Computer Crash: Amanda’s Story

By now, most of you have probably at least heard something about this story. Amanda Todd, to put the story in its most basic terms, was stalked through three cities, bullied, beaten, and harassed to death. She was a 15-year-old girl who ended up choosing suicide over living one more day in the hell created by her peers both at school and in the online/social media world that has now become a haven for all manner of bullies and predators. This behavior sickens me. Amanda left behind a chilling  Youtube video explaining her situation. And for the full story, you can read what her mother has to say in the The Vancouver Sun.

Having been a victim of bullying, of violence, and a teenager who tried to commit suicide, I really feel for this girl. I think I can understand the place she was at; I thought, maybe I could put that in a poem. So this poem here, this is for Amanda. This is also for everyone who doesn’t understand what is is to want to end your life. I don’t know that I can explain that, and I’m not trying to speak for her. I can only reach back into my own experience, and maybe offer a little perspective.

I am so, so sorry Amanda. We all failed you. But maybe your story will help others, and I hope that gives you peace.

 

10/12/12

Computer Crash: Amanda’s Story

All I wanted was to be liked

I just wanted people to see

That I was a funny, fun person

I wanted them to see the real me

Instead, I was lured to a trap

I was told I was beautiful, cute

He told me to lift up my shirt

For an unknowing photo shoot

From that moment my life was over

I was stalked like deer in the woods

There was nowhere for me to hide

I tried three neighborhoods

But the stalkers and bullies, they followed

They tracked me through wires and webs

I never asked for this fame

To be one more naked celeb

They used every weakness against me

They beat me and tortured me so

Finally I couldn’t take it

I decided I had to go

It’s not like anyone cared

The police didn’t even try

The haters get away with it all

While I sit with a razor and cry

So goodbye to the stalkers and bullies

Goodbye to my parents, I regret

Too bad I have to end this life

That’s hardly happened yet

For Amanda Todd

 

© Sarah Ann Henderson

Awareness Games: Breast Cancer and Domestic Violence

Every October, when Domestic Violence Month rolls around, before it even begins I get very, very tired. That’s because every October, gaining awareness for domestic violence seems to be an uphill battle against the pink army that is the other October cause, Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

That sounds really bitter, right? Like I hate people who support breast cancer or something? Wrong. Breast cancer is obviously a worthy cause that deserves attention. But does it have to steal all of the attention?

It is frustrating for those of us trying to gain support for Domestic Violence Awareness Month, trying to get our purple ribbons seen when we’re staring at an ocean of pink. An enormous part of the problem is stigma. A few decades ago, breast cancer was very stigmatized. Awareness campaigns brought out the subject and made it okay for people to talk about. Everyone understands now. Cancer is a disease; it’s not a person’s fault. The women who have it and are fighting it and living with it are considered brave, strong, even heroic. It’s a cause everyone can get behind without question; what kind of jerk doesn’t support cancer? People feel good about themselves when they buy a product that has a pink ribbon on it; it’s armchair philanthropy.

Listen, I’m not saying these things are bad. It’s amazing that the stigma on breast cancer has lifted, because millions of lives have been saved. It’s simply that, in comparison, domestic and sexual violence are still largely crimes that live in the dark. There’s a stigma attached to them that’s so severe, that one third of victims of domestic violence and two-thirds of sexual assault victims are not reporting to law enforcement. Of those victims, 41% of male and 34% of female stated victimization being a private/personal matter as reason for not reporting, 15% of women feared reprisal, 12% of all victims wished to protect the offender, and 6% of all victims believed police would do nothing.

Unfortunately, they are right about that.

Nationally, in the last 10 years the number of arrests for domestic violence have dropped from over 120,000 per year to around 85,000 per year. If a person in that one-third that comes forward to report a rape actually endures the re-traumatizing and invasive post-rape medical exam and is interviewed by police, it is highly unlikely that his or her efforts will result in justice, seeing as the conviction rate for sexual assault is only 3%— meaning  97% of rapists walk free.

How in the hell is that possible? It’s called rape culture. It’s just like how it used to be for breast cancer: unmentionable in public, the person who had it was marked somehow and there were sympathies to her face and gossip behind her back. In our culture, when a person is raped— especially a woman— she is the one with the burden of proof. She is considered a slut until proven virginal. We spend so much time focusing on what she was wearing, where she was walking, what she was drinking, and if she said no that we forget who the criminal actually is. It’s the same way with domestic violence. It is complicated and messy. There’s often substance abuse involved and children who are witnesses and fights that could go both ways. Emotional and verbal abuse are hard to pin down, though I assure you, it happens all the time. But come on: there is absolutely no fucking excuse for ignoring physical violence. And yet people do, constantly. No one wants to talk about domestic and sexual violence the way they are willing to openly discuss breast cancer. Why? Because it’s ugly; it’s painful; it’s shameful. People are afraid of it. And for reasons beyond my comprehension, people really love to blame the victims. While cancer patients are considered brave, victims of domestic and sexual violence are called stupid, lazy, slutty, and deserving of their abuse.

Every October, I feel burned out by the 2^nd. I stare at the ocean of pink and wonder how in the world I’m going to gain attention for a cause that no one wants to speak or hear about. A cause that makes people uncomfortable, that triggers a flicker of shock across their faces as soon as the word “violence” comes out of my mouth. The only ones who are not shocked are the ones who have a personal connection to domestic violence. That’s when I hear the stories: “My sister had a boyfriend who hit her.” “I was married to a guy like that.” “My dad abused me as a kid.”

When I hear those stories, I have a bit of hope; these are people who will help spread the word. Perhaps they will understand, perhaps I can explain to them and make them realize how much we need to educate the public about domestic and sexual violence. I’m doing everything within my power. But when I look at all the major corporations and foundations that are sponsoring breast cancer, I think, I want those same resources for this. How do I make them realize that domestic and sexual violence are at an all-time high? 1 in 3 women worldwide will experience violence in her lifetime. How do I get them to hear that and maybe give their support towards another cause this October?

