I read an interesting article the other day on Medium about PTSD. The writer opined that PTSD has changed from the war torn soldier facing demons from what they encountered during operational duties to one that affects many people in day to day lives, and how this change causes people to react differently to someone who has PTSD from abuse, a serious medical injury, severe emotional bullying from parents or witnessing horrific acts, or being made to particiapte in horrific acts, from someone who has PTSD from being in the military or a police officer.
Interesting as I was just talking to my husband about this very topic last week. The typical spin on PTSD, or, as it is called in the military and RCMP, an OSI...Operational Stress Injury, kind of confirms this line of thinking; PTSD from an operational perspective is somehow more damaging psychologically than PTSD from being beaten and raped as a child, being traumatized by another adult or facing a life altering event.
After studying trauma for the past thirty years, and extensively for the past three years, I can tell you, trauma is trauma, no matter what you call it or how you dress it up, or under what circumstances it was conceived in.
The reactions are the same: sever anxiety, depression, grief, drug and alcohol abuse to numb the pain, hyper vigilance, hyper startle reflex, insomnia, nightmares, night terrors, anger, uncontrollable rage. Then there are the physiological responses: ulcers, severe acid reflux, digestive problems, internal organ damage from the onslaught of cortisol coursing through the body, vagus nerve damage, headaches, nausea, migraines, tinnitus, vomiting, heart palpitations, angina, internal bleeding, brain aneurysms, muscle and nerve damage, fibromyalgia, and much more.
What you do not hear about is how many women commit suicide because of horrific abuse suffered by the hands of their parents during childhood. Or, how many people have severe PTSD after being beaten and abused, emotionally or mentally from their partners. Sexual crimes against women are still being debated as to whether it is consensual or not, regardless of the emotional damage.
Coaches, Priests, and Boy Scout Leaders that systematically traumatized boys in their care, either verbally, physically or sexually, are not outed until the victim comes forward. And then, typically, the victim has to fight the stigma of being a male that was raped. And then he gets the added benefit of PTSD.
We have to start making the connection that any type of assault on people, verbal, sexual, or physical creates long lasting, damaging consequences. Bullying of any form on anyone, whether in the workplace, schools, homes, universities or the hockey arena creates damage that is not easily repaired.
We need to understand the depth of violence we create and are responsible for, with our actions. And most of all, we need to support and help the people that are injured. We need to listen. We need to sincerely apologize, and we need to acknowledge their pain.
Far too long we have been silent or silenced because it makes others uncomfortable. That is unacceptable.
If you suffer from trauma, speak out, get help, talk to someone you trust. There are numerous resources available in Canada and the US either through your work, in the mental heath community or through the medical community. Reach out. Say something, say anything. You matter.
If you cannot speak out, write it out. Take twenty minute and write or draw, anything. Let the feelings and the emotions pour out. You do not have to be grammatically correct, or an artist to release the demons. Draw and write whatever spews forth, and then burn it. The very act of pouring out your thoughts rather than stuffing them down, and then burning away those thoughts can bring about a feeling of catharsis. And maybe, one day, you will be strong enough to seek help. Do this for yourself. Do this for the people that love you.
Sometimes, we are harder on ourselves than we are on others. We believe we are at fault, we deserve the crappy life we are wallowing in, because somehow we said or did the wrong thing, we were in the wrong place at the wrong time, we dressed inappropriately, we said something that upset the balance, and nothing could be further from the truth. We keep ourselves locked up from guilt and shame, because it is easier to believe we had control over the event and that somehow we can prevent it from happening again, if we dress correctly, not speak up or out, if we follow the rules, if we tried harder, if we remain silent. This is reinforced by others who fear the same thing can happen to them, so well-meaning friends and relatives will tell you, if you hadn’t been walking alone at night, you would not have been assaulted; if you had not been drunk, you would have been safe; if you were not alone with the coach or priest, you would not have been molested; if you had not made your partner angry, you would have not been beaten.
I’ve had trauma survivors tell me that their children have disclosed abuse, and the children are lying because they are seeking attention. These adults are so damaged, that they cannot see what is happening in front of them and choose to believe their child is at fault, and consequently, they are at fault as well for their own abuse.
Years ago a small town in Alberta had a disproportionate number of rapes. The solution? Do not allow women to walk outside after 8:00 PM. Instead of locking up the men, they locked up the women.
This magical thinking serves two purposes: it keeps people scared so they do not repeat what you did and they believe that keeps them safe, and it reinforces the lesson that you are at fault.
Change is difficult, and the people in our lives will be uncomfortable with changes we make to keep ourselves healthy. Be prepared to lose friends and family. But, also look forward to having some control over your life. Accept that you deserve peace, stability and love. People who love you, will support you. There is hope.
Canadian Resources:
Kids Help Phone 1-800-668-6868
Crisis Services Canada: 1-833-456-4566 or text 45645
Native Youth Crisis Line: 1-877-209-1266
Centre for Suicide Prevention: 1-833-456-4566
American Resources:
Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255
https://www.mentalhealthfirstaid.org/mental-health-resources/
#mentalhealthmatters
The Dogs of Depression: A Guide for Happy People
Showing posts with label PTSD. Show all posts
Showing posts with label PTSD. Show all posts
Friday, 10 August 2018
Monday, 2 April 2018
Living with Trauma
Another holiday has passed, and I am thankful. This time I did not cry, although I was quieter than usual. But, I did not cry. I did not go to bed to lick my wounds. I got sick, but I pushed through it and stayed. That's huge.
I have never been a fan of holidays as the reminders all around of what a happy family is, spending time with family, hallmark moments and all the hyperbole surrounding what a traditional family is just confirms the terrors and actions of a few can damage other for life, sucking all that is good and leaving a husk of a person behind.
Most days I feel like a fraud, like I am a fake person walking in a shell of a human being, being happy, joking, laughing and joining in. Holidays are the absolute worst. The stress of knowing the depth of my longing for, but never having a complete family where I fit in, is non existent.
Happiness is a choice, but it is also a chemical balance in the gut and brain. I work hard at being happy. I struggle with it every single day, and not for lack of trying. I meditate, do yoga, read voraciously on any medical, psychological and scientific research available, I do not stuff my feelings anymore, I eat...when my body allows me to, I sleep, when my mind allows me to, I take all my prescribed meds. Like my doctor says, I am doing all the right things. Trouble is, all it takes is one little holiday to make me want to disappear.
I know there are a lot of us that feel this way. I see it in my extended family's posts, I hear it in my groups, and it seems no one gets it unless you have been there.
This year I decided to move on from my life, and reinvent a new one. So far, it's been a good journey, three months into the year. But I know, no matter what happens, that little traumatized, abused kid, the one that almost died, twice, the one that had more betrayal in one lifetime than others see in 10, will never fully trust and will never fully be functional as a normal human being.
