My experiences with shame and stigma.

     Many, if not all, of us have experienced some sort of stigma at a point in our lives.  Before getting into the stigma I have faced let me say that I know exactly how privileged I am.  All in all, I’ve had a pretty good life.  That being said I am going to talk about my experience with stigma as it pertains to mental health issues.

      What is stigma?  For those that don’t have a good idea about what stigma actually is, it is a negative stereotype.  It often trivializes those that it stereotypes, belittling them.  It also usually offends them, and patronizes them.  If it does any of those things, chances are it is an example of stigma.  I would say that stigma comes from assumptions.  When we make assumptions we run the risk of stigmatizing people.

     Growing up there was nothing specific I can remember being said against those with mental health issues.  There was certainly something in the air in general though.  The media is steeped with stereotypes against those that suffer with mental health issues.  Perhaps that is where I learned that there was something wrong with something being wrong.  At any rate, I learned two things: getting help is not something a man does, and medication is only for when there is something you can’t fix on your own.

     As my life progressed and I needed help I didn’t even know how to ask for it.  It was offered, but I couldn’t accept it.  When I was in the hospital for the first time my own assumptions about what those with mental health issues crept into the open and didn’t allow me to get the help I desperately needed.  I thought to myself “these people are crazy, I don’t belong here, I’m normal.”  After getting out of the hospital I was given tremendously bad advice by those who didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand, or had a skewed perspective on what was going on with me.

     I think they were honestly trying to help, but were of a generation that had less of a grasp on mental health than I did.  I think the biggest issue was everyone simply not talking about what was going on.  There was something wrong with me; others claimed it was just weakness.  There was shame, shame in disappointing others, shame in not being able to look others in the eye with confidence.  I remember feeling so broken.

     I didn’t know how to talk about what was going on with me.  This caused me to run.  I tried to run as far and as fast from everyone I knew, and when my issues flared up my first instinct was to run.  This caused many failed relationships.  Not just romantic, but friendships and familial relationships were ruined.  I was so afraid of being judged harshly and part of me felt it wasn’t their business.  I could handle my own affairs solely.  This always ultimately led to isolation.  If I was alone, I couldn’t be judged.  That seemed like the best course of action.

     It wasn’t until I entered the work force that I fully understood what type of discrimination I could face for having bipolar and being hospitalized.  I remember the shame I felt immediately after my latest (and hopefully last) suicide attempt.  There was nothing but shame in my eyes.  I feared that I would lose my job.  I learned shortly thereafter that another employee was demoted for being on antidepressants that were supposedly causing her to make mistakes.  I worked in retail, which in and of itself is not forgiving of any missed time, and every time I needed to call off I was so afraid I was going to lose my job that I desperately needed.

     I was ashamed and told white lies to coworkers so that they would not know what had happened regarding my hospitalization and my continued instability.  I was afraid that they would treat me differently.  I was afraid of the discrimination I would face.

     One particular instance I remember was talking with my therapist about doing work that I found fulfilling, and I had said that when I worked the customer service desk I felt more as though I were doing something that mattered because I made people happy.  My therapist had suggested that I get a note from my psychiatrist stating that I could only work the desk.  When I turned it in I was met with overwhelming opposition.  The request was seen as unreasonable in that it was more stressful and harder work therefore it made no sense that I should have such a request.

     I was so careful about what I said to anyone about why I was only behind the desk and of course made it a point to hide anything going on with me.  I couldn’t always hide, of course.

     Eventually a local relocation forced me to leave that particular store and part of me really wonders if the reason I had such a hard time finding work (I didn’t), while I was still in the state, had to do with receiving a negative review by my previous place of employment.  For some reason I was even denied a transfer to a local store that was within walking distance.

     It was not until recently that I have fully embraced what is going on and realizing that there is discrimination against those with mental health issues and that the only way for that to end is for people to stand up and publicly state what is going on with them.  That being said, I am trying very hard to correct people when they make a discriminatory statement and be more open about my own issues.

    So, how about you?  What are your experiences with stigma?  Have any stories or anecdotes about discrimination?  Share them in the comments below if you feel comfortable.  Let’s get a dialog going on this, shall we?

--JJM

Blog for Mental Health 2015

“I pledge my commitment to the Blog for Mental Health 2015 Project. I will blog about mental health topics not only for myself, but for others. By displaying this badge, I show my pride, dedication, and acceptance for mental health. I use this to promote mental health education in the struggle to erase stigma.”

     My mental health journey begins at a young age.  Though this information was omitted from previous posts I only remembered it towards the middle of last year.  I remember bits and pieces of my childhood, but I now clearly remember attempting to hang myself in the schoolyard at the age of eight.  The knot didn’t hold and I fell before any but a few took notice, and thankfully no teachers or other people of authority.  It should have been a great indicator that something was deeply wrong, even at such an age.

     Not much of interest happened until I hit my teenage years.  My first hints of social anxiety and depression manifested but I still did not seek help.  Grade ten I took half a bottle of sleeping pills.  Luckily nothing permanent happened.

     When I left for University things got out of hand.  I came across the concept of cutting.  I cut myself with broken glass and exacto-knives.  That was when the police were called and I was given the choice of signing myself into the hospital, or being forced into one.  I chose the former.  I was diagnosed as bipolar.

