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I am going to start my story with a confession. I really, really don’t like the word ‘stigma’, I don’t even like to use it as ‘ignorance’ fits much better. I’ll never attack anyone for using the s-word because we all tend to be ignorant to things until we experience them ourselves. I was ignorant of mental health issues for years, especially when I was suffering badly from it. The only time my ignorance lifted was when I started to get help.

Back in January 2013 I was medically diagnosed as having depression. Confirming something I had believed for years but had never been brave enough to actually seek help for it. Consequentially from receiving professional help I uncovered that I suffer from episodes anxiety and paranoia. All these things are connected for me. Where did they come from? I’ve given up trying to work that one out as I doubt it will benefit me or anyone else.

My depression was definitely the biggest of my mental health issues as it has been with me for around 25 years. Frankly by now, I’d have thought it would have had enough of me and left me but it seems that is not the case. Fortunately through the help of an excellent NHS doctor here in Scotland who understood my issues, gave me time to talk and subscribed me medication that would allow me to have a second chance with life. My doctor was very good at not just giving me the medical advice but also about being more active and social with ideas to get out there and meet people as I had built up quite an unhealthy online world for myself. The best thing my doctor did other than talking with me on a sympathetic and realistic level during that initial appointment was to put the wheels in motion for me to be included on a CBT-themed course. Unfortunately for me the actual CBT course had an 18-month waiting list unless I went private and paid for it myself with money I didn’t have.

I have always had a big problem with people who complain about things but never do anything to better the situation. From a young age I just remember viewing it as such a waste of energy and it just made the person miserable and I didn’t want to be around them. I wasn’t going to be that guy. I’ve never really complained about suffering from depression apart from to myself internally. I grabbed all the help that was on offer. I wanted to get better and if I couldn’t get better then I wanted to cope and understand it all. Sure, I had my doubts and part of that was the illness talking but I took every step that was asked of me and more importantly, after I took plenty more steps. Yes, it was hard work but it was a lifetime’s thinking being reprogrammed. I’m still on that journey today and now I only look back to see how far I’ve come.

Today as I tell you this story I am not fully recovered. My anxiety is very much under control, my paranoia is almost non-existent and I can proudly say that I have many more good days than bad with my depression. How has all this happened? Well throughout 2013 I was working full-time so it would impact how much time I could permit to my own mental health and welfare. In January 2014 I was made redundant and since it was only a few weeks after my lowest ebb a year previously I decided I needed to do something to make sure I didn’t relapse. The last thing I wanted to do was let all my good work go undone by something that wasn’t under my control. Those who know me well will confirm I can be a stubborn little so’n’so when I want to be. I get an idea in my head and I’m a bit like a dog with a bone.

I just needed an idea, something to keep me busy but also healthy and free, since I was now out of work. In 2012 I had deleted my Facebook and Twitter accounts in an attempt to get me out of my rut. It obviously didn’t work as I was too far down the road to Depressionville by that time and I needed help. I wasn’t waving but drowning! I always missed Twitter but not Facebook, but I knew going back would be dangerous for my mind. I needed a reason, a purpose for being there and then it struck me to do what I had been doing off and on my entire life – think positive. The wheels began to turn and after looking at what I will respectfully say were some downright depressing blogs my mind was made up. I was going to tackle my mental health problems on the internet, the forum that had to some extent been a major player in my downfall. More importantly though I was going to blog about my experiences and my belief in being positive. Sure, it was a gamble, I knew it wasn’t going to be for every one and I had no idea if it would be me blogging to me or if anyone would actually bother to read it. The power of a positive mind quickly eradicated those concerns and away I went, trying to spread positivity wherever and whenever I could. Every blog was and still is designed to entertain and get the reader thinking. On average they weigh-in around the 500 words mark which makes them easy to read daily or a dose of them once a week.

I truly believe that the only way to help others understand is to educate them. I wonder if I had more knowledge on keeping a healthy mind if I would have faced the problems I have but without such negatives I wouldn’t have the appreciation I have today for my own well-being and those who suffer mental health conditions. I now have people who visit my blog that don’t even have mental health problems because living with positive thinking benefits everyone. Sure, it’s hard work to begin with and you need to have an open-mind but like anything in life like that, it’s worth it and it gets easier the more you do it. My mental health issues don’t define me, my positive thinking does.

