Author: brokenandbossy

This is a long one and something I’ve struggled to share honestly.

It’s funny because I’ve told this story before. A bunch of times even and it only hurts sometimes.

Which always made me feel like maybe on the days it hurt, I was making it up. Was I crying for attention?

I told my counselor and she said that telling a story and experiencing it are different.

She’s right, of course. When I choose to tell it, I can pause for dramatic effect and laugh at the end to let everyone know I’m okay. When it’s forced on me, I can’t help but feel powerless all over again.

I was portraying Desdemona from Othello in an acting class. If you’re not familiar, Desdemona and Othello are married, she is set up so it seems like she’s cheating when she isn’t and he kills her for it. My scene was Desdemona telling her servant/only friend/only other woman in the play that basically she knows she’s going to be MURDERED but she’s cool with it because love and loyalty or whatever.

I wasn’t getting the full emotional gravity of the scene. Looking your own death in the face is more nuanced than I was playing her. Okay, fine. I’ll try again.

Nope.

My acting teacher called a boy up from my class to improv the scene where Othello accuses Desdemona of cheating. And, without my knowledge, he was told to hit me.

So he did.

I laughed (IN SHOCK).

It wasn’t good enough I guess. Again.

I was hit again and I dissolved.

I was standing in a classroom full of students and my professor was making this kid hit me. Why? Why why why why why why why why why oh my god why. Why did I deserve this? Why did I feel so powerless? Why was this man allowed to do this to me?

I can’t explain it. I started crying, only making myself feel weaker and more powerless than I already did. But I read through the scene, barely able to get the words out through the PANIC ATTACK I was having.

Apparently it was the best performance of my life. I was having a panic attack AND reliving my nearly-suicide attempt in a classroom of students. I just wanted to explain why I was so totally destroyed but I was only making everything worse. I was humiliated, I felt broken and alone and worthless.

One girl raised her hand.

“I don’t think you should have to beat your actresses to get them to do what you want. That’s not directing.”

One person in a class of ten? Twelve? didn’t think I deserved it.

We went to the head of the department.

That’s just how some older directors are, he said.

My professor apologized next time I saw him and asked for a hug (when I happened to be in costume as a slutty cheerleader). And I forgave him. Or at least I said I did. And maybe I thought I did at the time but I didn’t know then that that little voice in the back of my head telling me that this was NOT okay, that voice  was trauma.

I was traumatized. I watched a play about Othello a few months ago and watched that scene for the first time since I’d done it in an acting class.

I could feel it coming and I couldn’t help it, I started crying and then hyperventilating and then I had to run.

I burst out of that theater and had a panic attack on the pavement.

It sucked.

I couldn’t breathe, I was stuck relieving one of the worst moments of my life because I had to listen to Shakespeare. I’m an actor, I’m not getting away from Shakespeare.

I’m an actor, not a punching bag. I’m stuck with this trauma because one acting teacher refused to understand consent. And he thinks what he did was ‘worth it’ because I had a ‘break through’.

That is not teaching. It is abuse.

Thanks, I have an eating disorder that will probably kill me one day!

It’s an uncomfortable response to such a lovely compliment but usually a painfully accurate one.

Hi. If you’re new, I have an eating disorder. I’ve been struggling with it for years and I’m not going to sugarcoat it. It sucks.

I gained something like 30 pounds over a year when my grandmother died, I was on new birth control, and I tried confronting my eating disorder. It was a wild year and I barely survived it (I do mean that literally).

Eating disorders are painful and hard on lots of levels and I’m still fighting mine in a very real way. I think I might have body dysmorphia (add it to the list, I’m a little tired of having labels for all the things that are wrong with me. It stopped being comforting a while back), I know I lost weight and I know people have noticed but I think I look the same. I haven’t noticed a difference and I have no idea how to respond when people think I ‘look great’.

Most of this weight loss is probably healthy. I know for sure some of it isn’t.

Please don’t tell me I look great, you’re just feeding the side that thinks  I’ll never be good enough unless I’m incredibly thin. I understand that it’s hard to know but it’s not as hard as you think. You probably know who has an eating disorder in your life; in the back of your brain, you know.

If someone you love is losing weight a little too rapidly, if they never eat a full meal in front of you, or if you just have a nagging in the back of your brain, remember; thin isn’t synonymous with healthy and it never will be.

Ask hard questions when you think you shouldn’t and never assume that thin is a victory.

Much love, confront the demons you can and find peace within yourself whenever possible.

Most of the time, even.

Mental illness is an annoyingly personal journey that you just have to walk through.

Words don’t really matter, actions don’t either. I wish they did.

I watch my friends in pain and it kills me. I tell them the things that made a difference to me, I sob telling them how much I love them and how much I would miss them but it never matters as much as I want it to.

It doesn’t matter how much I tell them that they are beautiful, inside and out. They don’t believe me – they can’t. It’s part of the thing and it sucks.

I don’t mean this to sound as negative as it does, it just so happens that the truth really sucks.

My point is that you can’t expect to save your friends. You can’t save them from the monsters in their head, only they can. Love them anyway. Choose to care about them anyway. It won’t be easy and it will hurt when it feels like your love isn’t enough.

