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Stigma from the Source by Dyane Leshin-Harwood

“Stigma = a mark of disgrace or infamy; a stain or reproach,
as on one’s reputation.”

I was diagnosed with postpartum bipolar disorder in 2007, seven weeks
after the birth of my daughter Rilla. I was thirty-seven when I admitted
myself into our local hospital’s locked-down mental health unit. While
there, a psychiatrist met with me and within two minutes he informed me
that I had bipolar disorder.

Everything changed.

I called my father on the unit’s pay phone. We were very close, and I
loved him with all my heart. My Dad also had bipolar disorder, and while
growing up I never dreamed that he and I would share the same mental
illness. He cried when I told him the news. I was manic, and while I was
frightened to be in such a sterile, intimidating unit, I took Dad’s sorrow
in stride. I’d fall apart in agony later on.

My father only lived a few years after my first hospitalization. During
that time he never judged me for having bipolar disorder. If he had made
a disparaging remark, he would have been a hypocrite, but parents with
bipolar have been known to condemn their children for having the same
mental illness as they do.

I’ve had a different relationship with my mother. I love her, but we’ve
had a turbulent dynamic for years. She frequently told me that I was an
“oppositional teen” and she was right; I seldom agreed with her. We did
(and do) share much in common aside from loving one another, but when I
was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, a rift formed between us.

I regret that I never had much compassion for what it was like for my Mom
to live with a husband with bipolar disorder. Mom repeatedly rescued Dad
from dire situations caused by his bipolar, including saving his job.
Then again, the world of bipolar disorder was murky to me, and no one in
my family sat me down to explain it clearly.

Mom cared for Dad when his health began to fail. She advocated for him
with his incompetent doctors, and she kept watch over Dad until his dying
day. It had always been crystal-clear to me how much she loved him
despite his severe mental illness.

My Mom, who’s nearing eighty, comes from a generation that I call the
“stigma generation”. Although she’s a freethinker in many respects, I
believe she harbors stigma toward those with bipolar disorder in spite of
her high intellect.
That includes me…especially me.

I don’t completely blame her for being a stigmatizer, but I can’t help but
feel incredibly hurt by her disparaging remarks. The mother-daughter
relationship is often one of the most deep-rooted bonds that exist. That
fact in itself explains why it’s painful for me when she puts me down for
having bipolar. She lives far away from me, so her berating usually
happens over the phone. When she tells me that I’m “being manic” in a
belittling tone when I’m simply disagreeing with her about something, I
wind up slamming down the phone on her in anger. Nothing triggers me like
my Mom does when she calls me “bipolar” in a demeaning way.

When I told her I was working on my book about postpartum bipolar
disorder, she said that I was “obsessive” in choosing that as my topic.
(Well, maybe I am a little obsessive, but I prefer the term “focused.”)
She said she envisioned me writing novels.

I laughed! Barbara Cartland I’m not! I love non-fiction, and I’ve been
writing in that genre for many years. All I wanted was her approval. I
wanted her to say, “Dyane, I’m proud of you. That’s a worthy topic!”, or
something along those lines.
I couldn’t hold back. I told her that encouragement was what I wanted,
not put-downs. She backtracked, and conceded that yes, my topic was good
after all. But I knew it was really lip service. I was aware that she
didn’t want to tell her high-society friends that I was writing a
bipolar-themed book.

“Is this a memoir?” she inquired.

“Uh, yes.” I replied. (It’s half-memoir, half-other stuff, but I didn’t
want to get into details!)
“Am I going to be in it?” she asked. I knew I couldn’t lie to her about
her question. I was worried that if I told her I was going to mention
her, she’d freak out, even if she was portrayed in the best light.

“Well yes, just a little. It’s mainly about me and Dad.” I back-pedaled.
To my surprise and relief, my explanation soothed her for the time being.

“Well, you’re going to write about what you want, aren’t you?” she
retorted a tad haughtily.