BIO: Jason lives near Loch Ness in the Highlands of Scotland. He has been a potato bagger to a radio presenter to technical support advisor to an office and individual trainer to a sales person. He has (what he considers to be) a healthy obsession with all things tangerine and could lose all his days watching monkeys being monkeys. He likes cheese and doesn’t like losing at FIFA. He once brought an alcoholic back from losing everything and potentially saved his neighbour’s life when when she accidentally cut an artery. He grew up watching The A-Team so loves it when a plan comes together.

Blog: www.FindingPositives.com

Twitter: www.twitter.com/FindPositives

I looked out my room’s window, taking in the winter scene that filled my soul, since I love the snowy season. I saw the all-too familiar streets I had grown up in, the tattoo shop where I got my first permanent ink, and the skyscrapers that made my heart feel warm.

I was in the psych ward, and the reality sank in that I didn’t know when I’d be free again. I was locked in, having committed myself with my wife’s agreement to avoid a second suicide attempt in early 2013. I was researching ways to end it, and laying on the railroad tracks was quickly becoming the method of choice, though I hadn’t yet worked up the courage to have a train run over me, and the horror of what it would do to my family kept me from actually doing it as well, I admit. My brother Ryan killed himself nearly 5 years earlier. This would kill my Dad, my hero. Just as importantly, it would devastate my wife, the angel who had stood by me through so much shit over the last few years. No – she deserved better. I still wanted to die, though. Thinking of the train ending my life brought me one hell of a sense of relief. Relief I desperately sought…from my mind, the constant screw-ups I orchestrated, and the failure I had become.

The irony here is that there had also been a “champion” inside me for most of my life – a driven, passionate and pure soul of a man looking for more from this fuc-ing life, once and for all! I knew since high school that I was “destined to be a champion,” as that first tattoo says on my right shoulder-blade. I felt it so fiercely, and yet, my God-damned sense of self-confidence had its ass kicked over the years through screwing up so much. Man, I loved and absolutely hated myself! I just wanted to fuc-ing put an END to the madness that was my life.

This battle has gone on for most of my nearly 38 years on this planet – on one hand, I’m SO driven, so full of potential. On the other, I make rash, spontaneous decisions when my mind panics at times, and I have to hold myself back from saying or doing something I’ll regret later. Aah, the sweet madness of it all. Adult ADHD and confidence….what kind of cruel joke IS this?

But wait – I’m starting to see through the black and white, all or nothing thinking for the first time! Yeah, that shit still rears its ugly head on the regular, but I know well enough to remember that it will pass at this ripe “old” age. Holy crap the amount of heartache and frustration my lack of self, my lack of identity and confidence has caused, even driving me to end this very life that I was given.

Now I know:

• I must stop giving a shit what others think. All I can do is my best. Some will like it, some will hate it. Those people can look elsewhere. Plain and simple. I’m here to influence those who “get” what I’m sharing here, mind, body and soul. I’m working my ass off (like you are in your way) to make a better life for myself, and I’ll be damned if I let those who feel like shit about themselves bash all I’m creating here. For the hundreds of great emails I receive, a few people throw their toxic self-loathing my way by insulting me in some way, shape or form. Guess what – I was where they are! I was SO desperate to make something of myself that I too felt threatened by those actually DOING something to achieve their goals, to better themselves, through stretching themselves and leaving that cancerous “comfort zone” that often kills us slowly but surely.

No sir! I choose to invest the time needed to really uncover my sense of self, my sense of pride, but in a balanced, healthy way. I love who I am, forgive the young “me” who screwed up, knowing that I did the absolute best that I could with where I was at during every point in my life. Sure, I’ve got regrets, but I’ll be damned if they’re gonna hold me back ANY longer!

Self-confidence isn’t always found on a pretty road. In fact, that’s never the case. You have to wade through the shit of society, other people’s jealousy, our own screw-ups and what we thought we were supposed to become to truly find ourselves.

Sometimes, you’ve got to be lost to find yourself. Who the hell knew? From that window in the psych ward to the mountains here from my balcony, the view has changed more than I could have ever dreamed.

