THIS IS A REALLY, REALLY IMPORTANT POST ABOUT MENTAL ILLNESS. PLEASE READ. IF YOU DON’T WANT TO READ, THEN AT LEAST RE-POST SO THAT SOMEBODY ELSE CAN READ IT.
Depression is NOT: feeling sad, or being upset because your mom wouldn’t buy you that thing you really, really wanted.
Depression IS: a disorder characterized by mood symptoms such as persistent low mood, a lack of ability to experience pleasure, low motivation, feelings of worthless and helplessness, suicidal thoughts, and physical symptoms such as fatigue, headaches, digestive problems, appetite decrease, and either insomnia or hypersomnia.
Bipolar disorder is NOT: feeling happy one minute, and then being angry or sad the next. That is called MOODINESS.
Bipolar disorder IS: a psychiatric illness characterized by shifts between days or weeks of severe depression (see symptoms of depression above) and days or weeks of mania or hypomania. Symptoms of hypomania include pressured speech (a tendency to speak in a rapid and frenzied way), grandiosity (such as feeling that they are important or have a “special purpose”), inflated self-esteem, decreased need for sleep (NOT the same as insomnia, an inability to sleep), racing thoughts and flight of ideas (looks to us like being unable to stay on the same topic for very long and making tenuous connections between ideas that seem unrelated), being easily distractable, hypersexuality, psychomotor agitation (ex. not being able to stand still, constantly fidgeting), impulsivity, and an increase in pleasurable activities as a result of this impulsivity (such as wreckless driving, shopping sprees, drug and alcohol abuse, sexual promiscuity, gambling, and donating, giving away, or poorly investing money). Mania includes all of these symptoms, and also includes the additional symptoms of psychosis and auditory or visual hallucinations.
ADD and ADHD are NOT: being hyper and talkative.
ADD and ADHD ARE: a neurological disorder whose symptoms include being easily distracted, difficulty concentrating or focusing on one thing for too long, becoming bored easily and needing constant stimulation, blurting out inappropriate things and acting without regard for consequences, becoming confused easily and seems to not be listening when spoken to, struggling to follow instructions, talking nonstop, and having difficulty with doing things like homework completion, doing tasks quietly or that require quiet, sitting still, or completing tasks.
Obsessive-compulsive disorder is NOT: liking things done in a specific way, being annoyed when things are out of place, or doing things like not stepping on cracks in the sidewalk or liking things to be paired evenly.
Obsessive-compulsive disorder IS: a neurological disorder which causes intrusive thoughts that cause severe anxiety, uneasiness, and fear; repetitive behaviors, such as repeated hand-washing, are aimed at reducing this anxiety. The intrusive thoughts are commonly centered around ideas such as a fear of contamination, sickness/injury/death of self or loved ones, being “unsafe”, questioning their sexual identity, etc. Common compulsions aimed at reducing the anxiety caused by these thoughts include hand-washing, checking lights, locks, ovens, and windows, only eating certain foods (and sometimes only certain numbers of foods), completing certain tasks that will “prevent” bad things from happening (such as rubbing their hands across the door a certain number of times to prevent their mother from dying, or until it “feels right”), or obsessively staying away from dangerous objects like knives to “prevent” themselves from hurting the people they love (even though they would never actually do such a thing).
Anxiety disorders are NOT: worrying about a test at school, being scared that your boyfriend/girlfriend is going to leave you, or getting nervous before an oral presentation.
Anxiety disorders ARE: a category of neurological and psychological disorders characterized by excessive, uncontrollable, and constant worry. Mental symptoms include severe anxiety related to concerns about everyday matters, such as health issues, money, family problems, friendship and relationship problems, sickness, and school or work difficulties that interfere with the person’s daily functioning. Physical symptoms include irritability, agitation, shortness of breath/hyperventilating, feeling of choking, chest pain, feeling dizzy or lightheaded, nausea, headaches, insomnia, hot or cold flashes, heart palpitations, difficulty swallowing, inability to concentrate, trembling, twitching, muscle tension, fainting, fatigue, fear of losing control or going insane, numbness or tingling in the hands and feet, a desire to escape or get away, panic attacks, paranoia, and a sudden feeling that one is going to die. Some people with severe anxiety also experience derealization or depersonalization, which is a perception disorder characterized by symptoms such as feeling that one is outside of their body (as though they are watching their life like a movie), feeling like they or their environment aren’t “real”, having difficulty being aware of the emotions of themselves or others, or a feeling that they’re “living in a dream”. While this symptom is relatively rare, it can happen to anybody who is prone to severe anxiety; it has also been seen it people with depression, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, dissociative identity disorder, OCD, migraine headaches, sleep deprivation, and epilepsy.
