Alternate Dimensions

‘It’s the most miserable time of the year.”

While I shopped at a few superstores for Christmas presents, the exact song played on the loud speaker, making me seriously consider shoplifting for the first time in my life. I needed to get the hell out of there before I screamed alongside the kids of the large family in front of me. Somehow the obnoxious kids managed to stop throwing a fit long enough to keep changing their minds, delaying their parents for as long as humanly possible.

Meanwhile, the redundant words of “It’s the hap-happiest season of all, with those holiday greetings and gay happy meetings,” brought me to plug my ears, praying to go back in time to when ‘gay’ meant happy; before super-stores and over-population.

But then it dawned on me. There’d go my Prozac.

Also, I’d probably be locked somewhere in an asylum. Then again maybe the sanity level would be higher there than in the real world. This way I wouldn’t have to deal with ‘trying to act normal’ when I feel anything but. The grunting and monosyllables could turn into complete catatonia without anyone batting an eye.

Numerous studies confirm depression is at its highest during the Christmas/Hanukkah season. Yet suicide rates go down, as few actually have the energy required to successfully take their lives.

As someone who’s spent over 10 years with a black cloud over my head, holidays morphed into something I dread more than going out on a blind date. I spend weeks on my leather couch, in my pajamas, with my laptop in front of my face, trying to avoid everyone and everything that reminds me of the pesky thing called life. Marathons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Vampire Diaries turn into my alternate hell dimension.

The only real escape I get from the blues is when I’m asleep, in the form of nightmares and dreams. Sleep is my best friend and my dog is my second; having no energy to deal with ‘other’ personalities, employment searches or high-pitched kids.

I read an article recently in Psychology Today, claiming depressed individuals literally see the world as ‘more gray.’ This doesn’t surprise me in the least bit, as depression tends to destroy both the physical and internal worlds. Like seeing through a distorted looking glass, without the blue caterpillar or white rabbit, but with the Mad Hatter trapped inside your own body.

It pisses me off that people actually fake having a mental illness, as in Brian David Mitchell’s case, when people are suffering for real and don’t have access to treatment because these creeps are spending the needed money or are making mental illness out to be a charade; something one can turn on and off. Believe me if I wanted too, I’d turn my frown into a smile any day.

On a side note, I get that some people want to blame every LGBT suicide in Utah on the Mormon Church, but mostly suicide is just the result of a severe untreated or sometimes, a long-treated illness, that eventually kills all hope inside you, leaving you broken and weak, to the point even brushing your teeth is too much effort. You really start to believe everyone around you would be better off without you.
Sure, it can’t help to be raised in a church or society that tells you that you’re evil for something you can never change. Or having friends, society or family turn their backs on you; all of these things can be triggers or can help push you off that cliff.

But all in all, a person who dies of suicide is really no different than a diabetic who ends up losing their battle with the illness.  It doesn’t make them weak or to blame; neither are the people or community around them at fault. Sure, there are exceptions. Most to blame are insufficient health care and ignorance surrounding the reality that mental illness is really no different than physical.

Every day is a struggle for someone with a severe mental illness, like me. It can be more painful than a physical illness because our problems are not noticeable and therefore, easily dismissed and labeled as ‘crazy’ or ‘nuts’ or ‘psycho.’

I fight the exhausting battle of depression every day, but I live through the fire, finding ways to reduce my symptoms. The simple things are what make all the difference. I wanted to punch the crisis workers through the phone when their only advice for my suicidal ideation was to ‘take a walk.’ But now I know a little goes a long way, especially if that’s all you have left to do.

The last time I was in the hospital the Twin Towers were being attacked. Getting the help I need through Valley Mental Health, covered under Medicaid, brought energy and hope back into my life, ultimately saving the state thousands upon thousands of dollars.

I went from being a zombie to being a human again, and even during the holidays, at the most miserable time of the year, I see light at the end of the tunnel. For the wave will hit again, bringing me back up. It always does.