The thing is, breast cancer is no longer a crisis the way it was a decade ago. Female breast cancer incidence rates began decreasing in 2000, then dropping by about 7% from 2002 to 2003.  Death rates from breast cancer have been declining since about 1990, with larger decreases in women younger than 50. These decreases are believed to be the result of earlier detection through screening and increased awareness, as well as improved treatment. Think about it; that pink ribbon has become synonymous with breast cancer, and you can find it on every product imaginable. The Susan G. Komen Foundation in particular has done an incredible job with this. Another big part of the decrease is due to the fact that pharmaceutical companies and companies that sell medical and surgical equipment will invest in awareness campaigns, the pink ribbon branding, and fund-raising for research, which brings in millions of dollars every year for the cause. Domestic violence does not have this resource because so far, there’s no surgery that can prevent a man from beating his wife, and chemotherapy can’t cure incest. Those companies have no interest in sponsoring a cause that will give them nothing back. With breast cancer, there are patients that use their products so they recoup that money. Until we figure out what part of the brain makes a person violent toward their loved ones, or find a medicine that can erase the effects of sexual trauma, those companies have no incentive to spread purple ribbons the way they do pink, or try to raise funds for victims’ services. Meanwhile, the statistics show a 42-percent increase in reported domestic violence and a 25-percent increase in the reported incidence of rape and sexual assault. Does this mean that I think we should ignore breast cancer? That breast cancer is no longer a problem and we should focus solely on domestic violence? Of course not. Breast cancer is still a killer, the second deadliest cancer after lung cancer, and obviously, we need to keep seeking a cure. But do I think it’s currently at the crisis level that domestic violence is?

No.

Saying that is going to upset people, possibly offend people, particularly those who have loves ones affected by breast cancer. I understand your feeling that way. But when you take a look at these numbers, you might begin to understand where I’m coming from when I say that.

–       About 1 in 8 U.S. women (just under 12%) will develop invasive breast cancer over the course of her lifetime.

–       Twice as many, 1 in 4 U.S. women (25%) has experienced domestic violence in her lifetime.

–       In 2011, an estimated 230,480 new cases of invasive breast cancer were expected to be diagnosed in women in the U.S., along with 57,650 new cases of non-invasive (in situ) breast cancer (288,130 cases total).

–       Twenty times as many, an estimated 6 million women are victims of domestic violence each year

–       On average, more than three women and one man are murdered by their intimate partners in this country every day. Intimate partner homicides accounted for 30% of the murders of women and 5% percent of the murders of men. Homicide is the number 1 cause of death in pregnant women. Most intimate partner homicides occur between spouses, though boyfriends/girlfriends have committed about the same number of homicides in recent years.

–       One in five (21%) women in the U.S. reports she has been raped or physically or sexually assaulted in her lifetime. Three in four women (76%) who reported they had been raped and/or physically assaulted since age 18 said that an intimate partner (current or former husband, cohabiting partner, or date) committed the assault.

–       Nearly three out of four (74%) of Americans personally know someone who is or has been a victim of domestic violence. 30% of Americans say they know a woman who has been physically abused by her husband or boyfriend in the past year.

–       There are only 1,500 shelters for battered women in the United States; there are 5,000 animal shelters.

This is beyond unacceptable. When we have more resources for stray animals than

abuse victims, something is seriously fucked up.

This whole thing may sound like I’m trying to make the month of October some giant competition between breast cancer and domestic violence, like I think one cause is better than the other. That’s not the case. What I really want is just some more air time, a little more space, and more financial resources to do as wonderful a job of eradicating the stigma around domestic and sexual violence as the breast cancer camp has done. Seriously, we need some of the breast cancer publicists over in the domestic violence camp! Those people get shit done.

Another suggestion that has been made is to move Domestic Violence Awareness Month to May, so it won’t be drowned out. That could work. As long as there is some time dedicated to fighting for this cause. As many of you know— if you’ve read any other part of WfR— I’ve got my own (long and intense) history with both domestic and sexual violence. Whenever someone takes up a cause, it’s not a coincidence; they do it because it affects them somehow. That’s why this is such an emotional topic, and why, when I bring it up, people who are affected by breast cancer tend to get pissed off at me. That’s okay. As long as it’s being discussed, as long as it’s out in the open, perhaps things will begin to change.

© Sarah Ann Henderson 2012

P.S.— In the interest of fairness I feel I must add that there are two other October causes that get even less attention that either breast cancer or domestic violence: Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month and National Bullying Prevention Month. Both of these are really important and deserve attention too, please take a look at their websites for more information!

National Bullying Prevention Center

Remembering Our Babies

FirstCandle.org

Statistical Resources Included:

Bureau of Justice Statistics

Domestic Violence Resource Center

BreastCancer.org

Susan G. Komen Foundation

Human Rights Watch

ASPCA

Clark County Prosecutor, Domestic Violence Office

Centers for Disease Control

Representative Akin, Every Rape is Legitimate: An Open Letter

Hello Recovery Writers,

Rarely am I so angry about an issue that I feel I need to take it on in this manner, but when I read about this…well, you know how I am. This is not one I was just going to let go. I tried to stay dignified in my response, and I’m sending this letter onto his office. I encourage you all to write your own congressmen, as well as Rep. Akin himself if you feel as strongly about this as I do. I’ll include his contact information at the end of this article. As always, thanks for reading. ❤

Update: In my zeal to get this letter written and out there, I originally called Todd Akin a senator; this is incorrect. He is a state representative who is running for senator in Missouri. My apologies for any confusion.

Also: There are now several petitions going around demanding sanctions for Rep. Akin. Here is a link to one of them if you’d like to sign (I already have, of course!):

CREDO Action: Tell Rep. Todd Akin: Stop lying about rape

Missouri Republican claims ‘legitimate rape’ rarely results in pregnancy 

Dear Representative Akin,

This is an open letter addressing your unbelievably idiotic and insensitive statements in the article above. How dare you attempt to qualify whether or not rape is “legitimate”. Until you have personally experienced rape, personally experienced unfathomable shock and trauma and shattering of your life and bodily integrity, you don’t get to say word one about the legitimacy of rape. And as far as the rate of pregnancy goes, if you’re going to have the nerve to try and use that as a factor to illegitimize rape, then at least have the decency to have actual science on your side. Despite what some pro-life witch doctor with a medical degree from Sally Struthers may have told you, pregnancy can actually happen without a woman’s consent. It happened to a friend of mine. For the majority of the time I was being repeatedly raped, I was “lucky” enough to have been a child, incapable of conceiving. The last time I was raped, I was severely anorexic and not menstruating, also making it highly unlikely. I didn’t get pregnant from any of the times I was raped, but I think about it sometimes: what would I have done if I had? I honestly don’t know. Back then, the morning after pill wasn’t available. Now, I would certainly do that first. And, by the way, the morning-after pill IS NOT a form of abortion! It PREVENTS pregnancy from ever happening, actually making abortions less likely to occur. If you’re really all about protecting life, supporting birth control is really the way to go. Keeping those pregnancies from occurring in the first place will stop abortions from happening. And if your interest is truly in stopping abortions- as opposed to simply controlling women’s lives and bodies- then really, you might want to jump aboard. Men like you who think that they have any right to legislate the choices available to women who have been raped truly terrify me. Like I said, you have not experienced this. You can’t IMAGINE what it is to be raped, much less to experience a pregnancy from rape. How dare you try to limit a woman’s options in that situation. As if it isn’t hard enough. The rapist should be punished. But the victim shouldn’t be. And that is exactly what you’re doing when you limit her ability to make decisions about what’s right for her body and her life.