Uh-oh, I thought, this could go south real quick.

“Yes, but it’s a good thing.” I replied reassuringly.

Mom’s storm clouds were averted for the time being, and I could take a
deep breath. (When my Mom had a tempter tantrum, it made my two little
girls’ explosions seem like gentle burbles in a stream.)

I can condemn my Mom all I want, but I can’t imagine what it must be like
to have a child with bipolar disorder and because of that, I want to step
up my empathy. It’s uncertain whether or not either one of my girls has
inherited the genetics for bipolar. I’ve read various reports that
children could have between a 15-30% chance of inheriting bipolar disorder
if one parent has bipolar.

I am now involved with actively fighting stigma, including being the
editor at the new website Stigmama.com and working with the International
Bipolar Foundation. While I’m able to help through those rewarding ways,
I must accept the hard reality that my Mom probably will never change her
attitude towards bipolar disorder. Stigma is so insidious, and if you’ve
harbored stigma towards mental illness for almost eighty years, it’s
unlikely to disappear.

I try to be a positive person, and the phrase “Never say never” comes to
mind, but unless there’s a cure for bipolar disorder, I’ll most likely
always be seen as damaged goods in her eyes.

Dyane Leshin-Harwood is a freelance writer, mother and stigma fighter!
Dyane was diagnosed with type I postpartum bipolar disorder at age
thirty-seven six weeks after the birth of her daughter. Dyane is an
editor at the new website Stigmama.com. Stigmama.com is a cutting-edge
forum that focuses on women, mental health and stigma founded by the
acclaimed perinatal/postpartum expert Dr. Walker Karraa. Aside from
raising her two daughters with her husband, Dyane is a mental health
advocate. She founded the Santa Cruz, California chapter of the
Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance (DBSA) and facilitated free
support groups for mothers with mood disorders. Dyane is a Consumer
Advisory Council member for the International Bipolar Foundation and she
blogs for them at www.ibpf.org. Dyane is working on her first book “Birth
of a New Brain – Healing from Postpartum Bipolar Disorder”.

Blog: http://www.proudlybipolar.wordpress.com

Twitter: @birthofnewbrain

I’ve been living with depression on and off since I was 13 years old. It’s a black hole that I haven’t been able to climb out of on my own when it reaches the clinical level. Everyone gets depressed sometimes, and a lot of people can get through it to the other side on their own with the help of family and friends and time. But when a person experiences CLINICAL depression that’s a different animal altogether. That’s what I think is hard for some people to understand. There is NO “snapping out of” clinical depression. That’s when talk therapy and medication may be needed - and ARE needed for me.

When I’m clinically depressed nothing gives me joy. I cry A LOT. It’s hard to do normal everyday things like the dishes, or laundry, or even read to my kids. My pattern of depression before children was a tiredness so profound it was hard to get out of bed. Since I had kids my depression manifests itself in the opposite way - insomnia. I’m trying SO hard to keep going to take care of my family that my body can’t relax. I experience anxiety so bad, afraid that I’ll collapse under the weight of my depression, that I physically shake. So with this current bout of depression I’m also being treated with added anti-anxiety medication as needed.

I’ve been hospitalized twice - once for a serious attempt on my own life when I was in my early 20′s. It’s truly a tragedy when you think the world would be better off without you, or when you’re convinced that you will NEVER be able to function in the world and NEVER be able to get rid of the pain you feel. Emotional pain becomes physical pain - only no one can “see” your wounds, and that makes it even harder. That’s why I even went through a period of cutting, and burning myself - so I could have a physical manifestation of my emotional pain. It’s really hard to reach out when you’re in the black hole of depression because gravity sucks you farther and farther into yourself. You think you don’t deserve help, you’re convinced no one will understand, and you believe you’re some kind of freak of nature that the world needs to be freed from.