I am my trauma. I am my brain damage. I am my CPTSD. I'm reminded of it when I get sick around family events and holidays. I am reminded by it when I look around and know I don't really fit in with anyone. I am reminded of it when I become emotionally paralyzed and don't know how to proceed further. My traumas (yes, multiple) changed me as a person emotionally, mentally and physically. This is the new reality. I accept it. I just wish it didn't hurt.
I will keep fighting. But there are days when I just want it all to go away and have a do over life. Do I wish I had done things differently? You bet. But I cannot keep looking past, and I haven't in a long while. I focus on the now. I don't think about the future. I try to stay in the moment and I carry on.
I have never been a fan of holidays as the reminders all around of what a happy family is, spending time with family, hallmark moments and all the hyperbole surrounding what a traditional family is just confirms the terrors and actions of a few can damage other for life, sucking all that is good and leaving a husk of a person behind.
Most days I feel like a fraud, like I am a fake person walking in a shell of a human being, being happy, joking, laughing and joining in. Holidays are the absolute worst. The stress of knowing the depth of my longing for, but never having a complete family where I fit in, is non existent.
Happiness is a choice, but it is also a chemical balance in the gut and brain. I work hard at being happy. I struggle with it every single day, and not for lack of trying. I meditate, do yoga, read voraciously on any medical, psychological and scientific research available, I do not stuff my feelings anymore, I eat...when my body allows me to, I sleep, when my mind allows me to, I take all my prescribed meds. Like my doctor says, I am doing all the right things. Trouble is, all it takes is one little holiday to make me want to disappear.
I know there are a lot of us that feel this way. I see it in my extended family's posts, I hear it in my groups, and it seems no one gets it unless you have been there.
This year I decided to move on from my life, and reinvent a new one. So far, it's been a good journey, three months into the year. But I know, no matter what happens, that little traumatized, abused kid, the one that almost died, twice, the one that had more betrayal in one lifetime than others see in 10, will never fully trust and will never fully be functional as a normal human being.
I am my trauma. I am my brain damage. I am my CPTSD. I'm reminded of it when I get sick around family events and holidays. I am reminded by it when I look around and know I don't really fit in with anyone. I am reminded of it when I become emotionally paralyzed and don't know how to proceed further. My traumas (yes, multiple) changed me as a person emotionally, mentally and physically. This is the new reality. I accept it. I just wish it didn't hurt.
I will keep fighting. But there are days when I just want it all to go away and have a do over life. Do I wish I had done things differently? You bet. But I cannot keep looking past, and I haven't in a long while. I focus on the now. I don't think about the future. I try to stay in the moment and I carry on.
Saturday, 10 February 2018
Let's Talk, Ten Days Later
Stress has kicked up a notch and again, I did not put two and two together. I'm a simple girl sometimes. My left eye has been twitching up a storm for the past week and my right arm and hand are numb. IBS has come back with a vengeance. And all because I forgot about where I was 8 years ago today.
Mind you, the stress of the Year from Hell, 2017, helped as well. We shall never talk of that year again. I want a do-over in many areas of my life. But I did the best I could, considering.
September, nine years ago I started having weird headaches, localized over my left eye, old twitchy I call him now. September 13, 2008, I had this sharp, stabbing pain in that very same spot and the pain got worse with each heartbeat. Actually, it was in time with my heartbeat. And the pain grew worse with each pulse.
Took some Advil, Tylenol, Gravol a couple of muscle relaxants, and went back to bed. Called my doc, and made excuses as to what was happening. She decided I should get an MRI. It would take five months.
October 23, 2008, it happened again, only this time it felt like an icepick was driven into my head right above my left eye, and the left side of my neck was screaming. I remember not being able to shoulder check for almost two years because of the pain. To this day, range of motion has still not returned.
Did the same cocktail of meds, called in sick, called my husband and told him if the headache did not go away in twenty minutes I would get a friend to drive me to the hospital. And went back to bed.
I was drooling (still do actually, but now it's fun....) slurring my words, stumbling. Still did not make the connection. Intense pain will do that. Shortens the ability of the neo cortex to make rational decisions.
A couple more months go by and the pain would happen over my eye when I laughed, coughed, or sneezed. These are called exertion headaches. Only in my case, my brain was bleeding. I did not know this.
Had the MRI and a few days later got called into the Neurologist's office. He says, straight forward, "You have a brain aneurysm, now let's talk about those migraines." The way he said it,I thought, huh, no big deal. We're talking migraines.
He made a referral, to what I found out later, to the BEST Neurosurgeon in North America, who happened to be practising here in Winnipeg. Four days later, Dr. West had a miracle cancellation. I saw him over lunch. Again, I thought 30 minute appointment, discuss options, maybe see him in 6 months, get on with life.
Should have recognized what the word URGENT in big red letters meant across my folder. We talked. He asked questions. I couldn't concentrate on the answer unless my eyes were closed to reduce the stimulus. Apparently I gave all the right, or wrong answers, depending on your point of view and I had an angiogram within a couple of hours.
I still assumed I would be going home. I didn't. Was hospitalized and bumped 19 neurosurgeries, the only exception being a pregnant women.
Even while being in the hospital, it still did not occur to me what was going on. I blame it on the bleeding in my brain and not my lack of medical knowledge or mental capacity. My brain had been bleeding off and on for five months.
The anaesthesiologist came in at 11:00 am. And that's when it hit. I was going in for brain surgery today. Not six months from now. Today. In a matter of hours.
What should have been a two hour surgery took five and a half hours. No one bothered to let my husband know. He was told two hours. I cannot imagine the hell he went through, the questions he had the sheer terror of not knowing what was happening, if I was even alive.
It would be another two months when Dr. West told me I had a 15% survival rate. If this had happened five years earlier, I would have died. Had I not gone to the doctor and her insisting upon an MRI, I would have died.
In 2008, all I knew of brain aneurysms is, if they rupture, that's it. Game over. You lose. I had never heard of anyone surviving a rupture. I survived two. Don't know why. And I still think about that. Why me? It's not survivor's guilt, because I have no guilt, just a curiosity about why I survived. Timing, the right place to be, the best neurosurgeon, a great call by my doctor all came into play.
The next 18 months were bliss. I was at peace. I was calm. I had intense lucid dreams, and intense spiritual experience and I was happy. Then August of 2012, I was diagnosed with a daughter aneurysm, one that shares the same artery and wall as the original. And my world blew apart.
I already had severe PTSD from a soul crippling childhood, now it kicked into overdrive and became C-PTSD, C for complex, compound PTSD. Six years later it still has not diminished.
I have, however, learned to tame it.....to an extent. Old twitchy reminds me, my numbness in my arms reminds me, and now my chronic IBS reminds me. Any kind of stress is bad. Yes, all you fitness and doctors that espouse eustress is good, I'm here to tell you, it's not.
