#normalize mental health

[sillygoblinantics]

I haven’t been sound of mind lately, but thought it would help to share an essay I wrote almost a year ago when I was in a similar headspace.

This was a meditative and cathartic essay.

Pain Response

(Written 10/20/23)

In a few months it will have been exactly ten years since I made an attempt on my life. A scary unsettling beginning to the piece, but I’ve been able to get help. I wanted to write this as a way to reflect on the past and present of how my brain and body responded to not just physical pain, but mental, internal and emotional pain.

I was bullied from fourth grade to eighth grade as a kid. Seventh grade was when my self esteem and confidence was shattered at a school dance. A dance where my bully made one of our classmates slow dance with me as a joke, causing me to run to the girl’s room and cry so hard. My mind was on a tightrope and slipped a few times but somehow got back on the rope either way. Because below was an inky black pit, that if it touched me would pull me below the surface like a kelpie racing to the sea once I ignorantly touched its adhesive pelt. On the outside I was scared and wasn’t getting help with my bully. As a result I would have to sneak away with a paperclip and hide in the bathroom, marking my flesh with small lines until it began to bleed like a farmer sowing the land for his crops. My mom did everything she could to keep me safe and address the issue that was the bully at this private school. Each day I would stare out the window, down the driveway to the street where the cars would go speeding by. Everyday I watched, thinking, calculating, planning it. The day came and before I made it, I stopped. I looked back up to the school, having outran my teachers, and looked back at my planned demise. I couldn’t do it and ran back up the hill. My lungs paced in breath and hid behind the school building in the woods until I was found. It was this year when I reached a low, my confidence and self worth was barely there, only fragments. I was twelve years old and was sent to a hell that disguised itself as a safe haven for preteens, tweens and teens who were suicidal for five days. It scared me so badly that the effects would remain as toxic coping mechanisms for stressful situations. I was scared to talk about my feelings for a while when I was in high school.

I had points where the smallest inconvenience would pierce the dam that welled up my tears and break down or disconnect from the world if so,etching rattled me. I still bear a scar from a time when I was in math and because I was good and finished I would draw to keep focus. When my teacher saw me do this she made me stop drawing which scared me, and while in my chair, my hands not knowing what to do, I began methodically moving my thumbnail up and down my wrist. To when I bled. My mom had to talk with the teacher and the school about this and I was allowed to draw in class. I was able to get a good therapist during high school too and was comfortable about talking to her about what I was going through and what was on my mind. My senior year of high school, I was stuck doing still life drawings to fill my portfolio. I planned a series of them about my journey and preparation for leaving home and following my creative dreams and heart. The head of the art department and my home room teacher walked up behind me, noticing me doing a piece that incorporated a barn that she said most students can’t draw. I was trying to make a forced perspective still life and was feeling so confident in myself about it until my teacher said this while behind me;

“You can’t draw that.”

“What?”

“You can’t draw that.”

“What do you-“

“You’re not good at perspective, draw something else.”

She then walked away leaving me confused and disheartened. And no I didn’t continue with what I had, I was scared of her. So I did what she said and drew something else. She could’ve gone over it with me or at least taught me a bit but no, she had to be a bitch. And this was internalized up to my freshman year of SCAD during Winter Quarter 2019/2020 in my DRAW101 class. We were starting perspective and I froze up, panicking and trying to hold back tears. It felt like I was back in high school again and that teacher was behind me repeating all the things she told me. I eventually couldn’t continue the class and luckily my professor was very understanding and I retook the class the following quarter.

I used to punish myself by inflicting pain thinking it was the only suitable payment. It was scary. When I think about it, I think about how different the pain feels between an accident or on purpose. For accidents its quick and lingers for a minute, but when it was with a purpose it stung and remained for much longer, you would feel every fiber around the wound pinching and almost burning and trying to hold together. The accidents heal faster than the mistakes and the mistakes are crinkled and white but shine a bit. Like a small badge and string to remind you of what happened and that its there. It’s not a reward though, it isn’t honorable either, the less there are the better and if they get harder to see it shows growth then.

I have a scar that’s from Fall Quarter of 2020, back when we were all home but some of us were slowly coming back; being roomed in a suite either with one other person or all to ourselves. Around this point I was doing good, keeping up with taking three classes per quarter, but this wouldn’t last. My mental health suffered greatly at the hands of one of the professors in the animation department. Before his class, my anxiety and depression were separate things that stayed away from each other, but when my anxiety was rattling at the lid before blowing it off and cascading into my depression. I hurt myself, I thought the same thoughts I had back when I was twelve. My mother had to bring me and my dog home. Eventually closer to the end of the quarter I was able to get help and was able to pass. He got what he deserved. Sorta.

The pain of loss is strong, be it the loss of someone you knew in passing, the loss or end of a friendship, and the death of a friend you only knew their whole life. It will soon be two years since my old dog passed, and I find myself still mourning and longing for her return. She was there in my life when I was in the abyss, in pain. She would come to my aid the instant I shed a tear or whimpered, opening the door to my room and racing to kiss away every tear, cleaning the self harm wounds and providing a source of comfort and understanding when I felt that no one knew. She passed only in the first week of the spring quarter. The day was as normal and she seemed normal, but when I got home my dad was rushing us into the truck to get her to an emergency vet; she had a seizure for the first time in twelve years of her life. I was terrified watching her shaking and foaming and trying to move, but was too scared to hold her. Next day came and I got the news she wouldn’t be coming home. Not alive, not- I’m sorry. It’s been a while since I’ve thought about that day and though I seemed ready to retell the story and emotions, it seems I wasn’t. She fortunately didn’t cross the bridge in pain, when vets had gotten her in a stable condition, she was able to get up and move around, playing a bit before going back to bed. I couldn’t continue with the evening class I was taking, as it would bring me back to that night. A month passed and my mental health was stagnant in a negative space. My mom was looking at dog breeders and found one that was two hours away from us. She showed me one that she said had my old friend’s eyes, but I didn’t see it until I saw a different puppy. That got my attention enough to make us drive the two hours that same day and meet her and she was patient and observant. And when we looked each other in the eye, she took what felt like a minute before deciding to climb into my lap. We were able to bring her home the following week. And she’s now almost two and an amazing wonderful dog that is slowly learning what to do.