     That was in 2003.  The hospital was a scary place for me.  I didn’t feel at all as though I belonged there and fought hard to get out.  By that I mean I did everything I was told and told the doctors exactly what they wanted to hear, and immediately upon seeing the doctor said I wanted to leave.  In retrospect that was not the best idea.  After getting out I dropped out of college and refused any kind of treatment.  I felt as though I could keep things under control.

     This was, of course, a mistake.  I alienated those around me and destroyed many relationships.  It was not until 2012 that I scared myself into getting the help I needed.  I again attempted to overdose on medication, winding up in the hospital again.  This time I didn’t fight it.  Things had changed quite a bit in the nearly ten years between visits.  Realistically I should have been hospitalized many times over.  I was put on medication and sent to therapy.  I also discovered psychosocial rehabilitation, a wonderful program that people should look into if it is available in their area.  It was around this time I was finally diagnosed with social anxiety disorder.

     Then, as stated in my previous entry, things got out of hand and I landed back in the hospital in early 2013.  Since then I have relocated to a new country (Canada), I have been learning how to navigate a completely different mental health system.  It has been a challenge to be sure.  I have been seeing my new therapist for about six months and have been on stable medications for the past year.  Things have gotten to a much more stable place.

     I joined the Blog for Mental Health last year, and did not contribute as much as I wanted to.  This year I will make it a point to contribute much more than last and look forward to reading and interacting with other bloggers.  I want to make it a point to erase as much stigma about mental health issues as possible.  I hope to educate others on my experiences, and on what mental illness really is.  It is for that reason that I am renewing my pledge to the Blog for Mental Health.

http://blogformentalhealth.com/2015/01/30/blog-for-mental-health-2015/ 

--JJM

After a year hiatus the blog is back online.

     It has been over a year.  There are some questions that I will address in length.

     Firstly, where did I go for that time?  During the early part of 2014 and much of 2013 my wife and I were separated by a great distance.  She was in Canada looking for work, I was left in our home to keep things going while our lease ran out and she was able to gather the funds for my relocation.  I did not cope with this well at all.  For much of the time I was un-medicated.  I had it in my head that I needed to stockpile my medication for when I moved.  This led to many manic and depressive episodes as well as all the other wonderful symptoms I’ve been known to exhibit.  I started this blog in a whirlwind of excitement born from a manic episode.  I wasn’t sleeping, too busy with everything else to be bothered with any of the day-to-day things.

     After the mania wore off I sunk into a deep depression landing me in the hospital for almost two weeks.  During that time I, of course, couldn’t be bothered with the blog.  Then there was another flurry of excitement as the move to Canada was happening in just a few weeks.  With the help of my in-laws the apartment was put back into a semblance of order (from the destruction I inflicted upon it in my un-medicated state), and packed just in time.  There was a huge sigh of relief.  After that it took time to get everything unpacked, connected, and working.

     In addition to the long process of getting medicated, recovering, and stabilizing, I spent a large portion of my time getting used to the city, having never lived in a city as large as Toronto.  I toyed with the idea of getting back to writing, but just couldn’t do it so soon after a major move.  Shortly thereafter I came into limited contact with someone from my past and I felt a sudden surge of anxiety.  Though I have said that I wanted a level of transparency with this blog, I couldn’t help but feel I couldn’t continue writing because of what this person may eventually find.

     Then, time passed.  I became comfortable not writing.  I started helping out at a local office doing some volunteer work for them and it became a full-time thing.  I didn’t have time to write.  I am still doing that work and have found the time to write, thus eliminating that excuse.  As to feeling unable to write because of what a certain person may find, if I am to actually practice what it is I say I stand for I must not allow that to hold me back.

     That is the “where.”  Why am I back?

     Though I enjoy the work I do at the office, I feel there is something lacking.  My wife says something that I have when I am writing.  I feel I can be a force for good.  It is my duty as a person living with mental health issues to do what I can to educate the world.  To let the world know that we are, in fact, people.  Though I do not pretend to be anything more than a single voice, it is a voice that can, and should, be heard.

     Why now?

     Though I’ve toyed with the idea of getting back into writing, and again getting involved with mental health support and advocacy on social networks, I haven’t for the past year, as I’ve said before.  It was just a few days ago that an old and dear college friend posted a little snippet of writing that struck a particular chord with me.  I don’t usually use trigger warnings because, to be honest, when you are reading the writings of someone with mental health issues almost everything is going to be a trigger.  That being said, the following passage is very intense.

“He draws the lines he's always seen on his skin with razor blades, watching the blood well up from the wounds and draw the patterns on his body. He feels the strength leave his body through the pattern and for once he feels clean. In a final moment everything explodes attempting to force him to live in that one moment he is like a flower, truly beautiful, and then there is nothing, then he is free.”

--Felix Velazquez

     As I said, this struck me deep.  When I was in college, I cut myself.  I broke a coffee mug and used the shards to cut away everything I hated in myself.  I also drank.  A lot.  Sometimes the two even overlapped.  Reading the above passage and recognizing that in myself, I realized that I still had something to give to others.  Even if it is merely letting them know they are not alone in their thoughts and feelings.

     So what now?

     I am writing again, this much I know for sure.  I cannot promise daily updates.  Also in a slight change of practice not every entry will be the sort of tirade that it was.  There will no doubt be a more personal angle to the blog than was present before.

     All of that being said, this time I am back for the long haul.  Expect more info on the Finding a Voice in a Maelstrom page and movement.

Thank you for reading.

--JJM