Mind you, the stress of the Year from Hell, 2017, helped as well. We shall never talk of that year again. I want a do-over in many areas of my life. But I did the best I could, considering.
September, nine years ago I started having weird headaches, localized over my left eye, old twitchy I call him now. September 13, 2008, I had this sharp, stabbing pain in that very same spot and the pain got worse with each heartbeat. Actually, it was in time with my heartbeat. And the pain grew worse with each pulse.
Took some Advil, Tylenol, Gravol a couple of muscle relaxants, and went back to bed. Called my doc, and made excuses as to what was happening. She decided I should get an MRI. It would take five months.
October 23, 2008, it happened again, only this time it felt like an icepick was driven into my head right above my left eye, and the left side of my neck was screaming. I remember not being able to shoulder check for almost two years because of the pain. To this day, range of motion has still not returned.
Did the same cocktail of meds, called in sick, called my husband and told him if the headache did not go away in twenty minutes I would get a friend to drive me to the hospital. And went back to bed.
I was drooling (still do actually, but now it's fun....) slurring my words, stumbling. Still did not make the connection. Intense pain will do that. Shortens the ability of the neo cortex to make rational decisions.
A couple more months go by and the pain would happen over my eye when I laughed, coughed, or sneezed. These are called exertion headaches. Only in my case, my brain was bleeding. I did not know this.
Had the MRI and a few days later got called into the Neurologist's office. He says, straight forward, "You have a brain aneurysm, now let's talk about those migraines." The way he said it,I thought, huh, no big deal. We're talking migraines.
He made a referral, to what I found out later, to the BEST Neurosurgeon in North America, who happened to be practising here in Winnipeg. Four days later, Dr. West had a miracle cancellation. I saw him over lunch. Again, I thought 30 minute appointment, discuss options, maybe see him in 6 months, get on with life.
Should have recognized what the word URGENT in big red letters meant across my folder. We talked. He asked questions. I couldn't concentrate on the answer unless my eyes were closed to reduce the stimulus. Apparently I gave all the right, or wrong answers, depending on your point of view and I had an angiogram within a couple of hours.
I still assumed I would be going home. I didn't. Was hospitalized and bumped 19 neurosurgeries, the only exception being a pregnant women.
Even while being in the hospital, it still did not occur to me what was going on. I blame it on the bleeding in my brain and not my lack of medical knowledge or mental capacity. My brain had been bleeding off and on for five months.
The anaesthesiologist came in at 11:00 am. And that's when it hit. I was going in for brain surgery today. Not six months from now. Today. In a matter of hours.
What should have been a two hour surgery took five and a half hours. No one bothered to let my husband know. He was told two hours. I cannot imagine the hell he went through, the questions he had the sheer terror of not knowing what was happening, if I was even alive.
It would be another two months when Dr. West told me I had a 15% survival rate. If this had happened five years earlier, I would have died. Had I not gone to the doctor and her insisting upon an MRI, I would have died.
In 2008, all I knew of brain aneurysms is, if they rupture, that's it. Game over. You lose. I had never heard of anyone surviving a rupture. I survived two. Don't know why. And I still think about that. Why me? It's not survivor's guilt, because I have no guilt, just a curiosity about why I survived. Timing, the right place to be, the best neurosurgeon, a great call by my doctor all came into play.
The next 18 months were bliss. I was at peace. I was calm. I had intense lucid dreams, and intense spiritual experience and I was happy. Then August of 2012, I was diagnosed with a daughter aneurysm, one that shares the same artery and wall as the original. And my world blew apart.
I already had severe PTSD from a soul crippling childhood, now it kicked into overdrive and became C-PTSD, C for complex, compound PTSD. Six years later it still has not diminished.
I have, however, learned to tame it.....to an extent. Old twitchy reminds me, my numbness in my arms reminds me, and now my chronic IBS reminds me. Any kind of stress is bad. Yes, all you fitness and doctors that espouse eustress is good, I'm here to tell you, it's not.
Meditation, yoga, walking, talking, music, being alone, driving fast, and Netflix binging all helps. Some days, however, life is a Bittersweet Symphony. A myriad of thoughts run through my brain on any given day; how long till I die, when should I retire, should I eat today, what's the point, hey, that's a really great car, damn I love Olle, I need a Boston Terrier named MonkeyPooper....did I mention I also have ADD. Or as Olle calls it, Another Damn Day.
So, let's talk. One in 50 will develop a brain aneurysm. Out of the 50, 20 will rupture. Out of the 20, 16 will die.
Hospitals in Winnipeg are terrible for diagnosing brain aneurysms in women. One died on the floor in the ER at the Grace a few years ago. She was screaming, lying on the floor and no one took her seriously.
I was at the ER a few years back, waiting in the hallway, when a doctor in his mid thirties sarcastically announces to the nurse sitting behind the desk, that a woman walked in complaining of a severe headache and he "Kicked her out, like a boss," while fist pumping the air, and I thought you stupid bastard. I wonder what happened to her.....
November 16, 2017, a senior woman almost died in St. Boniface after waiting in the ER, with a severe headache and and eyelid that drooped. They gave her two CT scans, one with dye, and told her she was fine. Four day later, she could not open her eye, went to Misercordia Hospital, and gave her another couple of CT scans and told her she was fine. Thankfully, she called her family doctor who told her to immediately go to the Health Sciences Centre and they found the aneurysm. She had surgery and made it.
So I guess my question is, why are ER's so bad at this? I always assumed to be an ER doctor, you had to know your stuff, you had to be aware of all the terrible things that can happen to a human, and now I am wondering if the reverse is true.
I am also wondering if men are treated differently than women (saying that sarcastically) and why women are still being ignored when coming in with medical issues. Curiously, I haven't heard of anything like this happening to men in Winnipeg. Yup, they did CT scans and the CT scan came out clean. Makes me wonder if maybe CT scans are not all that wonderful for brain aneurysms. Considering 1 in 50, that terrifies me.
I wear a medic alert bracelet that says TAKE ONLY TO HSC because I do not want to become a statistic.
So, let's talk. One in 50 will develop a brain aneurysm. Out of the 50, 20 will rupture. Out of the 20, 16 will die.
Hospitals in Winnipeg are terrible for diagnosing brain aneurysms in women. One died on the floor in the ER at the Grace a few years ago. She was screaming, lying on the floor and no one took her seriously.
I was at the ER a few years back, waiting in the hallway, when a doctor in his mid thirties sarcastically announces to the nurse sitting behind the desk, that a woman walked in complaining of a severe headache and he "Kicked her out, like a boss," while fist pumping the air, and I thought you stupid bastard. I wonder what happened to her.....