Sincerely,
Sarah Henderson

Contact Representative Todd Akin

 

Project Unbreakable: Pictures Worth a Thousand Words

Hello Recovery Writers! It’s been a little while since I’ve posted here on the blog, but a couple of weeks ago I was lucky enough to stumble across an amazing project I just had to share with you.

A young photographer named Grace Brown has begun a web site called Project Unbreakable, where she uses her camera skills to help survivors of sexual violence reclaim their voices. Survivors write the words that their attackers said to them on posters, and Grace photographs them holding those posters. Yvonne Moss, a survivor and advocate who works with the project, describes it as “a way for victims to take the power back of the words that were once used against them.” As soon as I saw Project Unbreakable, I knew I wanted to feature it on WfR. What Grace is doing with her photography is exactly what Writing for Recovery is all about: Using words to heal, empower, educate, and give other survivors hope.

I am honored to participate in this wonderful project; the photo you see above is my contribution. When I was 16 I was raped by a stranger. These are the words he said to me: Shhh….I won’t hurt you if you shut up and don’t move. I’m pretty sure that up until now my therapist is the only one who knew that. Now it’s going public, and that is just fine with me. It was a pretty horrible thing to hear, and I’m hoping that other people will be horrified by those words too. Perhaps horrified enough to do something.

If you are reading this and have been a victim of sexual violence, please consider submitting a photo to Project Unbreakable at grace@50extraordinarywomen.com.

Update: To view my contribution on the Project Unbreakable website, please click here.

Declaration of Independence from Stigma

I have something important to share with you all. Earlier a friend of mine gave a very brave statement when she said: “I have PTSD!! I’m not ashamed to talk about it!” Taking her example, I want to say this:

I have bipolar. I had eating disorders and PTSD, I cut myself and attempted suicide. I was a victim of childhood physical and sexual abuse. I grew up in domestic violence. I was raped.

And I am not ashamed.

I have done nothing wrong. I am not to blame for the abuse I suffered or the psychiatric disorders I am diagnosed with. I got therapy and take medication and that does not mean I’m crazy. I will not be silenced or shamed by stigma or societal pressure to keep these things hidden. They are part of my story, and I know they are part of your stories too. Join me in declaring that you will not be silenced by stigma!!! ♥

Domestic Violence Awareness Month: Abusive Behaviors

There are all different types of abusive behaviors: physical, verbal, emotional, sexual, financial, using children, and more. It can still be abuse if you are not being hit. You can still be raped, even if you are married. Being forced to have an abortion or carry a child you don’t want is abusive. Being isolated and having no control over the family finances, given an allowance like a child is abusive. Being told you are worthless is abusive. Women can be abusers. Knowledge is power; the more we know about domestic violence the more powerful we are to prevent and treat it. 

The following list is taken from the “Abusive Behavior Checklist” created by Central DuPage Hospital

Emotional Abuse 

• Frequently blames or criticizes you
• Calls you names
• Ridicules your beliefs, religion, race class or sexual preference
• Blames you for “causing” the abuse
• Ridicules/makes bad remarks about your gender
• Criticizes or threatens to hurt your family or friends
• Isolates you from your family and friends
• Abuses animals
• Tries to keep you from doing something you wanted to do
• Is angry if you pay too much attention to someone or something else (children, friends, school, etc.)
• Withholds approval, appreciation or affection
• Humiliates you
• Becomes angry if meals or housework are not done to his/her liking
• Makes contradictory demands
• Does not include you in important decisions
• Does not allow you to sleep
• Repeatedly harasses you about things you did in the past
• Takes away car keys, money or credit cards
• Threatens to leave or told you to leave.
• Checks up on you (listens to your phone calls, looks at phone bills, checks the mileage on the car, etc.)
• Tells people you suffer from a mental illness
• Threatens to commit suicide
• Interferes with your work or school (provokes a fight in the morning, calls to harass you at work, etc.)
• Minimizes or denies being abusive
• Abuses your children
• Breaks dates and cancels plans without reason
• Uses drugs or alcohol to excuse their behavior
• Uses phrases like “I’ll show you who is boss,” or “I’ll put you in line”
• Uses loud or intimidating tone of voice
• Comes home at late hours refusing an explanation

Financial Abuse

• Makes all the decisions about money
• Takes care of all financial matters without your input
• Criticizes the way or amounts of money you spend
• Places you on a budget that is unrealistic
• Prohibits your access to bank accounts and credit cards
• Refuses to put your name on joint assets
• Controls your paycheck
• Refuses you access to money
• Refuses to let you work
• Refuses to get a job
• Refuses to pay bills
• Causes you to lose your job

Sexual Abuse

• Pressures you to have sex
• Pressures you to perform sexual acts that make you uncomfortable or hurt you
• Directs physical injury toward sexual areas of your body
• Puts you at risk for unwanted pregnancy or sexually transmitted diseases
• Withholds sex or affection
• Calls you sexual names (“whore”, “bitch”, etc.)
• Tells anti-woman jokes or demeans women verbally/attacks your femininity or masculinity
• Accuses you of having or wanting sex with others
• Forces you to have sex with others
• Threatens to disclose your relationship when you did not want it known
• Forces you to view pornography
• Pressures you to dress in a certain way
• Disregards your sexual needs and feelings about sex
• Accuses you of being gay if you refused sex (for heterosexual relationships)
• Spreads rumors about your sexual behaviors
• Forces you or refuses to let you use birth control
• Makes unwanted public sexual advances
• Makes remarks about your sexual abilities in private or in front of others
• Rapes and sexually assaults you

Using Children

• Makes you feel guilty about your children
• Uses children to relay negative messages
• Uses children to report on your activities
• Uses visitation to harass you
• Threatens to take custody of your children
• Threatens to kidnap your children