I’ve been suicidal and I remember when nothing anyone did or said mattered but it still kills me when my friends say they’re suicidal. And it’s a pain I can’t describe. What do you mean? You, you beautiful wonderful magnificent human who brings so much good and love into this cruel world, you want to kill yourself? Don’t you understand that I love you so much? Don’t you understand that I could never do this without you?

It’s so frustrating, but choose love. Choose it anyway. Your love may not save them, but it might give them the time they need to fight harder.

I know my love will not save my friends. It might not even help, but I will love them anyway.

I didn’t understand just how much ‘Let it Go’ from Frozen meant to me until quite recently.

I currently work at a childrens museum that plays Disney music regularly – so I hear ‘Let it Go’ something like eight times a day. Maddening, right?

Well, I get a little twinge of something every time without fail.

I remember listening to that song in my ancient Volvo on the way home from rehearsal or school or work or whatever in the dark and just blasting it. I would scream-sing along, sometimes crying sometimes not, in some kind of catharsis. I had always identified with Elsa, the older sister, not as friendly as the younger sister, never really had friends etc. but I didn’t understand why that song hit me the way it did. Until just a couple days ago.

I felt like Elsa in so many more ways than I thought. I felt trapped in the idea of who I was supposed to be, so afraid to disappoint the world around me that I created this false version of myself. I pretended to be perfect. I spent so much of high school being just exhausted (the eating disorder probably didn’t help) and so goddamned high strung.

Elsa letting her ice powers out was a dream of mine – maybe I could be myself one day. Maybe I wouldn’t have to try so hard to be liked, try so hard to beautiful, funny, demure etc. etc. etc.

I’m letting go more now. I feel like my own person now – a person that’s not my idea of what the perfect person is like. But she’s real and that’s pretty cool.

It’s funny how much I learned about myself watching that movie and I doubt the writers intended Elsa to be a metaphor for mental illness, but I’m grateful either way.

Do you feel like a Disney princess? Which one? Do you think that says much about you? Honestly guys, I’m curious.

I’ve written about anxiety in the past and the kinds of anxiety attacks I personally suffer from but one kind I don’t like to talk about is rage.

I get angry, really really angry and I scream out of frustration at whatever may have caused it. And it’s hard to know what might cause my anxiety attacks and I know its hard for my friends to respond when I yell at them and pull away because I need space.

I hate driving, it gives me a lot of anxiety especially when I’m unfamiliar with the terrain and there are other people in the car (probably a perfectionism thing, it’s on my list to discuss with my psychologist). I drove friends home from a party the other night because it turned out I was the most sober at the end of the night and better safe than sorry, right? I was already irritated and tired and my intoxicated friends weren’t the most supportive as I missed turns and got lost. My anxiety built until I started crying and my friends must not have heard the frustration in my voice, they didn’t stop criticizing (nothing harsh or mean, just the light teasing that friends do). When someone did notice that I was crying, I was screamed at to stop the car. Maybe it seemed like I was endangering my friends, it hardly mattered, my anxiety had already spiraled:

These people didn’t care about me, I was a stupid failure that couldn’t do a damn thing right and I was deluding myself if I thought I got to have friends and go to parties like normal college students. I’m not as pretty and funny as these people and it hardly matters anyway. I screamed and cried in front of strangers and I’m sure I’ll never be asked to help again because I’m too dangerous.  I’m not suicidal, just tired of feeling less-than.

But today is brighter and I know that when the stress of finals is over and I talk to my lovely doctor again, I’ll feel better. I know it’s no one’s fault but my own and I’ll make amends when I’ve gotten more rest.

Anxiety attacks aren’t always gentle tears and hyperventilating, some times they’re scarier and don’t seem like anxiety at all. I have less of a point than usual, I just needed some catharsis.

Mental illness is a funny thing in that it’s completely selfish in the most self destructive way possible.

So, maybe you know you’re sick and you just don’t care. What then? Carry on as best you can and avoid getting help to make your existence more bearable because you hate yourself just that much?

I understand the self-loathing. I really do. I still live there more often than I’d like to admit, it’s a familiar feeling.

So, don’t do it for you.

I’m not doing it for me. I’m doing it for my mom. I remember very vividly a phone call I had with my mother after I was hospitalized my freshman year of college. First off, let me tell you there is nothing more painful than telling a person that loves you more than anything that you want to kill yourself. Nothing. I remember hearing her voice break – she had tried to be so strong for so long for me and I’ll never forget those sobbed words

“But I am with you. I am walking this with you, you are not on this path alone, I am holding your hand.”

I knew then that I would do anything not to make my mother cry like that ever again. I still can’t think about that conversation without absolutely breaking down. I wasn’t convinced that my life was worth it but my mom thought so (and so many other people do) so I’m doing it for her until I can do it for me.

You might hate everything you are but someone loves you and would break if they knew how much you suffered.

A lot of days I get to do it for me but some days I still do it for my mom and that’s okay.

All that matters is that you’re doing it.

Well, most people don’t understand but do you know who will every time?