November 16, 2017, a senior woman almost died in St. Boniface after waiting in the ER, with a severe headache and and eyelid that drooped. They gave her two CT scans, one with dye, and told her she was fine. Four day later, she could not open her eye, went to Misercordia Hospital, and gave her another couple of CT scans and told her she was fine. Thankfully, she called her family doctor who told her to immediately go to the Health Sciences Centre and they found the aneurysm. She had surgery and made it.
So I guess my question is, why are ER's so bad at this? I always assumed to be an ER doctor, you had to know your stuff, you had to be aware of all the terrible things that can happen to a human, and now I am wondering if the reverse is true.
I am also wondering if men are treated differently than women (saying that sarcastically) and why women are still being ignored when coming in with medical issues. Curiously, I haven't heard of anything like this happening to men in Winnipeg. Yup, they did CT scans and the CT scan came out clean. Makes me wonder if maybe CT scans are not all that wonderful for brain aneurysms. Considering 1 in 50, that terrifies me.
I wear a medic alert bracelet that says TAKE ONLY TO HSC because I do not want to become a statistic.
I also let others know what to look for, where to go, what questions to ask and what resources are out there. When this happened 8 years ago, there were few places in Winnipeg and even less resources for information. I walked out of the hospital with a one page paper telling me to take Aspirin for 8 weeks. Nothing else. Nothing on when I could work again, drive, what to look for, what I should avoid, what was normal, what was critical, nothing.
Now at least there is information for people that want answers, and research.
Does life get better? I'm going to say yes. At least I hope so. So today will be meloncholy, and tomorrow I will move on.
Check out the link below for more info.
Peace, Love and be good to yourself.
https://www.bafound.org/about-brain-aneurysms/brain-aneurysm-basics/warning-signs-symptoms/
https://www.bafound.org/about-brain-aneurysms/brain-aneurysm-basics/warning-signs-symptoms/
Saturday, 27 January 2018
Let's Talk....The Redux
January 31, 2018 is Bell Let's Talk Day. Every day should be a Let's Talk Day. Or at least a Let's Be Open-Minded Day. Being a horror writer has been a blessing for me. It kept me sane, grounded and allowed me to disappear within a world I had control over, where no one could touch me and I was safe. It is that same refuge for me today. I am one of the lucky ones. That does not mean my life is easy or that every day is a picnic. Dealing with a brain injury that caused brain damage juxtaposed with depression, compound complex PTSD and three or four auto-immune diseases has been...interesting. And that's okay. It just means I get to read the same book 12 times and still be surprised. And I get to sit in the new bathroom for hours watching the beautiful floor and backsplash.
In the horror community, there are many of us that struggle with depression, severe, crippling, clinical depression. There are others that battle BiPolar issues, PTSD, mental illness brought on by chronic illness and pain and sometimes, all of the above. Some of us give up. Some turn to drugs or alcohol. Others sabotage themselves so they can beat themselves up and say, "See, I told you you were a loser."
Mental Illness comes from a variety of issues; some are chemical imbalances, others are herediatry and some are brought on by severe childhood abuse, trauma, and soul sucking treatment by the hands of those that love us. Does this make it any easier? Nope. But maybe, just maybe if we stopped treating children as throw away, disposable items while we only think of our own selfish needs, such as drug addictions, pedaphile addictions, alcohol abuse or parents that create kids and bail, we wouldn't need a Let's Talk Day.
I bet that if child abuse ended today, and we really believed for one minute that children are the future pap, most of our mental health issues would disappear overnight, along with the majority of stress related diseases like fibromyalgia, and IBS. Yes, mental illness would still exist because of genetic issues, but I truly believe the majority of us were broken as kids by people who 'loved us'.
If 90% of all medical, physical illness is caused by stress, I believe that 90% of all mental illness is caused by child abuse, childhood trauma, or situational trauma.
Superbowl Sunday is coming up, or as I call it, the best day of the year for human trafficking. How many of those kids are dealing with mental illness because someone is making a buck off of their backs? Most of those kids will be lucky to make it out alive, let alone, whole.
Mental Illness comes from a variety of issues; some are chemical imbalances, others are herediatry and some are brought on by severe childhood abuse, trauma, and soul sucking treatment by the hands of those that love us. Does this make it any easier? Nope. But maybe, just maybe if we stopped treating children as throw away, disposable items while we only think of our own selfish needs, such as drug addictions, pedaphile addictions, alcohol abuse or parents that create kids and bail, we wouldn't need a Let's Talk Day.
I bet that if child abuse ended today, and we really believed for one minute that children are the future pap, most of our mental health issues would disappear overnight, along with the majority of stress related diseases like fibromyalgia, and IBS. Yes, mental illness would still exist because of genetic issues, but I truly believe the majority of us were broken as kids by people who 'loved us'.
If 90% of all medical, physical illness is caused by stress, I believe that 90% of all mental illness is caused by child abuse, childhood trauma, or situational trauma.
Superbowl Sunday is coming up, or as I call it, the best day of the year for human trafficking. How many of those kids are dealing with mental illness because someone is making a buck off of their backs? Most of those kids will be lucky to make it out alive, let alone, whole.
Mental illness is just as debilitating and just as challenging as living with Crohn's, diabetes, or Downs Syndrome. Sometimes even more so. But, unfortunately there is a stigma to mental illness that doesn't transfer to any other condition.
Mental illness means you are weak, pathetic, stupid, lazy or violent. Mental illness makes you less than a person and more of an object of scorn. People who commit suicide are selfish. Cops, soldiers and others with PTSD are not to be trusted. They could snap at any minute.
Isn't it incredible that you can break your leg and people will support you, open doors for you, run errands for you, but break your mind, and your world empties of people you thought loved and cared for you.
How many times have you heard, "Snap out of it; get some exercise; quit feeling sorry for yourself; if you really wanted to (______) you would, you're just lazy"?
We would never dream of saying these things to an Autistic, blind or deaf person, but feel it is justified in attacking the mentally ill. I often wondered why? Is it something they think is contagious? Does it make them feel superior that they have never suffered from a 'weak mind'? Or is it coming from a place of anger where they feel the person struggling with this is seeking attention?
And on the contrary, people with a mental illness have a strong mind. A very strong mind that is trying to protect them and keep them whole. There is no weakness with mental illness except for those that use it as a crutch. And yup, they exist. Just like some people with disabilities use it as a crutch for why they cannot perform their job. They exist as well. Fortunately, those people are in a very tiny minority.
And on the contrary, people with a mental illness have a strong mind. A very strong mind that is trying to protect them and keep them whole. There is no weakness with mental illness except for those that use it as a crutch. And yup, they exist. Just like some people with disabilities use it as a crutch for why they cannot perform their job. They exist as well. Fortunately, those people are in a very tiny minority.