Body dysmorphic disorder is NOT: being self-conscious about the way your body looks. It is also not simply being “vain” or “self-centered”, as many people believe. (Note: BDD is often a precursor to anorexia and bulimia. Many of the people who have anorexia and bulimia also suffer from this disorder.)
Body dysmorphic disorder IS: a somatoform disorder which manifests as an excessive concern and preoccupation with a perceived defect in their physical appearance. Body dysmorphia causes sufferers to believe that they are so disgustingly hideous that they are often partially or completely unable to perform basic tasks such as interact with others socially, go to school/work, do the groceries or other errands, or even hang out with friends out of humiliation and fear of ridicule. Often, the sufferer does not understand that they are sick, and believe that fixing the “deformity” will solve all their problems. Many people with BDD eventually do go on to have plastic surgery - however, even after the surgery, they often feel that their “flaw” continues to be hideously disfiguring, leading many sufferers to continue having operations on this same physical aspect over and over and over again.
KNOW THE DIFFERENCE. DO NOT SELF-DIAGNOSE BASED ON YOUR OWN INCOMPLETE KNOWLEDGE AND OPINION OF MENTAL ILLNESS. THAT IS WHAT DOCTORS, PSYCHOLOGISTS, PSYCHIATRISTS, AND OTHER MEDICAL PROFESSIONALS ARE FOR. You are contributing to the widely believed cultural stigmas held about mental illnesses in our society.
Clarice Lispector was born on December 10 (my birthday) and died on December 9 (my birthday, as well – I was born in Germany around 2AM, December 10, and so my birth certificate says December 10. But I’ve lived in America for most of my life and the moment I was born it was still the evening of December 9 here in America, which might explain why I’ve never been able to experience what it’s like to be in one place at one time. And is that a home? Home is whenever I’m with you but you are so far away.)
It’s not a big deal when I was born. I hate that I try to make it a big deal. I hate that I hate that. My god it never stops.
I do like that my astrological sign is Sagittarius, for several reasons: S is my favorite letter. Flip it sideways and you have a wave, and I am like that, always either coming or going, always crashing into some shore and then folding back in on myself again. Isn’t this what we love about the ocean? I bet she’s fucking exhausted. It’s good that we love her. If the ocean was a person she’d be very difficult to live with.
But I am not an ocean and now I hate that I compared myself to that. The existential question Who am I? is really starting to bore me. I’d rather not talk about it anymore. I’d rather not try so hard to exist. Like my therapist says: “You don’t have to try to be a good mother because you already are, in everything you do.”
Is it totally inappropriate to send your therapist flowers? Because I’d really like to. The man at least deserves a bright red poinsettia and a new coffee mug.
I also like that I am a Sagittarius because it’s symbolized by a half-man half-horse wielding a bow, though I’m a woman so I chose this photo from Google images:
And that’s hot. I mean look at that – there is nothing she can’t do. And all that fire – Sagittarius is one of the fire signs, and yes I am always burning. I am both ocean and fire. At the same time. One big impossible contradiction but still I am. I burn through everything and I am always thirsty, my throat always parched. And when I am happy my body literally burns – I burn calories like a madwoman and barely eat or sleep because there’s so much fuel inside me, bursting forth from the core of me, which I imagine resembles the core of the earth, some bright golden sphere of light. In yoga this is the innermost body, this is Bliss: The Divine Body. Anandamaya kosa. I think it’s what people mean when they talk about Jesus, living in God’s light, though I’m not sure if I’ve ever met either, and I don’t say that in a remorseful way. I enjoy mystery. It leaves something to linger on, move your tongue against.
That core is what burns at the core of every poem I write. It is why I write. What I try to capture when I write, even though I never really will – you can’t hold fire in your hands and not lose them, and I like my hands. They’re good for holding and touching.