Onward! None of those nay-sayers can even touch me, because I was once one of them, and have evolved. In fact, I hope they find their own clarity like I did. That saved my damn life, and I’m not fuc-ing kidding. I’m a determined man. If I truly, REALLY wanted to die, I would have.

Jeff Emmerson is the author of “Success By Choice: A Story of ADHD, Depression and Determination,” and is currently working on additional books to come. He is also the creator of The Adult ADHD Blog - raising awareness for ADHD worldwide!

Jeff is passionate about helping to inspire others to make the most of their lives and follow their hearts through thick and thin. He calls it “Success By Choice.”

Twitter: https://twitter.com/AdultADHDStory

Growing up I was a miserable kid. I didn’t think anyone liked me and it made me feel like I lived in a bubble, not able to fit in. I felt isolated. Alone. That bubble is still with me today. Fortunately I don’t live in it anymore, but it still engulfs me now and then. Having bipolar disorder, I believe it will always be there, hanging out in my back pocket, waiting to make me feel alone and sad.

When I reached high school my brain wouldn’t stop telling me I was no good. I sought solace in alcohol. A lot of alcohol. I went to a lot of parties, yet I felt snubbed. I was certain that friends were having parties and weren’t telling me. I knew no one liked me. When I ran for senior class president, I ran against two of the popular kids, and I won, yet I was still certain nobody liked me.

Most of the time I felt depressed, but had moments of erratic behavior as well. A few times I walked around the neighborhood naked in the middle of the night. Other times I’d open my bedroom window that had a bee hive right outside. I’d let them fly in so I could study them. I would also be awake for days at a time, many times to the point I’d hallucinate.

As I got older I continued with the depression and odd behavior. My job required that I move frequently, and different doctors across the country diagnosed me with depression. They would prescribe me medication, but I never stuck with them. My drinking got worse and I eventually destroyed a great career as a result.

In 2003 I tried several times to stop drinking and on December 7th, 2003 I had my last drink. I’d had enough. I’d been sleeping on peoples couches and was incapable of finding a job. I was sober enough to see the damage I’d done, but didn’t know what to do about it. My mentally ill brain was still spinning out of control and I wanted to curl up and die. While everyone struggles in early sobriety, mine seemed especially difficult.

The following summer I realized I wasn’t going to die and decided to take matters into my own hands. A friend caught wind of this, called my A.A. sponsor and they took me to the emergency room at Cedars Sinai Hospital and I was admitted in the psych ward. I needed it. Not having to worry about anything in the outside world and having a warm bed to sleep in suited me just fine.

After 7 days my doctor pulled me aside to tell me I was a textbook case for depression and that I would be on medication for the rest of my life. They expected to release me that day but they were unable to find a county clinic to refer me to. I had already told them that was going to be a problem. On the 10th day an appointment was scheduled for me and I was released. The clinic they located was at the opposite end of the county and was a 6 hour ride roundtrip via bus. I was able to secure medications, but as happened in the past, I eventually stopped taking them. My life really started spinning out of control. I felt hopeless.

About 10 years ago I met, Maurice, who became the love of my life. It wasn’t long after we began our relationship that I hit rock bottom mentally. I would be depressed for long periods and keep the shades dark during the day as I stayed home terrified to go outside. I rarely could leave our apartment. The few times I was able to force myself to go to a supermarket I would run back out the door hyper-ventilating. Inside it was just too much. All the registers, the lights, the conversations, the boxes on the wall were overwhelming and were coming at me all at once. Once again I was back at my old routine and was trying desperately to find a clinic to take me in. Again, I had no luck.

Once more I became suicidal and Maurice and a minister from our church took me to an emergency room. After sleeping for hours on a bench in the psych ward, a doctor came to tell me that she determined I had a safe environment to return to and they were releasing me. I refused to leave and said I would not until she had secured me an appointment with a county clinic that was nearby. She returned later, gave me a number and told me I’d be taken care of.

At the clinic I had a wonderful doctor who treated me for depression, but eventually gave me the diagnosis I should have gotten a long time before. I wasn’t suffering with depression, I had bipolar disorder (manic-depression). All these years the doctors were only treating me for half my problem. That’s why I would stop taking my medications. Anti-depressants alone are not how you treat someone with bipolar. It’s a common mistake actually. Unless a patient walks in the door wildly manic, diagnosing bipolar requires multiple visits over a period of time. A luxury hospitals do not have.

