Sacred Cows and Hamburgers

Earlier this week, my company hosted an event for the Do One Thing campaign, which encourages individuals and organizations to do one thing for diversity and inclusion. A worthy goal, and the structure holds everyone accountable in a small and meaningful way.  One brief moment, however, mitigated the power of the event and is a poignant metaphor for our struggle for acceptance and understanding for mental illness.

One panelist concluded her comments by asking everyone to examine their latent stereotypes and prejudices, referring to them as “sacred cows,” an idiom for “something considered (perhaps unreasonably immune from question or criticism". According to Wikipedia, the term “is based on the popular understanding of the elevated place of cows in Hinduism, no matter how inconvenient,” and in my opinion is very non-culturally inclusive to begin with (why not call them “sacred Saturdays” – keeping Sabbath is far more “inconvenient” than revering cows). She decisively crossed the line, however, when she said that we should “make hamburgers” out of our sacred cows.

Horrible, No Good

Today I feel bad. I made a bad decision or two this weekend and I feel guilty, ashamed, and bad. It’s not just a horrible, no good, very bad day: when you’re managing a mental illness, every bad day can come with a paralyzing, tummy lurching fear that this day could be the start of something much worse.

Am I going to feel depressed all week? All month? All year? Am I going to stop working out and gain weight and withdraw from society? Is this going the feared bout of depression, looming on the horizon from which I do not recover? Will the fog ever lift? Will I ever be happy again?

For me, bad days are more than bad days. They are a trigger. They remind me of being depressed, of the trauma of self destruction, of the great tragedy in my life. I revert to attitudes and actions that bring scant comfort: I withdraw, I eat, I play defense. I act like a trauma survivor, less that last word.  I turn into a scared animal, cringing at a lifted hand.

Someday, I will act like a survivor. Someday, I will play offense: I will eat foods that make me feel healthy, see people who make me feel strong, and do activities that force me out of a stupor. Someday, bad days will not scare me: they will not snowball into flashbacks and fear and the horrible belief that the past has not disappeared. Someday I will not be afraid. Someday.

My Body, My Drugs

I am an intelligent human and my memory typically serves me all too well. I’m fastidious and detail oriented, as evidenced by the two, large white boards, one at work and one in my room, that chronicle my to-dos, trending thoughts, and schedules. Despite all this, I struggle to remember to take my daily medication.

I’ve tried setting alarms. I’ve tried carrying my medications everywhere I go. I’ve tried placing the bottles in my closet so that I have to look at them when I get dressed. I still manage to forget at an alarming rate, forcing myself to turn around on my way to work or take my medication hours late.

Why can’t I remember my medicine? My most recent theory is that I’m passive aggressively, subconsciously protesting my drug dependence. For I depend on these medications: without them, my life was harder, unhappier, less tenable. So despite the fact that their side effects can include weight gain and thyroid and kidney problems, to name a few, I take my three pills every day. Why is it called addiction when it’s a cigarette and medication when it comes from an orange hued bottle? I feel like I’m doing something intrinsically harmful to my body for the sake of my mind. There’s a profound disconnect between the person I want to be and the person who needs these medications, and, of course, there’s not.

First, Do No Harm

The New York Times broke a story yesterday asserting that “nearly one in seven elderly nursing home residents, nearly all of them with dementia, are given powerful antipsychotic drugs even though the medicines increase the risks of death and are not approved for such treatments”. A few other highlights from the article, and my thoughts, after the jump.

Just Me

On Thursday, I got some exciting news. The news made me feel. First I felt relieved, then I felt happy, and nervous, and terrified, and jubilant, and all sorts of things. A year ago, this would have been awful and uncomfortable. I would have worried about why I was feeling a certain way, whether it meant my medication was at the wrong level, whether I was headed for unsustainable highs or a crash. I wasn't able to trust any of my own feelings and emotions, and my world was volatile and uncomfortable if not stable and dull.

Born This Way

This post is inspired by a conversation I had driving to the airport this weekend. Someone asked me why anyone would pay $80-100 for a Glee concert ticket, to which I responded that I had in fact paid $107 for the privilege of attending a Glee concert and eagerly awaited my chance to do so in just a few weeks. For the ignorant in my readership base, Glee is a very popular musical comedy show on Fox, starring Lea Michele as a self centered high school student leading a band of misfits to unimaginable musical heights. On Glee's last episode, mental health was part of a major storyline.