Physical Abuse

• Pushes, grabs or shoves you
• Slaps you
• Punches you
• Kicks you
• Chokes you
• Pinches you
• Pulls your hair
• Burns you
• Bites you
• Ties you up
• Forces you to share needles with others
• Threatens you with a knife, gun or other weapon
• Uses a knife, gun or other weapon
• Prevents you from leaving an area/physically restrains you
• Throws objects
• Destroys property or your possessions
• Drives recklessly to frighten you
• Disregards your needs when you are ill, injured or pregnant
• Abuses you while you are pregnant
• Forces you to abort or carry a pregnancy

Issues for Immigrants

• Lies about your immigration status
• Tells you that they have the ability to have your immigration status changed
• Threatens to withdraw/not file the petition to legalize your immigration status
• Tells you that the U.S. will award the children to them
• Tells you that you have abandoned your culture and become “white” or “American”
• Stops subscriptions or destroys newspapers and magazines in your language
• Tells you that U.S. law allows abuse as long as it is in private
• Threatens to report you to INS if you work without a permit
• Takes money you send to your family
• Forces you to sign papers written in a language you do not understand
• Forbids you to learn English or communicate in your native language
• Harasses you at the only job you can work at legally in the U.S. so that you will be forced to work illegally
• Calls you a “mail order bride”
• Alleges you had a history of prostitution on legal papers
• Tells you that U.S. law requires you to have sex whenever he/she wants it

Domestic Violence Story Project: R.

Hello everyone, thank you for joining me for Writing for Recovery’s Domestic Violence Awareness Month Story Project. Throughout the month of October I’ll be posting stories that I’ve received from women who have been in violent relationships, and a couple from those who have lost loved ones to violence. As many of you know, this is a subject that is a close to my heart, as I grew up in a violent and chaotic home and have felt and watched the damage it can do. However, I have also been witness to the enormous strength of those who survive these situations…and unfortunately, too many people do not. I have been privileged to hear and receive your stories and I thank everyone who has taken part in this Project. Your voices matter, they need to be heard, and it’s possible they could save a life.

The first story I’d like to bring to you was actually taken (with permission) from an e-mail I received. This lady describes the pain and fear of living inside a violent relationship in such an emotionally raw way because she is actually in one right now.  I wanted to post this first so that it’s possible to get perhaps a little bit of a glimpse inside what it might be like to live this way. To answer that tired and uninformed question, “Why doesn’t she just leave?”

 This is why. 

 

I am not sure how to begin this….( I am just telling this so that I CAN FEEL A LOT BETTER….. )

I considered myself a fighter and a survivor in my own way. It’s not easy and yet I still bear a scar and wound that can never heal.

In the Asian context, domestic violence is considered a taboo subject , it will be such a shame to let what happened in your marriage out in the open. Especially when you are being abused by your husband. Being emotionally, physically and verbally abused……it really tears MY life apart. I don’t really recognize my own self. Being called hurtful names or spiteful remarks, being kicked and punched like a ball ….. the list goes on and on…….

Imagine being spat on??…..spat on in front of the kids??…. I felt so dirty, so disgusted and so humiliated. I felt so insulted …… I hate myself…..and I hate HIM even more….

Someone told me….try to forget the hatred so at least I don’t hurt myself inside….But can you blame me for feeling like this ??????…..

I get out of the marriage after I got a knock on my senses suddenly. But that kind of braveness never came knocking on me again…it just totally left me helpless and hanging like a thread. As time goes by…..I began to feel that I am at the bottom of a pit….so low till I find it difficult to bring myself up and out….

I am scared of him…..scared of even his shadow….his voice ….. what makes matters worse, we are still living under the same roof , although we are undergoing a divorce process which I think took such a slow process….

Whenever there is a need to talk to him, the talk became an argument and it escalates into abuses….I shivered and shake whenever I try to talk to him…..

The FEAR never leaves me totally…..it will still be living in my soul as long as it takes….

I am trying my best to overcome all this in a slow and painful way……

I am tired……very tired emotionally and physically….

 

R.

Asia

National Recovery Month Poem: “Affliction”

Hello Recovery Writers. So the Story Project is almost over and I think it’s been a success! However, as you know, in months before WfR has done dedicated poetry. And you know me, I couldn’t resist- I had to include one poem for National Recovery Month! This is a poem I began quite a few years ago and just recently picked up again to finish. I hope each of you can identify with it a little bit. Take care everyone and as always, thank you for reading! Peace, Sarah

 

1/4/08

 

Affliction

 

I’ve spent most of my life doing battle

With this cunning and baffling affliction

 

It’s so common yet each one’s unique

The disease that we call addiction

 

What a tragic waste of a girl

Who had potential to do so much

 

To spend her young life believing

She needed a chemical crutch

 

Hers came in the form of starvation

Then puking and cutting and pills

 

It seemed there was never an end

To her frightening array of ills

 

What no one knew was the cause

The reason she had to stay sick

 

To distract from her internal pain

Nothing else did the trick

 

Everyone has their own reasons

We all started because we were hurt

 

We needed to numb the feelings

Make those toxic emotions inert

 

Whatever the substance is

The disease is exactly the same

 

It’s rooted in pain and dysfunction

In guilt and trauma and shame

 

Addiction does not discriminate

Anyone can fall into its grip

 

Before you know it you’re loved ones are gone

And all that you own has been stripped

 

 

This is so disturbingly common

Yet people don’t like to talk

 

Even though it’s a routine affliction

When I ask them to speak, people balk

 

I have asked for people’s stories

But so much shame comes with this disease

 

I have not gotten many responses

Who are we trying to please?

 

The more that we’re open about this

The fewer people will die

 

Addiction’s a fatal disease

I was fortunate to survive

 

I was given a second chance

So I’m doing all that I’m able

 

To spread hope for recovery

For lives that are happy and stable

 

 

© Sarah Ann Henderson 2011

 

 

 

Inside My Mind: A Journal of Major Depression

This piece is not part of the poem series; I’m taking a little detour. This piece is actually a collection of journal entries from a summer eleven years ago when I was in one of the worst  depressions of my life. For three months- ironically, just after leaving eating disorder treatment- I sat on a couch in my room and wrote about how miserable I was. In between I was self-harming, using drugs, and getting very, very sick with my eating disorder. This piece will hopefully offer a glimpse into the world of someone who walked with the shadow of suicidality, lived every day hoping she would die, and yet somehow managed to recover. The journal entires end with me beginning my school semester and still being really sick. It would take another eight years before I was really in recovery. I just want to show people that you can live through depressive episodes like this; as long as you stay breathing, there will be an end to it. You will eventually find peace.