There have been times in my life when I’ve been therapy and medication free. Before this current bout I hadn’t been in therapy or on medication for almost FOURTEEN years. But after marrying my husband, having 3 kids (one with a severe allergy and asthma, one with autism and one a surprise), and the death of three of four of our parents, depression came crashing down again. I tried my best to fight it off, but in the end, both my husband and I knew it was time for me to get back to therapy and medication. Financially it’s been a HUGE burden, and one that I feel some guilt over once in a while. Even though we have insurance, mental health coverage just sucks all the way around. But I tell myself the financial sacrifice is worth it, because I absolutely HAVE to be around physically AND emotionally for my children.

In my professional life I’m also a Christian pastor. There is a lot of stigma in some church circles around mental illness, especially depression. But contrary to the mindset of some folks, it is entirely and completely possible to be a faithful believer (in whatever faith you practice) AND struggle with mental illness. I don’t share my particular issues with my congregation, because it’s my job to take care of THEM, not the other way around, but I’m always careful to preach what I believe - that faith doesn’t protect us from life’s pain, faith helps us as we confront life’s pain.

I have a good life now. I see my therapist regularly. I take my medication. I smile and laugh and enjoy my family and friends. I look at my kids and I’m glad I’m here for them. I enjoy a healthy emotional and physical relationship with my husband instead of making excuses because I just don’t have it in me. I work and help others.

If I hadn’t just shared all this with you and we met you would never know - because those with mental illness are all around us, living their lives, being productive members of society just like everybody else. We are no different than someone who is being treated for diabetes or high cholesterol.

Depression is an enemy that would love to suck the life out of us. Fighting back against it is a struggle. It’s hard to reach out and get help when we feel like we don’t deserve it and when we’re afraid of what others may think of us. But reach out anyway, because getting help is not a weakness, it is an awesome strength. And it’s worth it.

Bio: Lisa is a late 40-something pastor, mom, wife and new blogger. She blogs about parenthood, autism, faith, depression, and anything else that inspires her at lisaleben.wordpress.com

I Hate the Color Red

“So, when exactly should one begin to feel comfortable at a new job, I always feel nervous?” I asked my boyfriend, now husband, at the age of 18. Hmmm, you should already feel fine, it’s been 6 month,” he said.

This was the first time I knew something was wrong and began to investigate my symptoms. The result: social anxiety and panic disorder. I was naturally quiet, so first attributed my anxiety to shyness and transitioning into adulthood. I had just landed my first real job, as an Administrative Assistant at the former World Trade Center and felt the pressure to perform, and did well, receiving regular praise.

The years passed and I could not shake off the daily anxiety of that initial interaction (and extras that annoyingly tagged along heart racing, sweating, blushing, constantly being on fight or flight mode). Sometimes all was well. Other times Dejavu, it was as if I was meeting my colleagues for the first time all over again.

As an Office Assistant, I had an open cubicle and could hear those approaching, by listening to their footsteps and voices. The wait for them to reach my workspace was like getting on a haunted house rollercoaster ride and being tapped on the shoulder by different monsters one by one, only instead of ghosts and gremlins they were: worry, panic hyperhidrosis, and the worst monster of them all blushing. I hate that monster, it’s the one that screams the loudest and makes me look sooo weak and stupid.

After a few minutes, the ride is over, symptoms subside but depending on the person who I conversed with, they either ignored my blushing and nervousness, left confused, or thought I had a crush on them (women included)! It didn’t happen all of the time, but often enough for my manager to once describe me as being “shy and sheltered.”Now who wants to be remembered like this? I guess being young worked in my favor in that respect.

Then 9/11 occurred and I was shaken like the rest of New York having lived through and survived the attacks. The anxiety was ever more present and this was the first time I reached out for professional help, at the age of 21. I visited a psychiatrist who had basic exposure with social anxiety, only textbook knowledge. I remember her saying “but I don’t understand you’re so resilient.” What a waste of $125 cash per session! After six sessions, I felt like she was gaining more from the experience than I was so no longer visited.