I wish I could say my story wrapped itself up all neatly in a bow like a TV sitcom, but it’s not that easy. I still struggle on many days, but I’m far better off than I was all those many years. I am much happier and I have some balance in my life. Previously I couldn’t see past tomorrow because I wanted to die. Today I have dreams and goals that I want to achieve, not just because I think I’ll live past tomorrow, but because I want to.

Brad was raised in North Carolina and currently lives with his husband, Maurice, in Los Angeles, California. He calls himself a blogaholic because of his obsession writing his blog and his need to read as many blogs as he can. He is 50 years old and has returned to college to get a BA in Religious Studies. His long range goal is to get a Masters of Divinity degree to become a chaplain working in a hospital, hospice care or a university.

Blog: www.depressionandbipolardisorder.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/DepressBPBear

Facebook: www.facebook.com/depressionandbipolardisorder

My entire life I have been living with mental illness.

For most of my life I wasn’t aware. I just thought what I was feeling was “normal” day to day life for everyone. I had a great home life. My parents divorced when I was quite young, however, both met new partners. I had two families and I should have been on top of the world. My entire childhood and adolescence, I remember being sad. I always had a hard time getting through the day without constantly focusing on negative thoughts, feeling like I didn’t belong anywhere, and feeling like no one liked me.
I don’t recall how old I was when I figured out I was “different” from my peers, but eventually I did.

Eventually I figured out that most of them didn’t feel like they were inadequate, or at least not to the degree I felt it. They didn’t feel like they were the fattest and ugliest. They didn’t suffer from extreme self-loathing, no matter what accomplishments they made.

Not to say that people who don’t suffer from mental illness don’t occasionally have moments where they feel this way. I know a lot of people sometimes feel like they aren’t good enough.

But I was extreme. I stopped interacting. I stopped eating. I have never officially been diagnosed with an eating disorder, because my BMI didn’t drop to “dangerous” levels, but I went from 120lbs to 97lbs in less than 3 months. In high school I constantly suffered from suicidal thoughts. I would sit in class and literally day dream the most horrific things while still awake. I would imagine what it would be like to bleed out all over the classroom floor. Of course I imagined no one would care. They might get upset about the blood touching their shoes, but surely no one would care that my life force had been extinguished. When I graduated from high school, so did my mental illness. I went from being antisocial to being antisocial, restricting my food intake, as well as crying uncontrollably whenever I encountered a situation where I wasn’t in control.

I knew this wasn’t right. I was 20, dating a musician who moved to LA (away from our hometown of Halifax, NS) when I reached my lowest point. I was self-medicating with alcohol, counting the calories in the alcohol and not consuming anything more. I would spend days in bed, watching DVD’s of TV shows, or reading 1-2 books per day, obsessively. My boyfriend at the time would call me and I wouldn’t be able to talk. I would spend the entire time crying. He eventually threatened to break up with me unless I agreed to talk to my mother, and my doctor. I was terrified. I didn’t want to be known as “that crazy girl on medication.” I didn’t want to admit to myself there was something wrong. I was ashamed.

I am extremely lucky that I had a few very amazing people in my life at that time.
Finally, I told my mother how I was feeling. I broke down completely, and she hugged me and told me it wasn’t my fault. Almost my entire family suffers from some form of mental illness. My mother explained to me that it wasn’t ME that was the problem; it was the chemicals in my brain. I needed to find a way to balance them out.

I went to my family physician with my mother, who had been diagnosed with severe anxiety for a few years at this point. He prescribed me an antidepressant. At first, I was extremely foggy. I felt like I was floating through the day in a haze. Then, after about three weeks, I felt myself level out. I wasn’t crying without reason. I could make it through the day without feeling like I wanted to die.

It has been 6 years since I’ve started taking antidepressants. My life isn’t perfect. I have days where I feel bad, but that’s life. The main thing is it’s controllable. I eat healthy; I don’t obsess over my weight.

I am a stigma fighter. I want every person in the world, who feels even remotely like I did, to know it is okay to get help. Having a mental illness is not your fault. Do not be ashamed of who you are, because you are the way you were meant to be. Sometimes we just need a little help getting to where we need to be, and there is absolutely no shame in that.

