Anyone Up For A Game Of Truth And Dare?

One of my favourite Facebook pages is The Nutters Club NZ.  Their mission is to

“to forever change the way people, feel, think, talk and behave in relation to our mental, physical, emotional, spiritual, cultural and sexual well being; and in doing so encourage us all to take ownership of our own health and well being.”

It’s not a bad aim, in my books, and they do it through humour, as well as a television/radio programme fronted by kiwi comedian, Mike King,  seeking to de-stigmatise mental illness.  My only problem is that kiwi media lords give them such late night spots that I often don’t get to see/hear them.  But I love what they are doing on Facebook.

Yesterday I came across a clip on their page, of Stephen Fry and Andy “Electroboy” Berhman briefly discussing Electroconvulsive Treatment (ECT), sometimes called ElectroShock Treatment.

It’s one of those topics that my eyes spring wide when I see it mentioned, and I just can’t help but want to read.  Why?  Because ECT is something that I had, numerous times, over   about eight years.  It’s an important topic worthy of discussion simply because it seems that few have much understanding of it, or of what the long-term consequences are me, and the thousands of others who have had this treatment.

My eyes sprung so wide when I saw this clip, and some comments on The Nutters Club NZ page, that it was worth dropping back in from my ‘vacation’ of ‘baking pies’ (see Blocked).  For your sake, I hope I can make some sense,

You can read about my experience of ECT either in ECT – How It Was For Me or in my book, Infinite Sadness, 2009 which you will find on Scribd.com.

It’s now 10 years since I had my last lot of treatments, at which the psychiatrist administering the treatment sat me down (just after I had woken up from my general anaesthetic) and told me he felt I had received “too much ECT”.

In the state I was in at the time, I was hardly fit to ask what he meant by this.  My mother was with me (she had to drive me home) but knew so little about ECT that she didn’t ask what was meant either.  I never saw that doctor again, nor has any doctor been able to tell me what he meant.  Was I now an over-charged battery?  Had he fried my brain and left it charred?  I don’t know.  I was simply left to live with it.

What troubles me (more) about ECT is the lack of reliable information available.  Since writing about my experience, I have had a number of people ask me whether I thought they should have ECT, as it was being recommended to them.  Obviously I have no medical training and therefore can’t recommend anything.  All I can do is explain my experience. And I am more than happy to do that so that others have more information that what I had to go on.

There simply isn’t enough information available.  At the time anyone is being offered ECT I would suggest that they are probably not in a fit state to be making such a decision.  It’s one of those ‘last ditch efforts’ by doctors who simply don’t know what to do with a patient who they have classed as having treatment resistant depression.

I was ‘offered’ ECT on three occasions in 1995, 2002 and 2003.  On the first of those occasions my (now ex) husband decided for me.  On the other two, I just had to go along with it because there was no one else to decide for me, and there were simply no other options.  I simply had to let them do what they ‘thought best’.

It’s not a very satisfactory situation.  It really comes down to the doctor’s opinion.  And what I’m now wondering is, if those doctors had been the one’s being ‘offered’ ECT, would they take it?  How many doctors would submit themselves to repeated treatments of ECT?

Not only am I concerned about the lack of information, and the hardly ideal situations for making such decisions, I am growing increasingly concerned about how little appears to be known (and publicised) about the long-term effects of ECT.

Whenever I read about so-called long-term effects, it is about the effect on memory in the time following the treatment.  What I’ve often read is that while memory can be affected in the short-term, that in the months following memory will be returned to normal.

That’s coming from health professionals, but what I know from my own experience, and from listening to others who have had ECT, is that it is different for everyone and for some, memory is never returned to normal.  That’s two quite different scenarios.

My own experience is that over three separate courses of treatments my memories of about a year around the courses have gone.  I just don’t remember anything of the year around each course of treatment. That’s a considerable difference to what I have been repeatedly been told by psychiatrists, but then of course they haven’t lived it themselves, have they?  They’re simply going on theory.

I also believe that my cognitive functioning has changed as a result of ECT.  Again, I can’t provide proof but I know that before ECT was even a phrase on my lips I was a highly competent multi-tasker (actually I was employed on the basis of my ability to multi-task).  I had no problem balancing a number of issues in my mind, but now I struggle with more than one. I can’t even have music on while I’m writing now.  I need absolute silence in order to be able to think and write.

I accept that I have no proof that this decline in cognitive functioning is due to the ECT I received, but I can look at my university studies prior to ECT, and that after ECT, and see a difference in how I managed the material I was studying.  It was much more of a struggle after ECT.