So, on this mental illness let's talk and be friends day, I say share embrace your pain, accept your darkness, live in the moment. If you feel like crap, accept it. Think about it mindfully for five minutes. Really feel what it is like to be you, instead of trying to smile and put up with it. And then, after five minutes of examining your emotions, tell yourself, "I accept this about me and I am still a good person. I will do everything I can, regardless of my demons because I get to win."
Wash, Rinse, Repeat.
Saturday, 18 March 2017
Such As It Is
This is it. This is what we have been given to work with. One life. One year. One Month. One week. One day. One moment.
For some of us, this is a death sentence because we live with mental illness; depression, PTSD, GAD, OCD, ADD, more DDD's but I digress. I always wanted initials after my name....be careful what you wish for, little one. Others live without illness weighing them down. But, as REM says, Everybody Hurts. Life is just harder for some than others. And what are you going to do about it?
Life is short. Probably a lot shorter than what we had hoped for. I doubt anyone on their death bed shouts "Dammit, why didn't you show up sooner. I was ready 23 years ago. Now look, dinner is cold. And I'm not reheating it."
Nope, I try not to take things too seriously, because, as you all know, it's all downhill from here. Might as well live as hard as you can and for all the right reasons.
If I had to make stuff up (I know, quit laughing) I would say most of my life has been made up of these incredible moments in time with happy, beautiful funny, incredible kids, an outstanding, quirky husband, beautiful, loving dogs, great careers (did I mention ADD.....) and less of the dark, icky, oozy stuff.
Unfortunately, it is the dark stuff that sticks and sucks me into the abyss. There are moments so black and so bleak that there is no light. I prefer not to think on these. I work them out, one dark piece of twisted, burning metal at a time. Toss it away. Take on the the next piece. Chew on it for a while and it goes into the heap.
Now the happy stuff: my incredible, courageous, loving, patient husband. Without him, I'd be done a long time ago. My children, who have taught me so much in life and have made such an extraordinary difference, my grandchildren who have shown me what's best in life, my dogs, I wish I had enough years to own all the dogs I've ever wanted. My passions, Yoga, horror writing, being an artist, helping others, reading, learning, and my friends. Damn, I love you all.
Find the happiness. Find the love. Find the hope, the peace, the joy, the passion that you deserve. Do not go through this life wandering and thinking and being desperately alone. Do not give up on yourself or others. Nothing comes to you; you have to fight for it. So go out there and brave the new world. And find the love and laughter for yourself. You deserve it. Baggage or no baggage.
Monday, 29 August 2016
Hippie: The Redux
All right, so when I started this blog three years ago, I decided I wanted to be a hippie. So far, so good.
Three years later, I am a trained and Certified Yoga Instructor specializing in Yoga for Mental Heath, PTSD, Anxiety and Depression, I am registered in the Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction Certification program, I am teaching yoga twice a week for a federal organization and have done more writing and editing.
I am planning a three day Yoga Retreat and contemplating ghost writing a Yoga book for a highly intelligent, creative and flexible person.
I have also since then, been promoted and lead a unit in the fedral government. Been published a few more times, still working on the novel, and still battling demons.
I have achieved more towards my goal and have moved away from what is holding me back.
I still dream of my house on an acreage where I can grow wine (yes, I know) read, write, stomp some grapes in the backyard, run through fields of clover with the wolves and splash in the ocean whenever the urge strikes.
Will it happen? Who knows. I try to stay the course, I meander, wander, stroll, roam and leap through paths. Life is more exciting when you can switch gears on a moment's notice.
Three years later, I am a trained and Certified Yoga Instructor specializing in Yoga for Mental Heath, PTSD, Anxiety and Depression, I am registered in the Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction Certification program, I am teaching yoga twice a week for a federal organization and have done more writing and editing.
I am planning a three day Yoga Retreat and contemplating ghost writing a Yoga book for a highly intelligent, creative and flexible person.
I have also since then, been promoted and lead a unit in the fedral government. Been published a few more times, still working on the novel, and still battling demons.
I have achieved more towards my goal and have moved away from what is holding me back.
I still dream of my house on an acreage where I can grow wine (yes, I know) read, write, stomp some grapes in the backyard, run through fields of clover with the wolves and splash in the ocean whenever the urge strikes.
Will it happen? Who knows. I try to stay the course, I meander, wander, stroll, roam and leap through paths. Life is more exciting when you can switch gears on a moment's notice.
Monday, 13 June 2016
Evolvement and Devolvement
Back to the transition from a hard driven Type A personality into a Hippy (See the very first blog), I started Yoga teacher training a couple of months back. I have learned so much valuable and enjoyable information and I have been transformed, internally and externally. This kind of reminds me of a diamond, putting so much pressure on an item, body, or mind that it changes the molecular structure into something completely different.
I have been forever changed. My body feels different, moves more with grace, and my mind has been expanded into different thought forms, spiritual planes of existence, and is calm.
Things that were opaque have become clear; movements that were impossible have become natural, and I have learned serenity. Yoga changed my mind and my life, I cannot name all the differences. All I can say, there was a life lived differently before and after Yoga.
I am so exited to teach and to open this learning to others, and I can only hope that what I have experienced others can as well.
If you have been following this blog, you know I am a physical and emotional mess because of the Compound Complex PTSD, Anxiety, the brain thing....sigh and ADD. Yoga has helped with most of these issues. Obviously not the brain thing. But the others, definitely.
Yoga is more than a program, a pose, a spiritual journey or exercise. It can be all of these things or a combination of any of them. Yoga connects me to the greater spiritual purpose that includes the inclusivity of humanism.
But the events of last and this week have saddened me to the core of my being. A USA Olympic bound swimmer raped and brutalized an unconscious female. The judge, mom and dad, and the legal team thought he suffered enough from having a lifetime ban from the US swimming team that feeds into the Olympics and the judge did not want undo pressure placed on this predator that this man effectively will serve a three month sentence surrounded by protective guards, lest he receives the same life sentence he forced upon a defenceless woman, or, as dad put it, his "20 minutes of action."
I cannot fathom the thought process that turns the brutalization of an unconscious female, against her will, without consent, as 20 minutes of action.
Then there is the killing of 50 people and the wounding of 53 others due to a belief system that is radically devolved. Someone who thought we should turn the years back to the middle ages. And someone who will probably be labeled as mentally ill rather than a sociopath.
In both these last instances, people thought they were entitled to take what someone else had, against their will, someone who stood in judgement of another human life and decreed they were not worthy.
What a sad state we are in when are controlled by bullies.
The only way to right these wrongs is to be the change you want to see in the world. One person at a time. One small act at a time. Reach out to someone who is hurting and just listen. See the overworked mom and ask her if she wants a coffee. Introduce yourself to your neighbour.