Summer of 2000: A Chronicle of Major Depression

 

June

~     As I begin to move yet again I am experiencing the most hopeless inertia. In some ways it is similar to a feeling of needing to start over completely, toss the canvas overboard because your painting was beyond repair and must be created again from a fresh viewpoint. However, in this case I have the urge to drown with it… only I can’t do it. My hopelessness and feeling of impotence are so complete that even the energy for desperate suicidality has been depleted. I am left on deck without my previous work, without the motivation to work again, a wish to drown, and the weight of immobility that keeps me breathing.

I need a better analogy.

 

~        The most amazing thought process happened to me this morning:

I woke up. Not for any particular reason, no alarm… my meds wore off. Why am I awake? Sunday. No appointments to go to, no shrinks to see, no reason to get dressed or leave my room. Any phone calls? No. And bad TV.

I have to kill myself.

There is clearly no purpose for my existence today. However, even suicide seems boring and useless after last night’s attempt. You moron. The futility! If slitting your wrists actually resulted in death you wouldn’t be here to complain about the eighteenth time that it didn’t.

Sleeping is a better option.

Unfortunately, my mother keeps all of my meds in the kitchen. For safety, she says. Poor deluded old woman. I stand up too fast and promptly fall back down because I never EVER seem to get it through my head that my body is fucked up. Walking to the kitchen, I become annoyed with the hallway, its cold, hard, clay tile, how it strikes my thinly padded heels, sending shivers of pain up the bones. In the kitchen I gather thirteen pills including three painkillers and a couple of extra tranquilizers for good measure. I swallow them with the rest of the now tepid coffee in the pot and immediately return to my room, pausing only to turn up the thermostat because I’m fucking freezing in the Texas afternoon. I turn on the TV while waiting for the drugs to kick in. As per usual there was nothing on. I abandon all of my attention to the monotony of the Preview Channel. ER reruns tonight and my last thought before passing out is that now I don’t have to kill myself. ER used to be my favorite show.

~        This is getting really bad.

My self, mind, body, and my hatred for them cannot go on living in a state of panic over the others’ existence. That persistent fear that lies between self and self-hatred has taken me beyond a certain breaking, or perhaps boiling, point in my depression.

The body: too heavy to move. Sluggish, painful, and clearly defective; bloated to the point of bursting, my pale skin barely managing to hold the massiveness in. It is intolerable burden, this leaden mass of flesh.

I can identify few feelings or emotions. Pain. Despair, really. Exhaustion. As sense of being completely hollow, even inside the massive body, so that each thought rattles and echoes to create an intolerable internal friction.

But my head is really the worst. It’s a neurochemical war zone, serotonin and noradrenaline battling each other in my brain, horrifying images flashing through, screams and whispers and insults and threats.

It sounds so complicated for something that can simply be called misery.

~         Several major flaws in my thinking:

1) I am not, apparently, considered by other people to be expendable.

2) Hating yourself and your life and the body you live it in sucks.

3) There is no actual pressure from anyone in my life to do or be anything great; I am my own source of scholastic and vocational expectancy.

4) There are no people in my head. No one I know or don’t know actually sees me when I think they do and my life is not monitored and judged twenty-four hours a day.

5) There is not a pill to take that can significantly improve any situation I am currently in.

Self-realization is a trip.

It should also be considered that I have never actually accepted myself as bulimic. Every half-hearted attempt I have made to stop puking was purely and excuse to starve. If I am to recover from both disorders then every therapeutic technique that has been applied to my anorexia must also be applied to the bulimia.

To me, bulimia = shame. Nothing, but nothing, can make me want to die more than binging and purging. It is the worst. Full stop. Run to the kitchen, try to be quiet, fail, stuff your fucking face, sneak back, over the toilet, hacking, gagging, the metallic tang of blood and acid. GOD the acid burns, teeth marks on your hand, room spinning. Then back to the kitchen. Uncontrollable cow. Greedy slut. Fat useless lardass weakling piece of shit.

~         Shrink appointment today. Remember ask Dr. Hageman if there’s an Rx for:

. 1) The FUCKING PEOPLE in my head. I am being inscrutably monitored by these assholes, day in and day out. I am NEVER ALONE. Absolutely everything I do is watched and judged, from reading a book to taking a piss to talking in therapy. It does not stop. It is relentless.

I want them gone.

2) Heavy, sluggish, dulled painful feeling all over. Total lack of initiative.

3) Suicide being listed as Solution #1 to all problems.

4) One day this week, Saturday Night Live reruns were my reason to live.

5) The absolute fundamental basis of my eating disorder is that my body has been way too big for way too long. I found a way to be contained and I can’t let that go. Ever.

~         Things that happened while Shannon was gone (otherwise I’ll forget them):

Thursday– Saw Hageman, adjusted meds. Gave me a detox plan for Klonopin; Dad sent Mom a plant for their 26^th anniversary. (The chicken-shit prick); Weight 81 lbs.; Surrendered bottle of Klonopin to Mom. Shit shit shit. At least I kept a little Valium and some codeine.

Friday– Mom tried to get me out of the house. We ended up having a big fight about my depression, treatment, etc. I said too much and she was extremely disturbed.

Saturday– Rented more movies. Drove by the new house. Fucking realtor touched my back and I felt creepy all night; I stayed up all night exercising– aerobics, crunches, ballet; a friend from Laureate called. She’s just as sick as I am. I skipped my meds.

Sunday– I slept from 9am to 1pm. Mom came in to tell me that I need to start cleaning and packing more. Uh-huh. So fine. I watched Boys Don’t Cry which was extremely disturbing. Read awhile and took a nap. Sigh. Then cleaning– laundry, dishes, kitchen, my bathroom… holy shit. At least all of that scrubbing and carrying and folding got my heart rate up so I was burning some calories. However, given my generally static state recently, is it a big fucking wonder that I’m too sore to move? The shock to the body of aerobics, insomnia, and major cleaning after virtual hibernation is drastic. Meanwhile, I’m trying to detox from Klonopin and practically drooling over my little bit of Valium. Being proactive is NOT what they say it is. I won’t get anywhere.

 

Frostbite does not hurt until it begins to thaw.

July

 

~         AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!

I want to die but I CAN’T!

I CAN’T!!

I want it all to go away but it WON’T.

It’s exactly what Joni wrote in “Trouble Child”: You can’t live life and you can’t leave it.

~        Written after a trip to the ER where 3 liters of saline had been run in by IV in only 1½ hours. My kidneys could not handle it. The result was becoming Monstro the Whale for 48 hours.

 

I feel so swollen.