I will never let anyone make me feel like I am not good enough just because I have been diagnosed with depression and neither should anyone else. Take control of your life and choose to be in control. Confide in people you love and trust. I am incredibly grateful for the people in my life who helped me overcome my fear of the stigma placed on mental illness

I am 26 and I spend most of my time working, or talking to my Chihuahua, Zia. I enjoy reading (in healthy amounts) and going to the gym. I am the eldest child of a very blended family. I have two perfect nephews who I spend every second I can with.

My Instagram is @kayydre

I’m the “artsy” one in my family; the black sheep. Translated, that means I’m the moody one. Or at least I always thought that was the reason for my dark moods growing up.

To some extent that’s true. That sensitivity, thing - whatever it is, that makes us turn inside ourselves and feel things more deeply than most people, to experience emotions from a more raw perspective. That’s the very thing that motivates so many creative people to write, perform, seek out love and approval, or make music.

The thing is, I can’t remember a time when I didn’t feel that way. Of course there were moments of sheer joy and happiness, but when the darkness set in, it took up residency - valuable real estate in my head - and it didn’t pay rent. Over and over again, I was the one who paid the price. It manifested itself in the form of anger, impatience, and deep sadness. The pattern repeated itself so many times costing me relationships and causing a whole lot of drama.

I sought treatment, but psychiatrists just shrugged and told me what I was going through was nothing the average person doesn’t experience. But I knew deep down that feeling so badly for such extended periods of time just wasn’t okay.

Finally after some thirty years of life, emotional struggles, bouts of rage, a near divorce, the birth of my first child, and the kind of anger and impatience that doesn’t lend itself to healthy parenting, I was diagnosed with Dysthymia - a low grade chronic form of depression. I also learned I had been suffering from anxiety and a mild case of OCD. At last everything made sense. I had my answer.

Dysthymia is tricky because it’s tough to diagnose and so many people go through their entire childhoods without realizing they have it. They simply think, like I did, that they’re moody. But what is “moody”? Nobody wants to walk through life brooding; not really. Everyone wants to be happy.

Or at least I thought.

To be honest, the transition from being the brooding artist who clung to my emotions and used them to feed my art, to a healthy functioning happy person after a lifetime of seeing that as the norm, was a little daunting. It was as if even though so much of my life had also been about using humor as a coping mechanism, now I wasn’t sure who or what I’d be without this “thing” to define me. Once I got on the right meds and started to feel more balanced; the anxiety having washed away, the dark periods only resurfacing now and then, it took some adjustment to settle into the “new” me.

One of the first things I wanted to do was to tell the people around me — particularly my extended family - my husband’s and mine. I wanted them to understand that there was a reason why we’d fallen out at times over the years, why I had behaved the way I did at times. It was important to me to explain that there was an actual chemical imbalance at play, and not immaturity or an unseemly disposition. And I felt relatively confident that as family, they would be just as relieved as I was and rally around me in a show of support.

But that couldn’t have been farther from the truth. Despite the support of my husband, which was, of course, the most important thing anyway, neither of our families understood. Instead of seeing my diagnosis as a positive step toward living a happier and more emotionally balanced life, they saw it as a reason why I had been “crazy”…after all these years. No matter who sang it, Patsy Cline, Paul Simon, crazy was crazy was crazy to them. And they distanced themselves, or at best, treated me differently and with kid gloves. My mother took to saying things to me on the phone like “You sound good today…”, aka: less crazy.

You know what’s funny about all this? Not funny “strange”, but funny “haha”? As I got better, as the destructive part of my depression fell away and was replaced by constructive creativity, I started to write. And as I got to know more writers, I found out that many of them were going through the same things I was. And what drew me toward writing is what also led them to it. And here’s the thing: we’re all regular people. We have mental illness, but it’s just like meeting a group of people at a book club who all have diabetes. You wouldn’t stigmatize that group for suffering from a chemical chronic condition. And neither should anyone look at people with mental illness that way.

Because what we are living with fuels us as people, both good and bad, but it’s part of what makes us who we are, and we keep it in check with medication and with talk therapy, with the love and support we find from understanding family members and close friends. And if you look around, you’ll find that so many people you never thought could be living with depression, are not only living with it, but thriving with it. People you admire and respect. Historic figures from Abraham Lincoln, Franz Kafka and Winston Churchill, to artists: Georgia O’Keefe, Vincent Van Gogh, writers: Charles Schultz, T.S. Eliot, Charles Dickens, musicians: Sheryl Crow, Leonard Cohen, and actors: Zach Braff, Angelina Jolie, Gwyneth Paltrow.