However, I did read through and completed the self-assessments found in the workbook she gave me. how can a title like “Dying of Embarrassment” by B. Markway/ A. Pollard not draw anyone in suffering this condition? That title perfectly described the inner turmoil, social anxiety and panic disorder that was slowly killing me.

I yearned to be young, carefree, liberated from these monsters and it hurt so badly to constantly worry and be embarrassed by the most minimal of interactions with others: worrying over my sweaty hands (I’ve had people literally wipe their hand on themselves after shaking mine) blushing excessively and people misinterpreting my blushing for attraction and feeling like a weirdo. At this point, I had several chats with God and asked that he cure me, because this felt like a disease.

I worked another corporate job at a top firm, surprisingly people saw beyond my interview jitters and hired me lol, if they only knew this was an everyday feeling. The symptoms persisted and the response by others was the same. I even had and executive catch me mid-panic attack and say ‘it’s ok, they’re only people’. He knew I was nervous to meet high ranking leaders visiting the office, but it wasn’t just them, it could be the office intern visiting my reaction would be the same. I was about 27 at this point.

The erythrophobia, fear of turning red that often works against itself, came after several years of having my facial redness pointed out. Did I mention I hate the color red? I’ve lived with social and panic disorder condition for 15 years, almost a half a lifetime.

Now I’m a Mother of 3, coping and fighting not to let them take over my purpose in life and my kids’ childhood. With social anxiety you develop coping mechanisms of avoidance. Yes, I should take them to the playground, and yes it’s ok for them to meet new friends. Daily activities around the children don’t allow me to dwell on my personal worry as much, but it’s still there. I make sure my kids lead a normal childhood with lots of activities, hugs and kisses, because I’ve always wondered where things went wrong with me.

As contradictory as it may sound, I joined a civic association to raise awareness of the neglect in our neighborhood. We’ve met with local leaders and though I’m nervous as heck and blush, I make sure my voice is heard. Maybe they attribute my redness to being passionate to our causes ☺. In any case, working on making small changes and working on being accepting and kind to myself. If you suffer from social anxiety or panic disorder know you are not alone. It’s a daily struggle but be proud of your small accomplishments, push through your symptoms and breathe…breathe deeply, you are worthy!

I’m a mother of 3, residing in Brooklyn, NY, looking to share story so others with same condition know they are not alone. E-mail: safety4ourkids@yahoo.com

Eleven days before I turned 20, I was diagnosed with depression and bipolar II disorder. About four months later, I was also diagnosed with anxiety and mild panic.

Those aren’t exactly easy diagnoses to handle. It’s not like being told you’ve got strep and this medication will make it better. Finding the right medication is a mess of trial and error. And for me that trial and error process wound up just not working, so I don’t take any medications for these things. I have something I can take for my panic attacks, but that’s it. Being unmedicated for these things isn’t easy, but I would rather deal with them this way than constantly be switching from one drug to another and paying for multiple doctor visits just so I can find the right cocktail of medicines that work.

I can look back at the years before I was diagnosed and see the symptoms of these illnesses and wish that I had spoken up about it sooner. At one point, I dealt with the emotional pain of the depression by physically harming myself – I would cut. That went on for years. However, I haven’t done it in sixteen and a half months now. And I’m incredibly proud of myself for that.
There are absolutely still days where I sit and wonder if doing it again would make me feel any better than I do in that moment, but I think about how far I’ve come and I won’t let myself slip back into that.

The combination of mental illnesses that I have can present itself in odd ways sometimes. I might be perfectly fine for days on end, but then suddenly I’ve got energy but I’m depressed and have absolutely no motivation to do anything. And people don’t understand when I tell them that. How can I have energy but no motivation? Ask the chemical imbalance and faulty wiring in my brain how that works, because I sure don’t have the answer for you.