The image in my head is that of a toy, a plastic tube filled with gel and glitter, the kind that worms out of your grasp the second you pick it up. I held one in the mall once. When squeezed, the sparkly ooze would puff up, stretching its thin clear plastic skin to the absolute limit while everyone squealed at the thought of it bursting.

That’s what I feel like.

I can feel every little cell freshly fattened with saline and blood, buoyant as little beach balls, squishing up against each other under the weak confines of my body. I sit as if on a water bed and all movement is made through prematurely formed Jell-o. I’m water logged. And that is where the idiocy comes in: I know for a fact, an indisputable fact, that this puffiness is the result of the IV fluids given at the hospital. I understand that and even believe it a little.

SO WHY CAN’T I STOP FEELING LIKE A BIG, JIGGLING, BUBBLE OF BLUBBERY FAT ???

~        Today is the very sort of day when suicide turns into such a natural option for me. The simple action of swallowing pills and lying down seems to me to be as uneventful and prosaic as any other nap. I don’t know why I feel this way. Nothing particularly tragic has happened today. Or perhaps it’s that nothing even particularly different has happened today and that is the tragedy. I am spending my time merely waiting, death and the maiden, in a constant state of mutual antagonism.

For me, this is far worse than a time when my depression had those dramatic, desperate tragedies one expects. When my family was in denial– when my various chemical imbalances were as yet undiagnosed– when my life revolved around blood and bones and vomit and Valium and the problem was just that no one knew– that was a time that held more hope for me than right this moment. In that type of depression there is always a peak, a point where you just can’t take it anymore, when things are so awful and no one can see enough to help because you just can’t bring yourself to tell them, that you just have to die. In a peak like that you are pretty sure that you want help and it’s just that no one will give it to you. Killing yourself will be your calling card. A last fuck you to the world. You are not doing this because life it hopeless– perhaps the opposite. You are doing this because there is hope, damn it, and you know there’s hope, but everyone is so fucking thick that they can’t see your Pain! And your Agony! People can help but there is not engraved invitation with your name on it and you, lacking all initiative at this point, are pissed. You’ll show them how stupid they were and they will be sorry. The entire basis of a depression like that is anger.

~       I was thinking about the contradictions that are my truth right now. About the fact that deciding what to do with myself this evening ultimately determines my own worth at the same time. See, I really wanted to do was exercise– that was the favorable option. I wanted to get high, such as I get high. But my friend from Laureate and I swore off exercise together. So maybe I’d just lie down. No. I needed to be doing something. If I couldn’t exercise (be good) then I was going to binge and purge (be bad). I would force myself to eat until I just had to, had to throw up, so I could wallow in the blood, the knife-like pain in my stomach. Do I like myself today? Do I deserve to feel good? Do I like myself enough to make myself exercise so I can feel good? Or am I too worthless for that today? Today, I might just deserve to be tortured with my own weakness and failure. Should I be praised for my strength and rise above the flesh? Or should I be punished for my guilty existence?

~     I was able to see tonight, for just a moment in the dark, how thin I really am. The stark outline of my silhouette, the rarely seen dark in my eyes, pupils dilated under low light. I traced the borders of my body with my fingertips, traveling over the hills of my bones, the hollows of my flesh. I felt the arbor of veins wrapped around my limbs like vines, and what little muscle that’s left stretched tight. For a fraction of a second I thought, Wow– I finally did it.

But, I told myself, it can’t be. The numbers– the numbers don’t work. 79 lbs? How can I be thin when the scale says I’m not? No, I was wrong, I didn’t see clearly, it was only a shadow. Just a longing mirage.

I flipped on the light, and I watched my face suddenly widen in the brightness. The familiar sight of glaring flaws. My pupils shrink back into icy blue-gray, and my body is once again in excess.

And there was nothing to do but turn away.

~        My depression is so deep right now that it has become an actual physical pain. My limbs ache with the weight of despair. The inertia is set in to the point that movement causes stinging throughout my weak muscles. Even breathing is a struggle. Sometimes I let go, breath stops, and I just let my heart pound away at my sternum. It causes the cross around my neck to jump. Sometimes I just wish it would lie still.

There is no purpose for my existence. I just wish I were thinner. Maybe it’s appropriate to be out of the hospital right now. I’m not that sick. I weigh 81 lbs. I’ve got a good 15 lbs. to go before warranting treatment.

~        Emily staying here is just a nightmare. Mom told me that she said, “Tell Sarah I’m sorry I fucked up her life.” She thinks that I hate her. She holds herself responsible for my entire eating disorder/drug dependency/depression/suicidality/self-mutilation/situation. How’s that for a guilt trip?

I don’t want her blaming herself for all of my problems. Christ on toast. I mean, I’d love to blame someone for this, sure (wouldn’t we all) but she is not #1 on the list. For one thing, I’m the one who fucked up. For another thing, I deserve it. And while it is pretty clear how she might come to her conclusion, it isn’t so clear how long it could take to get rid of it. I just want her to forget about me. You know?

~       I was asked the other day why I starve myself; or rather, what I get out of it. I told you the answers that I knew from books. I did not tell you what I know from life. I did not tell you the truth.

I like to see the veins. I like I like to see the tendons and the muscles and the bones. I like to watch scars form on my skin and see my skin grow transparent. I love to see the blood pulsing under the veins. I need to see this. I need to see this to know that I’m alive, it tells me I’m alive. I need to know that I am here and that my blood runs through my veins as water through a stem. I need to see that I can be seen and felt and touched and held. I need to be held. I need to be held and rocked and petted and stroked and whispered to and sighed upon. I need to feel the comfort and protection of a mother’s loving arms. And I need to be able to feel this, within myself and in God, if I am ever to be truly free.

~       Last night my mother cleaned out and packed every drawer in the kitchen desk. I came in to make a cup of tea (China Green– it burns 40 calories a cup, so they say) so I was there when she stumbled across a shoe box full of pictures. Some of them were relatively recent– from the early 80s, Emily’s and my childhood. I really wasn’t interested except for a few pictures from the 30s and 40s– Mom’s family. There are no pictures of my father’s family. I’ve never met them (except for his monster parents), I don’t know their names, and what limited knowledge I have of them comes from nightmare narratives from Mom. Anyway, I kind of got caught up in her storytelling about her family’s pictures. Despite my tendency to desperately avoid any socialization (particularly with my mother), I stayed, sipped my tea, and laughed about old times with family and friends.

It was like a goddamned Hallmark ad.