My point is this: depression is not a conscious decision people come to despite “having it all”. Or a behavior moody people adopt to start emo movements. It’s not an affliction inhabited only by crazy, shiftless people.

Depression is a real chemical imbalance in the brain. It’s a condition shared by a large number of the population. It’s treatable. The people living with depression are some of your favorite people. They are your friends and loved ones, and they need and deserve compassion and understanding.

You know what’s crazy? Stigmas.

Linda Roy is a humorist/writer/musician living in New Jersey with her husband and two boys. Her blog elleroy was here is a mix of humor and music. She’s a Managing Partner and Editor-In-Chief at Politics & Pop culture website Lefty Pop, writes and records a musical humor column at Funny Not Slutty, and has also contributed to Aiming Low, Sprocket Ink, In the Powder Room, Mamapedia, Bonbon Break, The Weeklings, and Earth Hertz Records and was named a BlogHer Voices Of the Year 2014 for humor. She fronts the Indie/Americana band Jehova Waitresses. Connect with her on Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest, Google+ and Bloglovin’.

I am not ashamed of my illness.

I have bipolar disorder and you have a bad case of acne.

Who cares right?

Unfortunately, for some people, someone who has a mental illness is more than just that.

To them, we are the myriad of distorted perceptions that are wrongly associated with our illnesses; crazy, psycho, deranged. These derogatory labels allows for society to strip us of our individuality. We are no longer Jane’s and John’s.

We are bipolars and schizophrenics. Lunatics. Nuts. Insane.

It is because of this that I have an overwhelming fear of what will happen if my new friends find out that I have bipolar disorder; the moms of my son’s classmates. Like I said, I am not ashamed of my illness but I worry that my diagnosis would impact the new relationships that my son has made in a very negative way.

I knew that I loved her when she said “What the f*ck?” under her breath as she saw her daughter launch her backpack into a mud puddle. She heard me giggle and she quickly turned around to apologize. “No worries,” I said and then introduced myself.

Every day we met each other at the same spot along the fence at pick up time. Our conversations seemed to quickly escalate from the “safe” talks about the weather to leaky boobs during pregnancy. We just clicked and so did our kids.

They became husband and wife before the second month of school was over.

The more kids that my son grew bonds with, the more moms I met. Soon enough, we were all arranging play dates over the Christmas holidays because sweet baby Jesus, we needed time to ourselves and I was tired of getting poked in the ass by a spatula as I pulled cookie sheets out from the oven. Then these playdates turned into “Here Dad. The kid is all yours. Oh and I seemed to have misplaced my cell phone so you can’t call me” lunches at undisclosed locations that were as far away from our homes as possible.

We didn’t want to be found.

We laughed over platefuls of hot meals that we didn’t have to share and discussed important things like bikini waxing. Throughout it all, these moms had no idea that I was battling one of my worst depressive episodes of my bipolar disorder.

I hid it very well.

For 2 years, I’ve kept it a secret just like I had kept it a secret from my family and friends for such a long time. When I told my family, I knew that the only person that would be hurt by rejection would have been me. Now if these friends found out, the only person I worry about being hurt is my son.

Now be honest with yourself, would you let your child play with another child whose mom is bipolar?

As a mom, I need to protect him. I don’t want him to be alienated because I have bipolar disorder. I don’t want parents telling their child that they cannot play with him. I don’t want him to miss out on birthday parties or sleepovers or trips to the movie theater I don’t want him to hear statements like “You’re mom is a psycho!” being shouted at him in the school yard.

As I’ve said above, some people only see me as my diagnosis. They do not know that I am an expert builder of forts, that I am the goofy voices when stories are read, that I am the date to the park, that I am the best at whipping up a delicious “just jelly” sandwich, that I wake up extra early in the morning just so that my son can watch a movie before school, that I am the best at hide and go seek, and so on.

And as a mom with bipolar disorder, I am sure that judge my parenting.

Can she be trusted? That poor child.