One person’s experience does not make it true.  I know what.  That’s why I’m thinking a game of ‘Truth or Dare’ might be good.  I came across a paper by the United States Food And Drug Administration on Research Findings on Memory and Cognitive Impairment in ECT published by PsychCentral.  It read pretty much as I had ever had memory issues explained to me by health professionals.  I’d like to see those dare to put their own brains under repeated treatments of ECT, and see if they say the same thing afterwards.

If they’re not prepared to do this then it’s time that we started listening to those who have actually been through this experience.  What was the real experience?  Rather than the theoretical?

I think it’s really important that ECT is talked about more openly, but also that it is talked about factually.  Let’s not just listen to the professionals, but be open to hearing from those who have undergone ECT.  Let’s really understand not only how it works, but what are its long-term effects.

Related articles

• ECT – How It Was For Me (infinitesadnessorhope.wordpress.com)
• Infinite Sadness, 2009 (scribd.com)
• Research Findings on Memory and Cognitive Impairment in ECT (psychcentral.com)
• The Nutters Club NZ (facebook.com)

Blocked

I know from my reading of other blogs, that many bloggers at times, sit at their screens desperately waiting for inspiration of what to write about that day.  I don’t do that.  I don’t even actually get as far as sitting at my screen unless I have something specific on my mind that I want to share with you.  Any less than that, and I think that I am being unfair on you, my readers.  But that’s me, sometimes a little different.

Anyway I haven’t been sitting at my screen, and it hasn’t been because I have nothing to say.  Actually if you looked at my ‘drafts’ folder you would see that I have lots of things I want to say.  Getting the ideas is not the problem.  They are flowing thick and fast.  My problem is that I am having great trouble getting from the idea, through to having a presentable post for you.

I guess this is my version of writer’s block.  Probably if we could all meet for coffee (and tea, for those of that persuasion) I could tell you what I’ve been thinking.  But I just can’t get it onto the screen right now.

Other things in my life suggest to me that I am perhaps a little depressed right now.  It’s not crisis material, just time to take care of myself for a bit.  So if I’m not posting at what once was my regularity, then don’t worry, I will be back soon.

“If you get stuck, get away from your desk. Take a walk, take a bath, go to sleep, make a pie, draw, listen to ­music, meditate, exercise; whatever you do, don’t just stick there scowling at the problem. But don’t make telephone calls or go to a party; if you do, other people’s words will pour in where your lost words should be. Open a gap for them, create a space. Be patient.” 

― Hilary Mantel

Blog For Mental Health 2013

I am joining the project to Blog for Mental Health 2013, a project speared-headed by the wonderful  A Canvas Of The Minds, where some good friends of mine hang out and come up with brilliant material on mental health issues.  I realise this is the second campaign I’ve joined in a week (the other one you can check out on Still Standing Up To Stigma), but I see them as both being important and want to be part of both.  Also when my good friend Ruby pledged me, I just knew I wanted to get involved.

Blog for Mental Health 2013 is catching on like wildfire.  Everyone wants to be part of it and that’s fantastic to see so many bloggers committed to talking about mental health.  So here’s what you need to know:  This is not an award, but rather an exciting project to get a community of mental health bloggers to show that they are proud of their lives, that they are writing for themselves as well as for those who have not yet found their voices, that they are ensuring no one ever has to feel alone when dealing with mental illness. For me, those are some excellent reasons to be a part of this.

The badge that goes with this project, is designed by Lulu and you’ll see that repeated over on the right of this screen.

The next task is to take the pledge, and therefore:

I pledge my commitment to the Blog For Mental Health 2013 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.

Step two is to link back to the person who pledged me, Ruby Tuesday of I Was Just Thinking. . . and also co-owner of A Canvas Of The Minds.

Step three is a short biography about my mental health and what it means to me.

My mental health tends to revolve around labels such as Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) and Depression with frequent visits of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and eating disorders.  That said, labels don’t actually mean much to me apart from a way for me to identify reasons for some of my behaviours, thoughts and feelings.  I am me, I have a mental illness, and to me, that’s what matters.

Mental illness makes achieving mental health harder than usual.  There are extra bridges to cross, there is stigma to face, and there are battles to win.  But it is possible. 

The mental illnesses that I have are with me for life (BPD is part of my personality) but I view myself as having mental health when I can manage the symptoms and live the life that is important to me.  Right now, I’m doing that and it makes me happy.  It doesn’t mean that there are no struggles, but it does mean I can enjoy mental health just as much as the next person down the street.

Am I crazy?  Probably.  Is it ‘all in my head’?  Absolutely, that’s where my brain resides.  Is it easy?  No, it’s damn hard but living this way is so much more fulfilling than the life I barely existed in over years past.