And I seriously regretted it. I hate these photographs that portray a little girl pretending to be okay. I hate that they prove my existence then, in a time where I wished to God NOT to exist. Years I can’t remember for a reason. I don’t want to remember now, I can’t handle this. I want it to stop. I HATE THESE PICTURES! I HATE THEM!! They aren’t me, can’t be me, I wasn’t there, not dancing, not singing, not posing, not smiling. I don’t understand. I feel no connection to this girl in the pictures. It’s as if she’s one of those distant relatives that I’ve heard about but never met.

Like someone related to my father.

~        There’s something wrong with the self-hatred I’m feeling right now. The more I examine it, the more I realize that my hatred is for my situation– and myself in it. Looking back, at lot of my self-hatred started that way. How does that translate? The room is messy, feels chaotic; lazy bitch, get up and clean it. Mom is stressed from packing for the move; you should help more, selfish brat. The family’s in turmoil; it’s your fuck up, you weak little nuisance. I suppose you could take that and apply it to any situation. It’s always my fault. If something is wrong, I started it, kept it going, should keep my mouth shut, and fix it. Whining doesn’t accomplish anything.

Some little things I’ve noticed seem to be confirming the notion that I’m disappearing. I walk out under the porch light without triggering the motion detector. A nurse in the ER clips a pulse oxymeter on my finger but can’t get a reading. I try to adjust the desk chair but I don’t weigh enough to make it go down. It’s only little stuff but when you think the way I do, where everything is shot through the anorexia prism, you can build up a strong case.

August

 

~        I haven’t been making any sense in the last few days. Yesterday morning I broke down in tears and wailed for about 2 hours. I still don’t know why. I…. just… feel… shitty. My hands cannot stop shaking. My arms and legs feel clumsy. I am a conglomerate of bodily shame. That’s really the problem: I feel ugly. My God. Heinously, grossly, devastatingly ugly. Fat and fleshy and pale and short and something else– damaged, I suppose. Blemished and ruined. Exposed for the mess I truly am. It’s horrible.

There’s also this sense of being completely inept. As unsophisticated and lame as a two-year-old. I feel as if I will be laughed at and possibly scolded for all that I say and do. No, no! Stupid girl! Little shit! Leave me alone. Do it yourself, stop complaining, nothing’s wrong, do I have to spell this OUT for you?? Damn it, stop acting like a child. You’re being a brat, a wimp, a crybaby, a pain. You’re spoiled/needy/selfish/greedy/awkward/impossible/irritating…

Fuck. That is how I feel 24/7. How can anyone possibly get any work done (or even feel capable of working) with THAT in their head? Aren’t there PILLS for this? Aren’t I ON most of them? There is nothing in my life that I feel confident about, sure of, proud of. There’s nothing that I work towards. There is no purpose for me.

~        Therapy is extremely tiresome. It’s as if I have to narrate my life. Narrate it; like the fucking Greek tragedy it is, right? Every little thought and action falls into one of two categories: Worth (Therapy) Time or Not Worth Time. Most things actually fall into the first category but I don’t actually bring them up because I get tired of hearing myself complain.

Now, honestly, I realize that I’m never going to do any better for a therapist than Shannon. If anyone can possibly help me, it is she. I was incredibly fortunate that she fell on my path and I think the world of her. However, that does not inhibit my frequent inclination to want to rip her fucking head off. I become completely irrational and a big baby and think: all she does is TALK. Why doesn’t she just FIX IT? Hello?? I just want to scream at her to DO SOMETHING instead of just TALKING! It’s like that line in As Good As It Gets: “I’m drowning here! And you’re describing the water!”

~        I registered for school today. It made me want to cry. Actually, I did cry. The entire concept of participating in life is so painful. The idea of getting back to an actual schedule and some version of normalcy reminds me a lot of physical therapy. It’s like I’ve had two huge plaster casts on my legs for a year and a half, but even now that the casts have been removed I am still lame. The fractures may be mended and the bones stable, but the muscles and tissues are completely atrophied. It’s going to hurt and be tedious to build myself up again… three days a week I’ll be interacting with people all day. There will be responsibilities outside of taking my meds and (supposedly) keeping my weight up. Imagine! The brain can be used for more than calculating calories and trying to combat suicidal ideation. I’m taking piano for my elective and there’s ballet– my friends (what’s left of them) will probably start their movie group again– I’ll have homework– God. The whole thing is thisclose to normal. The abnormal part is that I won’t be eating during it all. Forget it. No way can I handle both.

~       I haven’t been turning to God in these last months. Actually, I haven’t been turning to anyone. This makes me want to cry somehow, like the baby girl grasping at her father’s legs, which are walking away from her– no! Don’t leave me! But I am so afraid that her tiny fists are beginning to lose their grip.

All these fucking thoughts! I don’t need it! Everybody just SHUT UP for one FUCKING second!! You all jabber at me at once it’s just obnoxious!

How is it possible for someone to so deeply despise herself? Where did she get the ability to hear this tireless criticism? Why does she feel so compelled to agree?

Is it selfish to do what I’m doing? Do I really need to spend all this time speculating about myself? (As if you’re important.)  Is it selfish when someone else writes down their thoughts? (No, that’s called journaling, and it’s fine for people who have something interesting to say.) What if these notebooks were to be read by someone else? (You’re fucking pathetic. You’re in denial. Not one will ever care about your little self-important-badly-written-psycho-bullshit-thoughts.) Then why do I write and go to therapy? (Because you’re self-indulgent, crazy, and you have nothing better to do.) Lame-ass.

~       Having my wisdom teeth out on Thursday was quite and experience– It forced me to go almost four whole days without purging. FOUR DAYS. That may not sound like much but if you put into consideration the fact that I’ve been throwing up almost daily (minus hospital time) for a year and a half, this is major. Well, it was major. I broke down today and threw up. I couldn’t take it anymore. I just feel so disgusting when I don’t. Completely powerless– chaotic, weak, scared, out-of-control, you name it. Vulnerable… like every shield I have is down and anyone can get to me. If I’m not purging and/or restricting, who’s to say WHAT goes in and out of my body? There has to be SOME type of protection against intrusion or else everything that went into my body would have to STAY no matter how awful it felt. And over the last four days, everything has felt awful. There is this constant physical sensation of–God, there’s just no way to put this delicately– fingers. Being molested. It is disgusting. I want to kill myself. I pray for it to go away but I still feel it. I want to call Shannon, but what can she do? Just keep breathing, Sarah, stay right here, it’s you are safe at this moment, keep breathing, my dear. Helpful, maybe, while I’m on the phone but useless as soon as I hang up. I just want someone to tell me that this is not my doing, it is not unusual, and I am not completely perverted for fixating on it.