What they don’t know is that my son is smart at math and he is starting to read, that he has a lot of friends and is always making new ones where ever he goes, that he behaves in class albeit that one time when he played “steam roller” on the reading carpet, that he laughs loudly and a lot, that he may get frustrated but he never gives up, that he has an amazing positive outlook, that he knows that hugs and kisses make things better for anyone who needs it, and so on.

Regardless if I may get depressed, anxious, hypomanic, and paranoid, I always love my son fiercely. That never changes.

These women of whom I have befriended are wonderful, but I am still very cautious. Who knows what they’ll think or do if they find out so I choose to hide my illness and that is incredibly sad.

It is sad that in this day and age, we are still fighting to be seen as individuals.

I hate that some people will always associate me as “bipolar” instead of who I truly am; a good mom who is raising a beautiful child.

Just like theirs.

Kimberly Morand is a mom, wife, nurse, mental health advocate, a Chuck Norris beard fondler, and a 5 year postpartum depression survivor. She writes the personal blog All Work And No Play Makes Mommy Go Something Something, which chronicles her personal battle with bipolar disorder, family life, and her fear of spiders. You can also find her writing in the book The Good Mother Myth: Redefining Motherhood To Fit Reality and in Anchor Magazine: For Depression And Anxiety

There is still a lot of mystery about my own life that it seems a bit odd to be writing about it, which is sad, I should know everything about my own life. It is mine after all. What I do know is that when I was very young, my biological dad left. The only explanation that I was ever given was that it was not safe for me to be a part of his family. So, I wasn’t. My family history is a massive web and is too much to go into in this post, so I won’t. To keep it short and simple; my family is fucked up. My Mom remarried when I was 3 years old. She had 2 more kids with him and is still married to him, 25 years later, despite the negative impact he has had on my life.

I can’t say exactly how old I was the first time. All I can remember is that it was at a time when one of my uncles moved into the spare room at our house. I would say I was, maybe, 9-10 years old. I had slept on the couch that night and was woken by a hand under my shirt. I was terrified, frozen in place. I wanted to scream, I wanted to punch him square in the face, and when his hand went south, I wanted to kill him. Instead, I lay there. Pretending to be asleep while he stole my innocence. I wish that I could say that it was an isolated incident. It continued this way until I graduated high school and moved out of my parent’s house. That is almost a decade of planning the most strategic way to wrap my blankets around me so his hands couldn’t get under them. They did though, they always did. Multiple nights a week he would come into my room, always coming to my bed, he never targeted my sisters.

It wasn’t until my daughter was born that I really started to worry. I confronted my mom about what he had done to me all those years. She refused to believe me. She asked him about it and he denied it and even tried to place the blame on my uncle that had moved in around the time it started. My family lives blind to his dark side, and then seems baffled by the symptoms I deal with every day.

I am only just figuring out what terms best describe my illness. I have symptoms of many different ailments. My therapist is sure that it is PTSD, though he is eager to run many more tests to figure out exactly what I am dealing with. He also had me take the ADHD evaluation, which came with surprising results. ADHD seemed obvious to me. I had never been tested, diagnosed, or treated for it but I had researched my symptoms enough to know I had it. What I didn’t know was that along with the ADHD test, the therapist could get a very good estimate of my IQ. Intelligence is something that I very much value and have often worried that I was lacking. The test showed that my IQ was at about 120 and my therapist informed me that it was a bit skewed and was more likely to be about 125-130. This blew me out of the water. I am smart! That was the first time I had ever been told that I was above average. That is all that I needed to give me the encouragement to get me through my nursing assistant course (I have been talking about doing this for years).

You don’t have to know what specific affliction you are dealing with to know that you have a mental illness. Hell, you don’t even need to have a mental illness to go see a therapist. Just having a place that you can go and unleash all the creatures caged inside of you can work wonders to improve anyone’s mental state; if not a therapist then at least a close friend. Mental illness is a parasite that feeds off all negative energy running through your mind. If you don’t release that energy somehow the illness will grow. There are many ways to cope with it, but if it is ignored it will take all that is precious to you. It is much like addiction. A recovering addict is still an addict because there is always possibility for a relapse. I will work to control my mental illness all my life. There will always be a possibility for a breakdown.