Being part of this project is important to me, because I know how hard it is to live in this society where mental illness is not seen as okay.  I want to do my bit to spread the word that it is totally okay.  I not only want to make life easier for other people who have mental illness, but I also want to contribute a message that prepares our world to be more accepting of mental illness in the future.  May the next generation not have to fight with stigma.  May they be able to find the acceptance and peace they deserve.

Was that short?  Probably not.  Sometimes I just can’t help myself.  The final step is to pledge five bloggers who have “proven their mettle in my eyes as mental health bloggers”.  Hmm.  Actually this is a bit that I find hard.  I know that it is a way to get other bloggers involved, but personally I don’t want bloggers I could pledge to feel somewhat obligated.  I know obligation is not the intention, but I also know how easy it is for some of us to feel obligated.

So I’m not going to pledge any, except to say that if you write about mental health, even just some of the time (like me) then please consider getting on board with this project.  I honestly believe the more we all speak out about mental health, then the better place we create for ourselves and others to live with mental illness.  So check out the initial post – Blog for Mental Health 2013 and get involved.

One final note from A Canvas of the Minds, if you are getting on board…

“we are launching a Blog For Mental Health 2013 Official Blogroll!  So, in addition to linking back to the person who pledged you, please include the link to the original post in your piece.  As this gets passed along, link back or click here and leave a comment containing the link to your pledge, and we will put you on our Blog For Mental Health 2013 Official Blogroll page!”

Show the world our strength, show them our solidarity, show them what we are made of.  Take the Blog for Mental Health pledge and proudly display the badge on your blog!

♦

“Sometimes the world is so much sicker than the inmates
of its institutions.” 

―    Joanne Greenberg,    I Never Promised You a Rose Garden

What My Doctor Won’t Tell Me

My doctor won’t tell me anything.  I think he has perfected the art, no doubt taught in medical school, of ‘keeping the patient in the dark’.  My guess is that they have a unit on this topic every year of medical school, and it is continually repeated throughout their career when they take off to tropical islands courtesy of drug companies.  Along with taking the Hippocratic Oath, I am coming to the belief that they also take, and renew annually, an oath to keep the patient in the dark.

My suspicion that this is an industry wide oath is because it’s not just my current doctor who does this.  My experience is that 95 per cent of doctors I have seen across my life (and I promise you I’ve seen more than my fair share) have been firmly committed to this way of working.

Information (Photo credit: Wikipedia.com – heathbrandon)

Why would they do this?  Probably simply because it saves time.  They can push me out the door, while welcoming another patient in, all the while earning more dollars.  It makes sense…  for them.  It makes no sense for me, the patient.

I also believe it is about power.  Doctors like to be looked up to, seen as the one with all the answers.  It’s great for their egos and probably even helps them deal with the patients they lose along the way (through any number of means).  If my doctor keeps me in the dark, then I have to rely on him to act when necessary, and he loves that.  The problem though for me is that experience tells me that my doctor has far too many patients who rely on him, too little time, as well as perhaps not enough incentive to make sure I get the care I really need.

Nearly a year ago I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia.  It was my second big diagnosis within 18 months, and yet again I had been sent off to a specialist (this time a rheumatologist) to confirm the general practitioner’s (GP) suspicions.  After a rather large amount of money had exchanged hands, and a very thorough (well, what seemed thorough to me, but how would I really know?) assessment I was told I had fibromyalgia.  She then dumped the news on me that she couldn’t offer me any medication for this condition and that I would just have to get used to it (it was said a little more kindly than that but not much).  And that was the end of my appointment.

Silly me.  I walked back to the reception desk and when the receptionist handed me my receipt, I half expected her to hand me a ‘Welcome to Fibromyalgia’ pack.  You know how when we join a new bank, for example, we get a brochure explaining the services of the bank, details of opening hours, the web site addresses we will need to access the internet banking?  Wouldn’t it be great if doctors provided us with information?  It would suit my information junkie tendencies perfectly.

Being an information junkie runs in my family, and my skills aren’t nearly as well honed as some other family members, but I am one of those who immediately needs to look for information when I am faced with a new issue, problem or just a new subject I get interested in.  I need to read all I can about it.  I search the internet, I look for books, I want all the information I can possibly get my hands on.  For a medical matter I want my doctor to hand over all the information s/he has.

Unfortunately this is where I come to a fast halt.  I get a “let’s just see how it goes“.  I hate that.  I want to know ahead of time how it might go.  I want to know what problems I might come up against.  I even want to know what I can do to avoid those problems, and if I can’t avoid them I want to know what to do.  Sadly doctors never see it my way.  And that means relying solely on what information I can scramble together from sometimes dubious sources.