The depression and anxiety are the ones that I have to deal with most often, but even among just those two it’s the depression moreso than the anxiety. Sometimes I can force myself to go through with my normal tasks, but other times I just can’t. There’s nothing I want to do. I just lay in my bed binge watching shows on Netflix. Sometimes I’ll pull out a book and do some reading. Maybe I’ll sit up and do some writing on my laptop or with pen and paper. There’s usually not much I can even think about doing when my depression decides to flare up.

When my anxiety becomes an issue, I worry about everything. How I look. What I say. How I act. What I’m doing. What I need to do. What I’ve already done. If I put something away in my room. Anything and everything I could possibly worry about comes to the forefront of my mind. It prevents me from focusing on what I need to. It’s especially difficult when I’m at school. There’s nothing I can do to make it stop.

I’m working on managing and coping with things better. If I need help, I’ll reach out to trusted friends and tell them what’s going on. I know it’s not an easy road ahead of me, but I know I’ve got the strength to make it since I’ve already made it this far.

Another part of my way of dealing with the original diagnoses was a tattoo I got in December 2012. It was my very first tattoo, and still currently the only one I have.

It wasn’t easy for me to deal with the pain of the tattoo needle (I don’t have a high pain tolerance level), but I knew that if I kept pushing through it would eventually be over. And that’s the same way that I see my mental illnesses. While I know they’ll never be cured, I’ll always have them; they won’t always be as bad as they seem sometimes.

Katy is a college student studying American Sign Language Interpreting. She’s addicted to coffee and is always dreaming of more tattoos she wants to get. She’s the middle sibling of three. Blogging has becoming a form of self-therapy for her over the years. You can find her online:

Blog: http://growingupinmyfaith.wordpress.com

Twitter: http://twitter.com/coffeetattoos

Instagram: http://instagram.com/coffeetattoos

Before I went public about the fact that I live with Bipolar Disorder type 1 last year, not many people in my life knew that I had been diagnosed with a mental illness at the age of 27. It wasn’t something that came up in casual conversation. But ever since opening up about how this mental health condition turned my world upside down, I’ve heard these eight words a lot:

“I never expected it would happen to you.”

They must think this will make me feel better. In reality, my heart sinks. The thing is, they need to understand that mental illness can happen to anyone. Sure, certain people may be predisposed to a mental health disorder if it runs in their family, but the fact is, the majority of the time it comes out of nowhere and without much warning.

I was taking names and cashing checks at my job with a creative staffing agency. The top grossing recruiter in the office, I was always up for the challenge of a tough-to-fill position. I worked my tail off, and the money followed. Life was really good. My husband and I had been married for just over two years when my first manic episode rendered me incoherent, rambling on and on about the truths of the world and how people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. He made the call to 911 for help in transporting me to our local hospital. The advice nurse he had called first had instructed him to do so to avoid the risk of me pulling at the wheel if he were to try to drive me himself.

The doctors put me through a battery of tests, but nothing was determined after that initial 3-day stint in the psych ward. I had an appointment with a psychiatrist when I got out, my first ever meeting with a doctor of the mind, and he attributed the entire episode to lack of sleep. I would continue to see a therapist to manage the stress I was under at work, but otherwise, I was off psychiatric meds and it was almost as if it hadn’t happened.

Returning to work two weeks after my hospitalization was such a relief. I threw myself back into job orders and interviews and phone calls. But the return to reality didn’t last long. Only ten days later I landed in the hospital again, suffering from another manic episode, this one even worse than the first.

I was able to get well because I have a tremendous support system. In the beginning it consisted of my husband, my parents, my brother and his wife, my in-laws, and my sister-in-law. All of them were in my corner, advocating for me, encouraging me to keep my head above water during the year it took to find a treatment plan that worked. Over time it grew to include my close friends and colleagues when I returned to work. But only those I trusted intensely, due to what I perceived as the sensitive nature of the subject.