I am choosing to view my mental health as a mystery. My therapist is Sherlock Holmes and I am Watson, and together we will consult the list of suspects and narrow it down to the guilty culprit. In the mean time, I have been working hard to alter my behaviors and am taking an anti-anxiety medication that seems to be helping. I still have rough days, just not as many.

Kristina is 20 something mother of three who used write a blog called Mental Mom but got distracted by life. You can send her pictures of giraffes to kristina.r.smith@gmail.com

Truths and Stigmas

Today I’m straying from my normal happy, silly self I present on Evil Joy Speaks. I’m honored to be writing a post as part of Stigma Fighters. I know many of you know my story, some or all of it. Many may not. If this message can help just one person, it’s worth my sharing such an intimate part of me.

I worry constantly. It can be debilitating at times. It causes me to be physically ill other times. And many times it takes the joy from my life.

I don’t want to be this way. I take medication. I see a therapist WEEKLY.

I work hard.

I frequently avoid questions about where I am on Tuesdays. “I have an appointment.” With my therapist. Every Tuesday. For the last two years.

Why do I feel the need to be vague, even to those closest to me?

Stigma.

There is stigma with needing mental health care.

WHY?!?! I’m diabetic. I take medication to manage my diabetes. Why should I not manage my mental health in the same open way?

Because I WORRY about the judgement. I worry people will think I’m a terrible person. Not a good mom. Not a good wife. Not a good friend.

Not a good person.

The reason I have been seeing a therapist so regularly the last two years is I was diagnosed with PTSD or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder in 2012. In November of 2011 my husband didn’t feel well and within 24 hours was in a battle for his life. He was on life support fighting kidney, heart, and lung failure. He was on 24 hour dialysis. His body was infected with a septic staph infection that forced the doctors to induce a coma. He fought for 10 long days, and won.

When you’ve been married 16 years and together for 21…and you’re only 36 years old….your partner is your life. Dealing with illness like this is never expected but certainly not in a young, healthy 37 year old. A man who has been the center of my world since I was 15. The father of our four young children. We grew up together. We met in high school by chance, at a summer camp and maintained a long distance relationship until we got engaged when I was 18. We were married when I was 20 and he was 22. My life is him, I don’t know my life without him and I never want to.

I was afraid I would lose him. That our kids would loose their father. I was afraid for his life. I was terrified.

And now…

He is fully recovered. COMPLETELY recovered with no after effects. We ran a marathon last June. The most incredible 26.2 miles of my life…because we ran it together.

Once his crisis was past, mine had just begun.

As he got better and was back to life I fell apart. Completely and totally fell apart. When in crisis mode, life works. I work well in a crisis. I’m calm and collected (for the most part) and I do what has to be done. Or am able to let go and have other do what has to be done. I tried to be strong for my kids. I tried to be there for them. I failed in so many ways I can’t even count them and for that I have immeasurable guilt. But I tried. And I think we all came through to the other side okay. We made it through the tough stuff.

And then the crisis was past. BAM.

My life stopped.

I couldn’t function. Ambulances caused me to have to pull my car over because I was crying so hard I couldn’t breathe. Sirens took my breathe away.
My husband traveling for work left me in a panic; what if he became ill? Who would know? The thoughts became paralyzing.

It got to the point where even watching a TV show would set off the panic in my body. I began recognizing things that I shouldn’t know about, but did. The purpose for a blue tube….they don’t use them for short term comas, it saddens me that I know that.
I would change the channel, leave the room, do anything to not notice or watch what was unfolding on the TV - it was too painful.

Two and a half years later and I still leave the room if something comes on TV that triggers the memory. The thoughts still linger, just waiting to be ignited. I am getting better though, with help from my therapist and medication, I am moving forward. I can drive past an ambulance and although it may give me pause I can keep going. I no longer fear him traveling for work I have learned to embrace the quietness and time with the kids.

Every day I work on it, and every day is better than the other. There are set backs but in the end I am moving forward.

If you need help, seek help. Work to break the silence and get rid of the stigma.

Joy aka Evil Joy is a mom and wife. She lovely refers to her children as spawn and her husband as Dr. Evil. Often humorous, occasionally serious, Joy blogs about life as she sees it. And she often views life while blogging, running, snowboarding, or driving her spawn around. Come to the evil side…The Evil Joy side of life.

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