Whenever I had been in a hard place I took the frustration out on myself, using something sharp to dig into my skin. Slowly I’ve learned to take control back, I don’t hear that nasty voice that perches atop my shoulders weighing me down like a vulture who’s slowly waiting for me to collapse from the treacherous sun, it’s now more or less the size of a field mouse. But when I do hear those nasty suggestions from that voice I hear myself rationalizing the weight and telling us to breathe. And instead of inflicting something sharp on my skin, I use my hands and said object to cut my hair. The weight of the stress and worry falling from my head releases the tension and makes it easier to breathe. I think of this as shearing a sheep which is how I describe the level of my curls. I also cook which I’ll occasionally get small burns from oil or accidentally cut my fingers with the kitchen knife but the wounds fade and or are hardly there.

I’ve grown from the small lamb whose wool was tarnished by the inky black of depression to a ram that bears its teeth and sheds its stained wool without much intervention or assistance from the farmer. But I still talk about the things that got stuck and ask for help when I can’t do it myself.

I don’t think I was expecting to end this with an analogy to sheep but what are you gonna do.

[fox-yapping]

i know it’s been a while since i’ve posted bahbahbah idc but chat i want to say something,

everyone is always like “mental health matters!!!” and “it’s okay not to be okay!” but as soon as you bare signs of mental health issues or god forbid have visible scars, everyone suddenly finds you repulsive. or makes fun of you.

like a “shit post twitter account” with millions of followers (they post screenshots of people acting different and make fun of them) posted a screenshot of a other post that was like “love sitting outside watching the sunset” with a picture of them outside with the sunset with their legs in the frame, the only thing ‘not normal’ is their legs are very visibly scared. that’s the only thing that stands out.

and the scars were faded. they obviously weren’t posting for attention they just wanted to post a fucking picture of the sunset. normalize having empathy

[pinkfloyd-musicartnaturelove]

[mroddmod]

bro u gotta stop fuckin looking at me like that

[bloodyrosesnthorns]

I'm sorry mom.

[skrtl]

I guess I have no filter because the substitute who’s teaching my class tonight just asked me what happened and I just said it’s because I am having an anxiety crisis and haven’t slept for three nights so my body and brain are barely functioning.

And then I was like “OK, I shouldn’t have said that”, but then again, let’s treat mental disorders like any other 2k23. Specially if people are asking personal questions.

[hemlock-dreams]

You've kinda teased it with the first bartender-Petey art, but I wanna know more about White and Yellow. Is their relationship with Deadpool the same? How do they interrupt/talk/think about Petey? And spider-man!

Why bother healing when you can just develop a deeply unhealthy and extremely codependent relationship with your hot bartender bff and assign to them the burden of your wellbeing instead?

Peter makes the boxes go quiet. A double-edged sword.

And the boxes have a love/hate relationship with Peter. On one hand, they can use Peter to taunt Wade. On the other hand, Peter takes up Wade's attention so he's not hearing the boxes.

[askthestubbornoptimist]

New ATSO blog post out now!!🥳 In it I talk about how while stories of mental illnesses and disorders like postpartum depression and psychosis have been around for centuries, we are still far behind on mental health advocacy and support for all. You can read this and more mental health blog posts by me on the ATSO blog💚 Our homepage has links to more mental health resources, connections, and support💜 Sending you so much love today and every day❤️ you matter, and I am so thankful you exist💚🌏🌍🌎 Always yours, ATSO�� (at USA) https://www.instagram.com/p/CoYGyKmvXzE/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[thrvshmonkey]

We are born into trauma.

Trauma can be experienced in the womb and up to adulthood. Then, as an adult you learn how to cope or co-exist with your trauma and can be detrimental to you, or it can be beneficial when triggers arise.

I bring it up to say that we all have things we can heal. Healing is so crucial for us to become the best versions of ourselves and for the ones we love and care for.

[katruna]

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

hope you feel better soon!

I am riddled with ailments, but I stay silly!

[uncanny-tranny]

I think it would really benefit people to internalize that mental illnesses are often chronic and not acute. Some of us will never be able to jump the hurdle of managing illness, much less sustaining a sense of normalcy. Many of us will never "recover," will never manage symptoms, will never even come close to appearing normal - and this is for any condition, even the ones labeled as "simple" disorders or "easy-to-manage" disorders.

It isn't a failure if you cannot manage your symptoms. It isn't a moral failure, and you aren't an awful person. You are human. There's only so much you can do before recognizing that you cannot lift the world. Give yourself the space to be ill because, functionally, you are.

[corantus]

lesbian beauty & the beast 👑💔

[sweeneydino]

Behold

Gremlin baby Dai.

Can you and your peepaws resist his creature charms?

[panic-flavored]

Look I don't want spoilers for Sonic 3 but I DO want spoilers for stobotnik do you understand me

I'm seeing it on the 20th and I just need someone to tell me beforehand whether or not those old men stay together at the end for the sake of my mental health

Can someone just give me a spoiler-free heads up on stobotnik's status at the end of the movie because I am NOT WELL

[edsbacktattoo]

good evening everyone. remember when stede bonnet called edward teach his boyfriend. do you remember when edward teach actually fucking loved it. do you recall. wow. what a day that we have had. i love you all