~        What is the matter with me? I’ve become a raging bitch. Yesterday my uncle, for whom I have great respect, started to make a sincerely concerned comment regarding my lack of appetite (for the third time) and I actually interrupted him with this: “Hold on. Before you say another word, let me remind you that you are speaking to someone who believes that the use of full-fat salad dressing epitomizes insanity.”

Cringe.

~        I have been pretty depressed lately. And angry– frustrated, I suppose. My eating disorder is a mess, so clearly the rest of my life is in chaos. I mean, my eating disorder is the central force of my life. If it goes downhill, then everything else goes with it. Because I still have about 98% of my self-worth wrapped up in my ability to starve and/or puke– that means that if I’m having trouble with it I automatically become incapable of anything else.

So anyway, in the past week and a half bulimia has been out of control. Maybe it’s because it was the week before my period; maybe it’s because my therapist is out of town; whatever. All I know is, I have been filled with anger and shame about my obsession with food and/or the lack of it. I am so depressed that because I can’t seem to get off my lazy ass and exercise. I’m eating more and more normally everyday. I’ve been at the SAME FUCKING NINETY POUNDS for weeks and I HATE IT!! All I want is to be seriously anorexic again. I want to be that small, gray, spindly, ghost of a girl that I was not too long ago. I want the sunken eyes, the drawn face, translucent skin, concave chest, layer of fur, bony joints, and jutting hips riddled with bruises. I want these breasts and thighs and this fat stomach gone. I want the whispers and worries and gasps and stares. I want to show everyone how strong I am, how powerful. I want to feel that alive again. Isn’t that ironic? That the times that I feel most alive are when I’m half-dead? That the only time I am not afraid of myself is when I believe I have achieved control through starvation?

I’m really sick.

© Sarah Ann Henderson 2000

“There’s No Stigma”: A Response

Sorry. Stigma is alive.

DJ Jaffe, founder of the Mental Illness Policy Organization, wrote an article in the Huffington Post last week declaring that “there is no stigma to having a mental illness.” I am not in agreement with Jaffe’s statement that “stigma is dead,” and- even better- that “eliminating [it] was relatively easy.” When I did a little research on Mr. Jaffe, I found no evidence that he has ever had the pleasure of having a psychiatric illness and encountering stigma himself. So where exactly does he get the right to say that stigma is gone? Because unfortunately, a lot of us who actually live with mental illness still find stigma in places that we really need support: our jobs, our friends, even our families. I don’t believe that abolishing stigma is as easy as changing our thinking. Perhaps for the individual, that is a good process to go through and understand that he or she is not a leper for having a mental illness, and that they deserve as much love and support as someone going through cancer or any other disease. But I don’t know how well that works on a large scale. Jaffe also claims that awareness campaigns are “not only ineffective, but harmful.” He thinks we should stop focusing on awareness about a “non-existent stigma” and instead turn our efforts to changing policy. While I agree that some awareness campaigns are not doing the cause any favor with their wording, I think it’s a little drastic to stop raising awareness altogether. There are still many people who don’t have any or have very limited knowledge of mental illness- including medical personnel- and that needs to be addressed. I do agree that we need to refocus the awareness campaigns on what actually goes on with psychiatric patients instead of trying to make mental illness appear to be the cake walk it most certainly is not. Perhaps focusing more on making the public aware of signs and symptoms and how to access treatment would be more beneficial than trying to gloss it over and make mental illness appear friendly, the way some campaigns currently are. One campaign, called No Kidding, Me Too! (nkm2.org) goes so far as saying it wants to make having mental illness “cool and sexy.” Cool and sexy?? Get serious.

Jaffe claims that stigma is gone, and that all we are facing now is prejudice and discrimination. That we should be focusing on gaining more rights for people with mental illness. Of course, we should never stop fighting for our rights. But I think he’s got it a little backwards. Isn’t discrimination simply the way stigma manifests in society? Stigma isn’t just a way of thinking, it’s a way of behaving, a way of treating people as if they’re different. Being stigmatized is to be outcast, branded a pariah. To be stigmatized is to be looked at as something less than you are, something outside of who you are- to not be seen for who you are at all. It is a form of prejudice, where you are labeled and categorized before being known, without having the chance to be known. Once someone has placed a stigma on you, it is extraordinarily difficult to reverse their thinking or their view of you. Most of the time, it’s easier to walk away than to waste time trying to change their minds. I have lost jobs and opportunities because of my history of mental illness. I was once interviewing for a position as a nanny and even though I had not engaged in self-harm for over three years (and I am an excellent caregiver), once the mother asked about the scars on my arms that was the last I heard of her. I can understand that, but I can also be angry about it, because that was not the only time it happened. I know many other people with very similar stories who have lost jobs and relationships over their issues with mental illness.

That, to me, is the definition of stigma.

Sometimes it does boggle my mind that with all of the education and publicity about mental illness and with celebrities coming forth to say they suffer from these diseases, the general public is not more understanding. But as I wrote in one of  my former articles, there is something about a mental illness that disturbs people in a way that physical illness does not. The brain, the mind, is the seat of the soul. When something breaches that, it can be extremely unsettling to watch. You see that the self you once thought inviolable is not necessarily so. I get why that would freak people out in a way that something like pneumonia wouldn’t. However, that does not give anyone the right to treat a person with a psychiatric illness as if they are ignoble. The majority of people with mental illness, when treated properly, are extremely high functioning. You would not know that I have bipolar unless I told you. You would not know that I nearly died from anorexia and bulimia, that I was once crippled by posttraumatic stress disorder. Unless you look closely you don’t really see the faded scars on my arms from years of self-inflicted wounds. I take my medication as prescribed, I see my therapist when needed, and I eat like a normal person. I go to school and I work and I write and I live. This is how it is for many people with mental illness. We take our meds and see our shrinks and go about our days, and we are perfectly capable of anything that someone without mental illness is capable of.

Obviously, it is not this way for everyone. There are many others who suffer greatly every day, who struggle because they cannot afford treatment or because treatment is ineffective. There are people who need intensive care for most of their lives due to the severity of their disease. And there are, sadly, people who die from mental illness. As Jaffe said, on one of the few points I agree with, we should put our efforts into changing public policies that further victimize and discriminate against people who are already suffering through mental illness, especially those policies that force patients to become suicidal or dangerous before qualifying for treatment. But saying that stigma is nonexistent does not serve anyone. It is simply ignoring the reality that those with mental illness encounter every day. And haven’t we done that enough?

© Sarah Henderson 2011