You see I want to be empowered as a patient.  I want to be prepared.  I want to feel like I can have some control over what is happening to me.  But there seem to be very few doctors, both in general medicine and mental health, who are prepared to help me do it.  I know doctors struggle for time, but I also know that when I know and understand what is happening to my body, then I need my doctor less.  A win-win for both of us.

One of the very real difficulties with a condition like fibro is that everyone’s experience is different.  No one can give me a list of exact symptoms I might face.  And so I don’t get told anything.  Everything comes as a surprise.  Everything that happens to my body, I have to wonder why or what is going on here, and with more than one condition I am always left wondering which one is causing the problem.

Over the past few weeks I have noticed that I have put on a little weight.  Not a lot, but to the extent that my clothes just feel tighter.  I admit that weight gain is a really hard issue for someone who is a recovered anorexic, so I have been quietly starting to panic because there’s one thing I know… I’m not eating any more or less than I was.  All the old fears come into play of being out of control and the need to take back that control by restricting.  I’m not about to do that, but it is a very real war in my head that any recovered anorexic will tell you.

With one of my conditions (Graves’ Disease) I am meant to panic and get straight to a doctor if I have a sudden weight loss.  With the other I had no idea whether it was even an issue.  So information junkie Cate had to start searching again, and found that unexpected weight loss or gain can be an issue for people with fibromyalgia.

For a moment there I could breathe again.  Perhaps that’s the explanation, then again maybe it’s not.  I wouldn’t know because my doctor hasn’t helped me get the necessary information I need about this illness.  Maybe it’s a peace of mind thing, but it would have helped me considerably to know this was a possibility.  Actually it would also explain why last year I had been losing weight without any adjustment to my diet or lifestyle.  I’m just hoping the scale tips shortly and I start losing again.

I know these are not life and death issues I need help from my doctor, but I do feel like fibro is a runaway train riding close to out of control.  The place I get my information from tends to be from other sufferers, and that’s great to have that but it feels like fibro is just happening and I have no say about it.  Not being able to access medication makes it harder.  It seems like I just have to let it happen to me.

I didn’t like it when I had to let depression happen to me for so long, and I don’t like this feeling that fibro has completely taken over my life.  I might have fibro, but fibro is not me.  I need to find a way of taking back the reins and I’d very much appreciate my doctor coming on board with this.

Except I think I’m dreaming.  I don’t think he wants me to be empowered.

♦

“My own sex, I hope, will excuse me, if I treat them like rational creatures, instead of flattering their fascinating graces, and viewing them as if they were in a state of perpetual childhood, unable to stand alone.” 

―    Mary Wollstonecraft,    A Vindication of the Rights of Woman

Intolerance

Image credit: Facebook.com – whisperoftheheart

Some people I know might not agree with what I say in this post, but then that is a risk I take every time I post.  And actually it’s okay. The beauty of this world is that we can each have our opinions, right or wrong, even left or right.  You don’t have to agree with me, and I don’t have to agree with you.  But I am going to stand up for what I believe, even if it means standing alone.  That said, I know in this case, that I am not standing alone.  I know that many people believe as I do on this one.  Let people be people.

The other day I came across some information that made me very sad.  It wasn’t sad to the point of tears this time, but sad to the point of feeling physically sick.  Earlier in the day I had read an article about gay Bishops in the Church of England needing to lie about their sexual practises, in order to be able to do the job of Bishop.  I wondered to myself whether it was worth it, but then I guess that is for each individual Bishop to decide.

The information I came across later was this, on a wonderful Facebook page Her Fearless Heart:

Image credit: Facebook.com/Her Fearless Heart (used with permission)

This is a group of young people campaigning against homophobia.  They’ve had enough and make the point that bullying, like homophobia, kills.  I accept it’s a little hard to read, so this what the placards say from left to right:

I am afraid to hold my boyfriend’s hand

•

My friend’s parents sent her away

•

I found death threats in my locker

•

I submitted to electroshock therapy

•

I lost half my friends after coming out

•

My grandmother sends me hate mail

•

My school won’t let me take my date to prom

•

I am not here anymore

•

My dad tried to beat it out of me

•

No one is proud of me

Each of these broke my heart in their own way as I imagined being a teen having to face each situation.   Some people might venture to suggest that this is just the norm for gay teens.  But then why should we ever accept a norm like that in our society?

The placard that really got to me?