One by one, we can make a difference. Start small. One simple act of kindness. It can make a huge difference.
I have been forever changed. My body feels different, moves more with grace, and my mind has been expanded into different thought forms, spiritual planes of existence, and is calm.
Things that were opaque have become clear; movements that were impossible have become natural, and I have learned serenity. Yoga changed my mind and my life, I cannot name all the differences. All I can say, there was a life lived differently before and after Yoga.
I am so exited to teach and to open this learning to others, and I can only hope that what I have experienced others can as well.
If you have been following this blog, you know I am a physical and emotional mess because of the Compound Complex PTSD, Anxiety, the brain thing....sigh and ADD. Yoga has helped with most of these issues. Obviously not the brain thing. But the others, definitely.
Yoga is more than a program, a pose, a spiritual journey or exercise. It can be all of these things or a combination of any of them. Yoga connects me to the greater spiritual purpose that includes the inclusivity of humanism.
But the events of last and this week have saddened me to the core of my being. A USA Olympic bound swimmer raped and brutalized an unconscious female. The judge, mom and dad, and the legal team thought he suffered enough from having a lifetime ban from the US swimming team that feeds into the Olympics and the judge did not want undo pressure placed on this predator that this man effectively will serve a three month sentence surrounded by protective guards, lest he receives the same life sentence he forced upon a defenceless woman, or, as dad put it, his "20 minutes of action."
I cannot fathom the thought process that turns the brutalization of an unconscious female, against her will, without consent, as 20 minutes of action.
Then there is the killing of 50 people and the wounding of 53 others due to a belief system that is radically devolved. Someone who thought we should turn the years back to the middle ages. And someone who will probably be labeled as mentally ill rather than a sociopath.
In both these last instances, people thought they were entitled to take what someone else had, against their will, someone who stood in judgement of another human life and decreed they were not worthy.
What a sad state we are in when are controlled by bullies.
The only way to right these wrongs is to be the change you want to see in the world. One person at a time. One small act at a time. Reach out to someone who is hurting and just listen. See the overworked mom and ask her if she wants a coffee. Introduce yourself to your neighbour.
Wednesday, 27 January 2016
Let's Talk...
January 27 is Bell Let's Talk Day. Every day should be a Let's Talk Day. Or at least a Let's Be Open-Minded Day. Being a horror writer has been a blessing for me. It kept me sane, grounded and allowed me to disappear within a world I had control over, where no one could touch me and I was safe. It is that same refuge for me today. I am one of the lucky ones. That does not mean my life is easy or that every day is a picnic. Dealing with a brain injury that caused brain damage juxtaposed with depression, compound complex PTSD and auto-immune diseases has been...interesting. And that's okay. It just means I get to read the same book 12 times and still be surprised.
In the horror community, there are many of us that struggle with depression, severe, crippling, clinical depression. There are others that battle BiPolar issues, PTSD, mental illness brought on by chronic illness and pain and sometimes, all of the above. Some of us give up. Some turn to drugs or alcohol. Others sabotage themselves so they can beat themselves up and say, "See, I told you you were a loser."
Mental illness is just as debilitating and just as challenging as living with Crohn's, diabetes, or Downs Syndrome. Sometimes even more so. But, unfortunately there is a stigma to mental illness.
Mental illness means you are weak, pathetic, stupid, lazy or violent. Mental illness makes you less than a person and more of an object of scorn. People who commit suicide are selfish. Cops or soldiers with PTSD are not to be trusted.
Isn't it incredible that you can break your leg and people will support you, open doors for you, run errands for you, but break your mind, and your world empties of people you thought loved and cared for you.
How many times have you heard, "Snap out of it; get some exercise; quit feeling sorry for yourself; if you really wanted to (______) you would, you're just lazy"?
We would never dream of saying these things to an Autistic, blind or deaf person, but feel it is justified in attacking the mentally ill. I often wondered why. Is it something they think is contagious? Does it make them feel superior that they have never suffered from a 'weak mind'? Or is it coming from a place of anger where they feel the person struggling with this is seeking attention?
So, on this mental illness let's talk and be friends day, I say share embrace your pain, accept your darkness, live in the moment. If you feel like crap, accept it. Think about it mindfully for five minutes. Really feel what it is like to be you, instead of trying to smile and put up with it. And then, after five minutes of examining your emotions, tell yourself, "I accept this about me and I am still a good person. I will do everything I can, regardless of my demons because I get to win."
Wash, Rinse, Repeat.
Sunday, 15 March 2015
Chronic Pain, Life, Dying
I saw the article from the neurosurgeon who wrote upon reflecting what it is like to know you have a limited lifespan. He started out a fine young man, went to University, became a doctor, specialized in neurosurgery, saved countless lives and then was diagnosed with cancer and told he had six months to live.
It was a beautiful piece, knowledgeable and intelligent upon which he reflects upon his life and what he has learned. He has a baby daughter and he wonders if she will remember him.
I read that piece with intensity because I wonder how much time I have left. I do not have cancer that a doctor can say 'You have six months, a year, etc.' I have a time bomb in my head that can go at any time. I can drop dead tomorrow or in 45 years. It's a crapshoot. I truly do not know which is worse: Knowing you have six months and needing to fill in the time or take it slow, or knowing today could be your last day.
I grieve the person I lost. I grieve what I have been robbed of and I mourn what is ahead of me. Each day is special, blah, blah, blah. Life is a gift. Be happy you survived this long. Be positive. I can do that up to a point and then I drown in my own pre-ordained death sentence and fall apart, sobbing to the ground and wonder why this is the way it has to be. My husband picks me up, and tells me he loves me, and I sob until I am hoarse and wish I could disappear.
I have PTSD, actually Compound Complex PTSD between my childhood and this thing growing in my head, that sticks by me as my shadow and follows me around, constantly telling me, don't laugh too hard: Pink Mist. Don't cough. Do not stress. And all that does is increase the constant terror that has become my life.
I have become a hermit, locked inside my own diseased mind and all I can do is read and watch horror movies, the bloodier the better, so I can forget, for one hour, one day, that I am dead.
The fear is overwhelming. The anxiety is like having a too big a piece of food lodged in your throat that you cannot get rid of. And what really, truly sucks, is that some people that know me, think I should carry on and continue being the rock and the hand that rocks the cradle, and forget about it, but concentrate on their perception of life.
That has made me re-evaluate everything. I do have severe clinical depression thanks to my step-monster, along with many other invisible scars. And I bet if you sprayed Luminol on my soul, you would see each and every one of them: The childhood torture and rape of my spirit, the mental and physical illness it created, the stress, the brain aneurysm, the pain of having a family, the pain of needing a family with the realization I will never have one that I crave.
No, today is not a good day. Tomorrow, who knows.
