy from your life, or even your life itself.

When I think of my struggles with depression, and others' as well, it seems similar to people's struggles with addiction to drugs and alcohol; that once you go through it, you're never completely rid of it. For the rest of your life, you'll be a "recovering" addict, or a "recovering" depressive, in my case. Instead of a substance, we recovering depressives are addicted to hating ourselves. And even though we don't all go to meetings like some alcoholics go to AA, I feel like we are still connected through our experiences, and when I hear that one of our own has finally succumbed to his or her addiction, it really, REALLY bothers me.

I recently learned of the death of writer Ned Vizzini, the author of It's Kind of a Funny Story, a book about a young man's fight with depression. I always loved the book because I could relate to the struggles, and Ned Vizzini was so gifted at describing depression; how awful it is and what it's like to fight it. There was a reason: he went through it too! In fact, the book's plot of a suicidal young man checking himself into a psychiatric ward was mostly autobiographical. The book's main character, Craig, thought about killing himself by jumping from great heights, so imagine my sick shock to discover Ned Vizzini died by jumping off a building.

And so depression took another one of us.

Very, very few people know this, but I was recently diagnosed, in addition to the Bipolar/Schizoaffective Disorder, with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. Long story short, I worry. I worry constantly. I am a checker. I check to make sure my doors are locked and my windows are shut and the lights are off and my alarm clock is on and there is water in my dog's bowl and that there are no cats in my refrigerator. I have routines that help a little bit. When I go to bed, I say to myself, "Off. Off. Shut. Locked. Window. Window. Refrigerator. Cat. Cat. Cat. Water. Light." But it doesn't always work, and no matter how many times I check, I don't trust that I checked correctly, so I check again.

The OCD manifests itself in other weird ways too: I feel certain that I won't have a good day at work unless I tell myself before I GET to work that I will have a good day. Sometimes I get these bizarre obsessive thoughts like: "I know that it is one of the most basic facts that we hear out of our ears but how can I be sure? I feel like if I really hear out of my ears, I should be able to feel the sounds coming into my ears but I can't, so how do I know I hear out of my ears?" and even though I tell myself how weird and stupid that is, I can't stop thinking about it. I'm afraid to throw things out because I feel like as soon as I do, I'll need them. At work when I'm checking customers out, I ask them over and over (sometimes to their annoyance!) how many sacks of dirt they want, just to make sure I got it. I have a DVR and when I'm watching TV, I'll go back again and again and again to hear a certain noise, or to hear someone say something... it makes me feel better for a split second before I have to do it again.

As chronicled in the two blogs I listed above, I have also had lots of problems with hallucinations and delusions and out of control mania. But you know what? NONE OF THAT sucks as badly as the plain, simple, god-awful depression.

I sometimes think about what I would say to my 12 year old self, looking back at all I've experienced. What would I say to that suicidal little girl that hated herself and saw no other way out?

Well, I'll give it a shot.
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Dear Sarah,

I have one word for you: Possibilities. That's one of the sneaky things about depression- it makes you forget about possibilities. When depression has you in its grip, all you can think about is the here and now, and how awful that is. In fact, the only possibility you think about is the possibility of escape.

But there are SOOOOOO many possibilities you're not even aware of: the possibility of relief, the possibility of a future, the possibility of a life free of depression. I can and will tell you it won't be easy, but it is most definitely possible.

But in order for these things to be possible, you gotta fight it. You gotta kick and scream and fight. And, like it or not, you need help. You have to ask for help. Support and medicine and help.

Asking for help is not weak or stupid. One of most mental health professionals' favorite points is that depression is a medical condition, just like a broken bone or cancer. You would seek help for that bone or that tumor, wouldn't you? So why aren't you asking for help with your depression?

You are stronger than you know. Strong enough to turn possibilities into reality.

Love, Sarah

P.S. I have one more word for you: OTIS
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At this point, they have not technically confirmed Robin Williams' death as a suicide, and for his and his family's sake, I hope it's not. Even though I never knew him, I hate the idea. I hate the idea of ANYONE suffering from it.

I doubt many people will read this but if you are reading this and you're suffering from depression, please don't give in to it. FIGHT LIKE HELL and get help, okay?


THANK YOU for reading all of this! I just had to get it out. To sum it all up:

I HATE YOU, DEPRESSION!!

Ahem. Heh.


Sarah