Eventually, after having gone through two more episodes of severe mania and hospitalizations during my postpartum period after my first child was born, and again in early pregnancy with my second child, I began writing a blog bipolarmomlife.com about my experiences. Only I kept my true identity hidden for fear of being treated differently if people I knew found out I was a mom of two who had bipolar disorder. But a little over a year ago, I put my real name on my writing after landing my first paid blogging job, so that readers who found my work could see that I am a regular person who just happens to live with a mental illness. Sure, I was nervous to publish that first post without the protection of my pen name. But I knew in my heart I was ready, and I couldn’t wait to field the reactions.

The outpouring of support was overwhelmingly positive. I was thanked over and over again for sharing my story so honestly and bravely. People I didn’t know told me that they were inspired to share their experiences after seeing me take off my mask. My only regret was not having come out earlier.

But I am a firm believer in timing, and things began to fall into place after the whole reveal took place on my little corner of the internet. Last summer I launched a project called This Is My Brave. It’s a theater show centered around individuals from the community standing up on stage to share their personal stories of living with mental illness through essays, songs, and poetry. The stars aligned when I met my Associate Producer, Anne Marie Ames, and together we promoted a Kickstarter campaign which helped us raise over $10,000 in 31 days. Friends and family, co-workers and neighbors, and people who had heard of the project via the power of social media, joined together in droves and contributed to our cause because they believed in what we wanted to do.

And we’re doing it, man, are we doing it. This Sunday, May 18th, This Is My Brave takes the stage in Arlington, Virginia. Our cast is made up of fifteen courageous members of our community who want to inspire change in the way society views people living with mental illness. We’ll be sharing glimpses into our lives which will have you laughing, crying, and smiling in appreciation for the way we were able to open your eyes in a new way.

Life with mental illness is not easy. But it’s our hope that by sharing our stories, people will begin to see that it is possible to embrace the pain and work through the struggle to reach recovery. We have, and we want others to know that they can, too. With the right support, and proper treatment, recovery is possible. And it’s my hope that when a person battling a mental health disorder reaches that right moment when they are ready to open up and talk about their illness, they will, because they’ll remember the impact story sharing had on them. Someday, that person will decide to be brave to inspire change along with us. And we’ll be cheering them on.

Bio: Jennifer Killi Marshall is a former professional recruiter turned writer/mental health advocate via her blog, Bipolar Mom Life. She’s currently producing a live performance theater show on mental health awareness and appreciation which is debuting in Arlington, VA on May 18th, 2014 called This Is My Brave. Tickets and This Is My Brave merchandise {tee-shirts and BRAVE bracelets} are on sale via the show website. Proceeds from tickets and the sale of merchandise will go towards establishing her newly formed 501(c)3 not-for-profit organization with the same name enabling Jenn and her team to continue their mission of ending the stigma surrounding mental illness through community programs which encourage the sharing of personal stories.

Well, where on Earth do I even begin? If I was to look back on my life, it seems like one of those worst-case scenarios you’d hear about in a psychology class. While I might be 27 years old, it feels like I’ve already lived an entire life. Life has been chaos from day 1 but somehow, I’m still here, still kicking. And of course, my mind has to push out there, “Ha. Barely.”

I grew up without my father. I knew nothing about him. Instead, my mother lived with my Grandparents and I definitely grew up Grandpa’s Little Girl, even if he was tough as a rock on us all. He really was my hero.

While my Grandpa was strength for me until we lost him in 2009, our family didn’t talk problems, you didn’t share emotions. You just deal with it. When I couldn’t face the bullies at school, I couldn’t tell anyone. When I was abused by a cousin and later my step-father, nope-don’t you dare talk about it.

At 10, I couldn’t take it anymore. I didn’t know where I belonged, who I could trust. And unfortunately, I didn’t want to be alive to feel the pain anymore. As the doctors started prescribing anti-depressants, this ten year old didn’t understand why she didn’t feel better and decided to swallow as many as I could before I got caught and dragged off to the ER.