When Greg and I first started dating I was so happy I burned 10,000 calories. I dropped five pounds in a week, just from feeling. I told him this and meant it as a compliment, but he was very concerned. But of course the fact that he was concerned made me burn even more. It just never stops.
I forgot what I came here to write about. I think I was just going to tell you about the book I started reading this morning, Clarice Lispector's Near to the Wild Heart. I came across some passages that made me sweat (again, the burning):
I was studying math and suddenly felt the tremendous, cold impossibility of the miracle. I look through this window and the only truth, the truth I couldn’t tell that man if I went up to him, the only truth is that I live. Sincerely, I live. Who am I? Well, that’s a bit much. I remember a chromatic study by Bach and my mind strays. It is as cold and pure as ice, yet you can sleep on it. My consciousness strays, but it doesn’t matter, I find the greatest serenity in hallucination. It is curious that I can’t say who I am. That is to say, I know it all too well, but I can’t say it. More than anything, I’m afraid to say it, because the moment I try to speak not only do I fail to express what I feel but what I feel slowly becomes what I say. Or at least what makes me act is not what I feel but what I say. I feel who I am and the impression is lodged in the highest part of my brain, on my lips (especially on my tongue), on the surface of my arms and also running through me, deep inside my body, but where, exactly where, I can’t say…. Sometimes it becomes sharp and wounds me, colliding with me. Very well, thinking now about the blue sky, for example. But above all where does this certainty of being alive come from? No, I am not well. For no one asks themselves these questions and I… But all you have to do is be quiet in order to discern, beneath all the realities, the only irreducible one, that of existence. And beneath all these uncertainties – the chromatic study – I know everything is perfect, because it followed its fated path, regarding itself from scale to scale. Nothing escapes the perfection of things, that’s how it is with everything.
Because there is white space here I feel the need to comment but what is there to say? Clarice Lispector has been dead for years but she knows me better than most people I’ve encountered in my life. Or maybe it only feels that way because she wrote about it. What would I feel about you, friends, if you wrote about yourselves more?
My god I exhaust myself. And I just learned that December 21st is the last day of the Sagittarius sign, which was yesterday, which was also the first day of winter, the darkest day of the year, and how fitting, that it all falls into the realm of Sagittarius. I hate most the time of year I was born and I hate that I hate that. I just love the sun is all. It is so fitting that Greg is from Florida, the sunshine state. Of course! Right now he is there and I am not there. I also love that Evelyn was born at the end of June, on the longest day of the year, the first day of summer, the brightest day of the year. This is also very fitting. I have so much hope for her.
And now it is December 22 and we are no longer in the dark realm of Sagittarius and every day there is an extra minute of light. I cling to this desperately. I realize I might sound depressed but really I’m not. I’ve had waves of sadness but I haven’t been fully depressed for some time, which is remarkable, all these cold dark days. I am happy and tired. I didn’t mean to write a blog post. I have so many things to do and as soon as I’m done writing I’ll feel overwhelmed and rush around the apartment, trying to catch up with myself. I’m already sweating thinking about it. But I was overwhelmed before I began writing. And so I write. Even when I don’t mean to. All I wanted was to take 10 minutes to tell you about Clarice. But some things I cannot control. I am learning that. I am learning to let go. I am learning to stop trying so hard. My red hair is not natural and yet it is the most natural thing about me, one of the only true things about me.
Things that I know: My red hair. Writing. It’s Sunday. I am and I love you.
But I’m tired, in spite of my cheer today, cheer that comes from goodness knows where, like that of an early summer morning. I’m tired, acutely now! Let us cry together, quietly. For having suffered and continued on so sweetly. Tired pain in a simplified tear. But this was a yearning for poetry, that I confess, God. Let us sleep hand in hand. The world rolls and somewhere out there are things I don’t know. Let us sleep on God and mystery, quiet, fragile ship floating on the sea, behold sleep.