It was a beautiful piece, knowledgeable and intelligent upon which he reflects upon his life and what he has learned. He has a baby daughter and he wonders if she will remember him.
I read that piece with intensity because I wonder how much time I have left. I do not have cancer that a doctor can say 'You have six months, a year, etc.' I have a time bomb in my head that can go at any time. I can drop dead tomorrow or in 45 years. It's a crapshoot. I truly do not know which is worse: Knowing you have six months and needing to fill in the time or take it slow, or knowing today could be your last day.
I grieve the person I lost. I grieve what I have been robbed of and I mourn what is ahead of me. Each day is special, blah, blah, blah. Life is a gift. Be happy you survived this long. Be positive. I can do that up to a point and then I drown in my own pre-ordained death sentence and fall apart, sobbing to the ground and wonder why this is the way it has to be. My husband picks me up, and tells me he loves me, and I sob until I am hoarse and wish I could disappear.
I have PTSD, actually Compound Complex PTSD between my childhood and this thing growing in my head, that sticks by me as my shadow and follows me around, constantly telling me, don't laugh too hard: Pink Mist. Don't cough. Do not stress. And all that does is increase the constant terror that has become my life.
I have become a hermit, locked inside my own diseased mind and all I can do is read and watch horror movies, the bloodier the better, so I can forget, for one hour, one day, that I am dead.
The fear is overwhelming. The anxiety is like having a too big a piece of food lodged in your throat that you cannot get rid of. And what really, truly sucks, is that some people that know me, think I should carry on and continue being the rock and the hand that rocks the cradle, and forget about it, but concentrate on their perception of life.
That has made me re-evaluate everything. I do have severe clinical depression thanks to my step-monster, along with many other invisible scars. And I bet if you sprayed Luminol on my soul, you would see each and every one of them: The childhood torture and rape of my spirit, the mental and physical illness it created, the stress, the brain aneurysm, the pain of having a family, the pain of needing a family with the realization I will never have one that I crave.
No, today is not a good day. Tomorrow, who knows.
Sunday, 27 July 2014
Vacation, Stress, PTSD
Vacation! That one time of year where we can relax, unwind, not think about work, responsibilities, the office atmospheres and take a break. In theory, that's how it works. In reality, the hyper vigilance does not shut down. The nightmares do not stop. The tremors and muscle jerks continue along with the insomnia, nausea and feeling you are in the wrong body or the wrong mind. Unfortunately for PTSD survivors (and I hate that word also). We are not surviving, we are enduring, at the mercy of our flight and fight system and at mercy from a brain that will not hang onto memories long enough to process, but tortures us on a daily basis with flashes and glimpses of what was, and what could be again.
For me, it is the exhaustion. The every day battle that common people never face. I get up in the morning and I am exhausted, not rested, not thrilled to have to get out of bed at 0500 hours to face another day. I hurt. Every single muscle hurts. The shoulders, neck and back are the worst and my legs feel as if I am walking through jello. So where most people feel refreshed, I haven't slept, or had nightmares or woke up crying. Shower, have coffee and run out the door. Go to work where I will put in a 9 to 10 hour day dealing with interruptions, inter office politics, and office bullies. But on the positive side are the clients, my staff and a few decent people that talk me off the ledge every once in a while.
I do not handle stupidity well, or bullies, or laziness and nothing raises my hackles more than someone who can complete a job for a client, but chooses not to. So I breathe. Count to ten. Kill them in my mind and let it go.
Dependent upon the day, I come home, feed the dogs, hang out with them for an hour, eat dinner and watch some TV with la spouse. Other days, I go straight to bed. Last weekend I went to bed Friday night and would up Monday morning.
Now it is vacations. No schedules. I plan on writing....a lot. And so far have managed to pull off what I have promised. Yesterday was a great day. Wrote in the morning, shopped in the afternoon and then entertained 6 friends and laughed, told stories and generally had a pleasant day.
Watched a movie, read a little bit and went to bed. And laid awake until 0500 hours. My mind would not shut down. I would read, nod off and think great, but no. Ten minutes later I am staring at the ceiling again. I tend to get a lot of books read this way, but unfortunately the headaches and fog I am left with means that today will be way less productive. I may get in 2000 words of a novel I am working on, or I may crash the rest of the day.
I eat well, I exercise, I quit drinking coffee before 1000, but regardless my brain has a mind of it's own. After the brain surgery, I did not sleep for five months. I cat napped, but that was it. I thought I would lose my mind. I have never recovered from that state, and I don't think I ever will.
We lost a person to PTSD two weekends ago. For him seeing the incedent that wouldn't leave his mind, was the last thing he could endure. Five years later, no longer being able to deal with the pain, physical and mental, he succeeded in killing himself. This is the path for some PTSD survivors.
A month before that, we lost three police officers to a psychopath with a shotgun. Three good men, who were loved, had families and had a vision of leaving the world a better place.
Triggers all around. And now, here in Gimli, the most serene place in the world, I write horrific things. I write about demons and human nature and the evil that men and women, do. Because it helps me keep my own demons in check. And because I know that whatever I write, the truth is always a million times worse.
Now, if I could just sleep like a normal person..........
For me, it is the exhaustion. The every day battle that common people never face. I get up in the morning and I am exhausted, not rested, not thrilled to have to get out of bed at 0500 hours to face another day. I hurt. Every single muscle hurts. The shoulders, neck and back are the worst and my legs feel as if I am walking through jello. So where most people feel refreshed, I haven't slept, or had nightmares or woke up crying. Shower, have coffee and run out the door. Go to work where I will put in a 9 to 10 hour day dealing with interruptions, inter office politics, and office bullies. But on the positive side are the clients, my staff and a few decent people that talk me off the ledge every once in a while.
I do not handle stupidity well, or bullies, or laziness and nothing raises my hackles more than someone who can complete a job for a client, but chooses not to. So I breathe. Count to ten. Kill them in my mind and let it go.
Dependent upon the day, I come home, feed the dogs, hang out with them for an hour, eat dinner and watch some TV with la spouse. Other days, I go straight to bed. Last weekend I went to bed Friday night and would up Monday morning.
Now it is vacations. No schedules. I plan on writing....a lot. And so far have managed to pull off what I have promised. Yesterday was a great day. Wrote in the morning, shopped in the afternoon and then entertained 6 friends and laughed, told stories and generally had a pleasant day.
Watched a movie, read a little bit and went to bed. And laid awake until 0500 hours. My mind would not shut down. I would read, nod off and think great, but no. Ten minutes later I am staring at the ceiling again. I tend to get a lot of books read this way, but unfortunately the headaches and fog I am left with means that today will be way less productive. I may get in 2000 words of a novel I am working on, or I may crash the rest of the day.