Until I turned 18, I was bounced around, home, shelter, foster care. I found myself at one point dating a man that literally terrorized and controlled my every thought but yet, I was completely loyal to him. When police were called to investigate him, nope, I wouldn’t say a word. I was scared to death of him and even had been told if he saw me again he’d “snap my neck”, I wasn’t going to give all the details of my experience, I wanted him to love me.

As I sat in a shelter, one of the counselors finally broke through my head with a journal. He told me to write. Cuss. Get it all out on the paper. I didn’t have to show him if I didn’t want to. But I finally could. And I did. For once, I was able to share what really happened and it was finally acknowledged. No more hiding. And I cried and I cried and cried when it donned on me all that had already been thrown at me.

I’ve found myself in a constant struggle with PTSD, Anxiety, and Depression. I truly am my own worst enemy, constantly picking on myself and why I’m not good enough. Again, I find myself hiding, afraid to share what is going on, afraid those that show their care will take off, unable to handle “the baggage” that comes with.

Three years ago this month, I was sexually assaulted. A month later, I had a positive pregnancy test. Within a month of that, the news of twins. It was time to hide again, my own mother not knowing the potential truth of how my beautiful sons were conceived until after they turned a year old. I love these boys with all of my heart, and either way, I wouldn’t change having them.

After finally figuring out that I again, could not hold in what had happened, I sought help and counseling to try and figure out how to get over this. I remember the first appointment, “So do you want to tell me what happened that night?” Ha. Uh you are kidding right? I don’t know you.

Every day is a battle. Not only do I deal with the mental battle I face every day but I also have found myself battling fibromyalgia. There is no “positive thinking” that stops your mind from racing or intrusive thoughts pushing in. I wish it was an option to snap out of it.

For now, I keep pushing through, trying to find my way. And find the way to bring back the voice I once found. No one should have to hide or feel alone. No one deserves to feel ashamed. We all deserve to live knowing we are loved. No more hiding or holding in.

Do not judge what you do not know. Trust me when I say, if you aren’t supportive, don’t be ignorant. The fight we face inside is far enough.

Jenna Goodwin is a mother of four living in Central Iowa. The owner of MommyJenna.com, Jenna enjoys working in social media and sharing her experiences as a mom of twins and living with Fibromyalgia and chronic illness. You can find Jenna writing about the must-haves for the entire family as well as her personal life experiences. Jenna can be found on Twitter @MommyJenna. For inquiries, Jenna@MommyJenna.com.

Anniversaries. There’s good ones and then there are bad ones. Everyone loves happy anniversaries, they look forward to it every year, but what about the bad ones? The ones when you lost someone you love or when a relationship ended, you lost all of your belongings in a fire, etc. Those bad anniversaries no one likes to talk about and those are one of the ways when depression can slip in.

I have problems with anniversaries, I disappear from the planet certain times of the year for days, weeks at a time. I don’t want to be bothered with phone calls from people and sometimes I don’t even want to work. I just want to suffer in silence. I know that it isn’t healthy, but honestly I don’t care.

I focus on the negative times in my life a lot because, there has been more bad, horribly, shitty times than good or great ones. I never spoke about it tho, I just let everything stay bottled up inside of me. I built a dam to protect me from dealing with my issues, but every “anniversary” depression, anxiety, PTSD and panic attacks kicks in.

sigh

I hate the new year. I hate January and February. I hate August. Yes, HATE. Albeit a strong word, but I hate those months. Those months were/are the worst months ever for me. There are other crappy months, but those months I have no choice to hate them as they stick out more than anything. When we celebrate the new year I’m not happy, I think about it being almost “that time”, the anniversary of when something so horrible happened to me that my life has forever been changed and not for the better.

This is when my anxiety creeps in. No wait, my anxiety kicks the door in like ATF, it hits me HARD. When it hits I am paralyzed with fear, I am traumatized, I relive these days over and over again and I wish that they would stop, but it never does. I try and not think about it, but there’s this uneasy feeling in my stomach, this sadness no matter what I’m doing and then it dawns on me what day it is.