Your mental health team. EVERY time. It doesn’t matter how long it’s been since you’ve talked to them, it doesn’t matter how long you’ve been off your meds. They’ll understand and all they want to do is get you back on track.

It’s been awhile since I’ve talked to my psychologist. I missed one appointment and kept calling to reschedule but never actually managed to make it to back. Social anxiety, shame, and whatever else stopped me from doing this thing that I need to feel better. But eventually I called, got her receptionist, and made the appointment I’ve been needing. This semester has been hard and I let the foundation of my recovery and mental wellness go to hell and that’s my own fault but Sam didn’t care. She just wanted to help me feel better because that’s her job and she’s damn good at it (another reason finding YOUR psychologist is important). We just talked about how I’m feeling and she reminded me that my breakdowns are not failure and that my mental illness is a real, tangible thing. It is not a choice, it is not a weakness, and it sucks.

They understand and they’ll keep understanding because that’s their job. Making it back is putting my wellness first and she was just proud of me for finding what I needed again. Put your wellness first, no matter what – I’m just proud you made it.

Everybody does! As deep and varied as your own!

So, have more compassion okay?

The comments section is one of the most dangerous digital places on this planet and it’s mostly because people forget that other people have feelings (and that those feelings are also valid even if they’re not the same as yours). Please try not to fight with strangers on the internet and if you’re going to, remember that they have feelings that matter.

I am incredibly passionate about mental health, gun control, womens health, human rights (ALL humans), the environment and how much of a jackass I think Donald Trump is.  Because of these strong views, I’m at odds with a lot of people in the world and I have trouble not calling people selfish bigots when they don’t care about what I care about. I am, however, capable of having a grown up discussion about my beliefs without resorting to name calling. I can and I have, but only ever in person. It’s so hard to see the person behind the screen and insults or comment section rants don’t solve much of anything. If I get too deep down the rabbit hole, it feels like this beautiful world we live in is too flawed and I can’t possibly survive it. So, I’m choosing to engage in the fight in person or in long ramble-y posts (like this one!) that (hopefully) inspire more hope than argument (although, I did just call Donald Trump a jackass so I’ll probably get some heat for that but I stand by it).

Some people really do totally suck and they don’t deserve your compassion but ere on the side of caution and spread more understanding if you can.

We live in a weird world but I believe in the good.

Okay, I want a video of a girl scrolling through her own insta singing reflection from Mulan because that’s pretty much how I’m feeling. I scrolled through my own Instagram the other day and I didn’t know that girl. Big smiles, funny captions, and a picture perfect entourage. That girl didn’t cry herself to sleep because she’s so scared to be lonely. That girl has never gone back to bed because she found a new stretch mark or her favorite jeans don’t fit. That girl exists on Instagram and only on Instagram and that sucks.

Summer is the time when middle class white girls like me post perfect instas with charming captions and all the emojis. And my life isn’t…that? I don’t have lots of friends to go to the beach with or a hot guy to take a laughing bikini pic with (and thinking about going out in a bikini much less, taking PHOTOGRAPHIC EVIDENCE is inducing an anxiety attack). So, does that mean I’m living a less fulfilling life than the bikini-clad insta models?

Okay, no but it does feel like it!

Oh…everyone is having fun and living these beautiful lives and I’m fat, lonely, and depressed? Awesome.

EXCEPT NOT REALLY.

It’s be really cool if I was always happy and fulfilled but I’m not and I don’t know a human in the real world who is.

I compare myself to the lives I see playing out on Instagram. I compare myself to the woman I try to be on Instagram and that’s not good for me or for you.

Keep it in perspective when you can and if I figure out how to be the woman I am on Instagram (or to stop caring that I’m not) I’ll let you know.

Okay, yeah. Suicide is pretty much the worst case scenario for anyone with mental illness or anybody period. And trying to tell people you’ve thought about suicide in that incredibly passive sense, ‘I’m in a lot of pain. I could kill myself’ where you’re not making concrete pains or even really wishing for it, you’re just laying it out as an option, scares people (and yourself).

But, if you’ve been thinking about suicide for a long time (even in a passive sense), you think of it as a coping mechanism. And, on the scale of coping mechanisms, this really isn’t a healthy one but you can’t be angry that you’re still using it.

I remember when I was in the seventh grade and on the Power of the Pen team, I wrote about a girl considering suicide. She counted her mothers’ sleeping pills every time she was too sad or too angry to make sure there was still enough to kill her if it came to that (I got 2 out of 10 on that round – the adjudicator did not understand why a seventh grader was writing about suicide). She ended up flushing the pills when she decided she didn’t want to live with a safety net anymore. And it’s okay to have a safety net and it’s okay to think about suicide sometimes. You’re not failing. I still do sometimes, in the passive sense that reminds me that I have an out if my feelings get to be too much. I’m learning to replace it with other things, because I’m in recovery. I know that no matter how bad things get, there are other ways out that are so much nicer than a funeral.

But thinking about suicide was a safety net I used a lot and it’s a bad habit but I’m working out of it. It’s okay, and a little normal, if you’re still working on your coping mechanisms. Stay with me though, okay?