I eat well, I exercise, I quit drinking coffee before 1000, but regardless my brain has a mind of it's own. After the brain surgery, I did not sleep for five months. I cat napped, but that was it. I thought I would lose my mind. I have never recovered from that state, and I don't think I ever will.
We lost a person to PTSD two weekends ago. For him seeing the incedent that wouldn't leave his mind, was the last thing he could endure. Five years later, no longer being able to deal with the pain, physical and mental, he succeeded in killing himself. This is the path for some PTSD survivors.
A month before that, we lost three police officers to a psychopath with a shotgun. Three good men, who were loved, had families and had a vision of leaving the world a better place.
Triggers all around. And now, here in Gimli, the most serene place in the world, I write horrific things. I write about demons and human nature and the evil that men and women, do. Because it helps me keep my own demons in check. And because I know that whatever I write, the truth is always a million times worse.
Now, if I could just sleep like a normal person..........
Saturday, 1 February 2014
What I Learned From Six Feet Under
I finally watched all of Six Feet Under again and I loved it just as much the second time around and eight years later, than I did the first time around. I also made some interesting correlations between the show and life in general, and Nate Fischer's death and my life.
First of all, if you are a parent, children will hide information from you regardless if you can help them or not. Doesn't matter what kind of parent you were or are, it's a fact of life. Children grow in a different trajectory once they hit puberty and they become people all on their own...whether you want them to or not. And that hurts. It hurts the parent and it hurts the kid, however, they will not see this until they have kids of their own. It's like an unwritten rule. Everything in their life becomes much more meaningful and all consuming other than their parents. And as a parent, you stand back and watch the pieces fall, try to pick them up, try to become involved, try to back off, try to become nonchalant, over-absorbed, over-obsessed or all of the above all at the same time and pray they come back to you on some level. Part of life. Hopefully they come back and we all move on.
We all hide parts of ourselves form ourselves and others. We are all in pain and we all deal with it the best way we know how. Like Brenda with her multiple sex partners, we have multiple frustrations and dance partners we deal with; depression, anxiety, illness, stress, PTSD, OCD, frustration, death of dreams, a life lived we had not planned, and hopes dashed before they had a chance to grasp hold. And we are all alone. No matter what is going on, we are alone. No matter how many siblings we have, how close we are, when the chips are down, we are alone. I know that sounds harsh, but it is a fact.
We all want the same things; people to love us for who we are; a place where we are safe; confidence that what we are doing is the right thing and a life free from as many obstacles as possible.
Nate Fischer died from AVM, Arteriovenous malformation, basically an abnormality present since birth that causes brain bleeds. He died from a brain bleed. And I completely forgot that part. Watching him convulse on the floor, be in the hospital, and die beside his brother brought back all the fear back again. Wondering if this is how it is going to work for me. Granted, I live with that thought every single day. But seeing it on the screen was weird. It was like stepping outside myself and seeing this moment through someone else's eyes.
I write horror. I think I know why.
First of all, if you are a parent, children will hide information from you regardless if you can help them or not. Doesn't matter what kind of parent you were or are, it's a fact of life. Children grow in a different trajectory once they hit puberty and they become people all on their own...whether you want them to or not. And that hurts. It hurts the parent and it hurts the kid, however, they will not see this until they have kids of their own. It's like an unwritten rule. Everything in their life becomes much more meaningful and all consuming other than their parents. And as a parent, you stand back and watch the pieces fall, try to pick them up, try to become involved, try to back off, try to become nonchalant, over-absorbed, over-obsessed or all of the above all at the same time and pray they come back to you on some level. Part of life. Hopefully they come back and we all move on.
We all hide parts of ourselves form ourselves and others. We are all in pain and we all deal with it the best way we know how. Like Brenda with her multiple sex partners, we have multiple frustrations and dance partners we deal with; depression, anxiety, illness, stress, PTSD, OCD, frustration, death of dreams, a life lived we had not planned, and hopes dashed before they had a chance to grasp hold. And we are all alone. No matter what is going on, we are alone. No matter how many siblings we have, how close we are, when the chips are down, we are alone. I know that sounds harsh, but it is a fact.
We all want the same things; people to love us for who we are; a place where we are safe; confidence that what we are doing is the right thing and a life free from as many obstacles as possible.
Nate Fischer died from AVM, Arteriovenous malformation, basically an abnormality present since birth that causes brain bleeds. He died from a brain bleed. And I completely forgot that part. Watching him convulse on the floor, be in the hospital, and die beside his brother brought back all the fear back again. Wondering if this is how it is going to work for me. Granted, I live with that thought every single day. But seeing it on the screen was weird. It was like stepping outside myself and seeing this moment through someone else's eyes.
I write horror. I think I know why.
Friday, 11 January 2013
Writing Your Demons and Devouring Mental Illness
Stories circulate in my head on a constant basis. Reeling them in and trying to get them into neat little boxes that eventually intertwine and could possibly become something interesting and cohesive is an entirely different matter. So I keep either a notebook or an electronic version of a notebook with me at all times. I write down ideas, thoughts, weird things I've seen and wait for the magic to begin.
My son and I have recently begun watching the X-Files from the beginning and I realized a few elements of the show had wound up in my stories. Weird. I love the way the brain works. I love that human memories can take a dozen different experiences, warp them all together into one gigantic blob and put them in our frontal cortex where we would swear this really happened. Nothing explains this clearer to me than looking back at old X-Files episodes and realizing that's where this fit in. Or raising children and hearing their version of a childhood memory.
Everything gets stored in the brain. All those inane experiences that we shrug off are sitting in the three pound, synaptic firing, vision inducing hunk of meat screaming to be let out. Whether it is in a verbal backlash or in a new story. I prefer the story. I can take all experiences, good, bad, or indifferent and release them upon unsuspecting characters to see what happens next. I love that feeling. It is so cathartic to fight your demons on paper and let your characters sort out the aftermath. Because, let's face it, as writers that is what we do. We fight our demons on a daily basis whether we think we do or not. At least, we do if we are any good. That's how we make sense of the world. That's how we figure out why bad things happen. And that's where we try and get a grasp on our demons. I also believe it keeps us sane. More sane than the regular population. As a group of people, horror writers purge their inner thoughts, they vomit their greatest fears, and they defecate their emotions on paper.
We can take an abusive childhood and turn it into the next zombie apocalypse where the parents get devoured one piece at a time. Or we can take depression and create a survival story of being trapped in a blizzard, surrounded by hungry bears and getting out alive. We may not realize it at the time in the throes of writing, but we are killing the childhood bullies, the beasts, and the monsters with every stroke of the pen. And with any luck you gain an audience. And a few royalties.
So yeah, we may be a little weird and we definitely see the world in a way most of the population doesn't, but we also understand human nature a lot more clearly than most. Because living in our heads we have to understand the demon in order to defeat it.
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