The latest from Sarah Certa (@sarahcerta). Poet
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Frederic Chopin - Etude in E-flat Minor, Op. 10/6 - Vladimir Sofronitsky
’The site of this burial is called a landfill. The site of the dead buried in boxes is called a cemetery. In both cases the ground is being filled. A dead body in a box can be lowered into the ground using heavy equipment, but we do not consider it trash. When the dead are not in boxes and there is a man-made mountain of them we use heavy equipment to bury them together, like trash. It is estimated that everywhere we walk we are walking on a piece of trash and the hard, insoluble remains of the dead. Whatever the case, the dead and the garbage are together in the ground where we cannot see them, for we do not relish the sight or smell of them. If we did not go about our burying, we would be in danger of being overcome.’
this song & everything it does to everything inside me
Excerpt from a birthday poem I wrote once:
“December 10th is Emily Dickinson’s birthday
and also mine. I tell people this
as if it means something. As if sharing a birthday
makes us friends, allies
across time, like two leaves grown on the same tree
just over a century apart, or gate posts
on either side of a field that could be a cemetery
if all the things in it seemed more dead, if their echoes
weren’t so loud…”
click here to read the whole poem
xx
Lately I’ve been so lonely that I’ve considered joining the church across the street from my apartment. The sign in their window says they’re having a candle light ceremony on Christmas Eve and the thought of being in a room full of strangers holding candles is an idea I immediately fall in love with. Which might be part of my problem. I am always immediately falling in love. And it’s always with ideas. This is why I love books. They are full of ideas. I love ideas so much that I haven’t read half the books on my living room shelf; I just really love the idea of them being there, of being a person who has a lot of books on her living room shelf. Of being a person who could, if she chose to, spend all weekend in leggings and an oversized sweater reading Kant’s Observations on the Feeling of the Beautiful and Sublime on the bench seat in the bay window, even though I didn’t know that essay was on my shelf – even though I didn’t know that essay existed until a few moments ago. Even though I don’t have a bay window.
It’s not really a problem being in love with the idea of books. Or the idea of eating tangerines in February. Waking up at 5 AM every day to drink a glass of water and slide into an hour-long yoga session, in the living room full of books. Filling an old leather backpack with two sweaters, a box of Cliff bars, a pocket knife, and 56 dollars cash and jumping on an Amtrak that takes you anywhere West. Going anywhere West. Going anywhere. Following love. Making a meatloaf for dinner. Having a family to make meatloaf for.
These aren’t insane things. They’re simple daydreams. They’re boring, and they’re all things that perfectly normal people actually do.
My therapist says I’m normal. Yesterday he told me I was perfect.
But I’m getting tired of words.
I refuse to touch raw meat and will never make a meatloaf, but the comfort that’s attached to the image of doing so is what keeps me knocking up against it. I’m picturing myself wearing a red-and-white checkered apron. My ears are pierced with pearls. There’s a dining room table and on it are candles that are lighting themselves. Sitting at the table are my husband and our children but I can’t see their faces and I don’t know their names.
You think about a word long enough and all the meaning begins to leak out of it. You repeat the same word twenty times in a row and soon all you’re aware of is your dry mouth and the strange sound you make when you move your tongue against itself. You’re vaguely aware that something is missing, that the noise you’re making used to mean something to you. Something used to be here, is a thought I carry around like a miniature coffin in my left coat pocket.
But there’s an exception to the above rule: I’ve just whispered the word love to myself 20 times and still my mouth feels like the inside of a raspberry. Still I’m thinking of the snow outside and all the kids who spent the afternoon writing letters to Santa. Still I’m thinking about Elizabeth and her long blond hair, even though sometimes I’m not sure if her hair is really blond, if it’s maybe more of a sandy brunette. I don’t know what color her eyes are and want to say green and— does this mean I love her less?
I keep whispering the word love and wonder if the meaning doesn’t seep out of it because I don’t actually know what the word means. What does it mean to love someone? I love you I love you I love you I love you. One time I texted Greg “ILY” and he asked if that stood for “I love you.” I said it did and he said those words should never be abbreviated.
…. In grade school,
Listening to the same Blondie song in my bedroom, over
And over for hours, days,
For years. No friends
But the one: silent, and sitting
In my head. Running laps around
The house for five, ten, fifteen
Miles, counting
Calories of everything put
Into my mouth—desperate to ward the onslaught
Off. Until I am nothing
But a body.
Burn the body down
And, with it, out goes the pilot
Blue light of the mind.
Everyone said
I was pretty back then.
Maybe, way back then,
Before I began.
Every day try and write down one terrible thing.
One terrible thing – I’m filled with them,
carry each one
like an organ locked in a Coleman cooler.