February 2nd marked the 8th anniversary of my son’s passing. January 24th is the day I went in the hospital at 8.5 months pregnant with my husband and was told that our son was “dead” and that I had to deliver him. It was dejavu all over again. Why? The reason I hate August. August 5, 2004 was the first time I experienced losing a child. I was told that my child, that I carried for 6.5 months had “no viable heartbeat, your baby is dead.” and they were sorry for my loss.

Ever heard of an outer body experience? They happen. When I was being told this, my husband held my hand and I disappeared. I was watching a movie. I had lost our son and I had to deliver our son. I had to deliver a dead baby. I went through 3 days of excrutiating labor to deliver a child that had died days ago. During that whole time I was still above watching this all go down. Then I was asked afterwards if I wanted an autopsy done, followed by the state of NJ requires that you bury any fetus older than 20 weeks. So here I am, being asked about an autopsy and being handed burial information when back at our house there was a baby room waiting to be completed.

My odds are amazing because 2 years later it happened again. 8 days before my birthday. On my birthday I was planning yet another funeral for another dead child that came from me. You are never supposed to bury your child. Never. Let alone TWICE. I have relived those days for years and here it is almost a decade later and I am terrified of the month of August. 8 years and I hate January and February, I hate my birthday.

They tell you it gets easier as time goes by, but that’s just a crock of shit. To create a life and to never see this life form cry, smile, play with their tiny fingers and for them to open their eyes and see you. Their mother. No, it doesn’t get easier. Anniversaries SUCK.

I have tried every version imagineable to produce a better outcome. I want to know why? Why ME? What did I do in my life to deserve this? Why does God hate me? Feeling like a complete failure never gets easier.To not be able to bring life into this world, the one thing a woman was built for…replenish the earth. To feel like you are the epitome of death. You are the definition of death.

To want to join your children in the afterlife just so you can see them and be with them, be a mother to them. You crave death just so you can be with them. That pain is what I deal with every January, February and August. My feelings of depression I struggle with every single day, but it kicks into overdrive during those times. So, I hide. I take refuge, I sulk, I cry, I drink (used to), damn near anything that could take away the pain.

I know that nothing can change the fact that I lost my sons and buried them in the Garden of Angels section at the Fairlawn cemetary, but I go there and I talk to them. It helps a little, no I’m lying it doesn’t help at all. While I’m talking to my sons I’m surrounded by other parents who have lost their children. That have had to bury their children and I wonder how are they holding up. Therapy helps but it doesn’t erase those words “no longer viable your baby is dead”, it doesn’t stop me from replaying the whole scene in my head. BUT therapy does help me realize that me wanting to join them is not a sensible decision. That I must push through everything that has happened in my life and to LIVE rather than exist.

I have many mental illnesses because of these traumas and others I’ve experienced through this life of mine. These feelings unfortunately, will never end, but I just want to get to a place where I can handle it better than I have been.

Baby steps as my therapist would say.

“Baby steps…”

I have several mental illnesses: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, dysthymic depression, ADHD, PMDD, anxiety, paranoia and slight agoraphobia. I’m a therapy advocate and I go faithfully twice a week and am on medication. That was one of the hardest, yet best steps that I could have ever taken in life. Picking up the phone and saying “I need help.” We all need help, some of us a little more than others. Therapy can save your life, it definitely saved mine.

Vixen is the proud owner and Dean of http://www.vixenvarsity.com a lifestyle blog in a university setting. She covers everything from entertainment to culinary arts and shares her mental illness stories. Her work can also be found on BallerAlert.com. Vixen is a therapy advocate and a stigma fighter, especially for the African American community. She has helped some people towards their own therapy journey and she will continue to do so. Vixen is a comic book geek, Wonder Woman addict and a Jets fan. You can follow Vixen on twitter http://www.twitter.com/MizCaramelVixen and reach out to her via email Dean@VixenVarsity.com