* * *

I submitted to electroshock therapy

* * *

As I’ve written before, I have had repeated sessions of electroconvulsive therapy (ECT).  (see ECT – How It Was For Me).  The last series of about 10 treatments was eleven years ago, when I was being treated for treatment-resistant depression.  It is my intention to never accept ECT again.

I’ve heard of people being given ECT because they’re sad, and I’ve heard of people being given it because they’re shy (my favourite author, Janet Frame got it for this reason).  I’ve heard of ECT being given to old people just because they’re old, tired and lonely.

The real reason I had three series of treatments of ECT (about 25 treatments in all) across about six years was because each psychiatrist at the time couldn’t fit an appropriate diagnosis to me.  They were each concerned at aspects of my behaviour, but couldn’t decide what disorder fitted me. (One day I’ll tell you about this.)

Those behaviours weren’t harming me, or anyone else, but they were different from the norm, so apparently ‘had to be dealt with’.  And (in my words) each psychiatrist simply each decided to zap that behaviour out of me in a misguided attempt to make me ‘normal’.  Actually, it didn’t work.  They didn’t manage to kill off that part of me that I held, and still hold very dearly.  Simply a feature of who I am (that they couldn’t understand).

They wanted to kill off a part of me, and I guess that’s why I felt physically sick yesterday when I realised that even now, doctors are trying to kill off a part of this young person… her sexuality.

I don’t claim to know a lot about teens and their sexuality, but I imagine for this teen to have been prepared to consent to ECT, she must have been made to feel very bad, guilty and wrong.  I suspect she felt like she simply wasn’t acceptable as a human being as she was.  I think of my teenage nephews and ache terribly at the thought of them having to face something like this, something to destroy who they are.

Don’t worry, I know all the biblical arguments.  I heard them over and over again,  But this isn’t about the Bible, or even God.  This is about people being allowed to live their life as they are.  When there is no harm to anyone why can’t we let them be?

Why can’t we let a teen grow up proud of who they are, rather than having to deny it?   Let alone accept radical psychiatric treatment to change who she is?  I will never accept that ECT was introduced in the medical world to change who people are.  Is the next step to give it to criminals maybe?  I call this medical malpractice, and abuse of medical powers.

Maybe you think that would be a good idea to give it to the criminals.  While I accept that ECT has valid uses in psychiatric treatment for severe depression, it should not be used for any other issue.  Remember, they don’t even know how it works on the brain, and they also never know if it actually will work on an individual.

Imagine the poor gay teen who submits to ECT for her sexuality, and nothing changes after treatment.  How does that poor young woman feel then?  What does it do to her mental health?  This is called bullying, and it’s wrong.  I hope she fought back.  Considering she is holding the placard in her hand in the picture, I suspect she did, and bravo to her.

Let’s let people be as we want to be ourselves.  Enabled, and even encouraged, to be who we really are, regardless of sexuality.

Nothing Wrong With You Lyrics – The Finn Brothers

It’s a slow parade
Down a dusty road
We’ve learned to take abuse
From devils we don’t know

People who have lost all heart
Look for someone else to blame
You just keep on walking
When they call you a dirty name

All the mud in this town
All the dirt in this world
None of it sticks on you
(You shake it off)
Cause you’re better than that
And you don’t need it
There’s nothing wrong with you

The moment that we dread
It comes all too soon
Voices in your head
Still carry on the tune

Let the sound come in
From the world outside
You just keep on singing
When they tell you filthy lies

All the mud in this town
All the dirt in this world
None of it sticks on you
(You shake it off)
Cause you’re better than that
And you don’t need it
There’s nothing wrong with you

Remember how it made you hurt
Even as you fight to go on
Turn it into something else
Turn it into something else

All the mud in this town
All the dirt in this world
None of it sticks on you
(You shake it off)
Cause you’re better than that
And you don’t need it
No, you don’t believe it

All the mud in this town
All the dirt in this world
None of it sticks on you
(You shake it off)
Cause you’re better than that
And you don’t need it
There’s nothing wrong with you
There’s nothing wrong with you
No

I walk along with you

There’s nothing wrong with you
There’s nothing wrong with you   (1.)

♦

“It is not for me to judge another man’s life. I must judge, I must choose, I must spurn, purely for myself. For myself, alone.” 

―    Hermann Hesse,    Siddhartha

Related articles

• ECT – How It Was For Me (infinitesadnessorhope.wordpress.com)
• Her Fearless Heart (facebook.com)
• Why gay bishops have to lie (guardian.co.uk)
• The Paradox of Tolerance (futilitycloset.com)

A Bit Mental (Lilo The Waikato)

Image credit: Lilo The Waikato (used with permission)

Yesterday I watched a great piece of television, and what’s more it was on mainstream television channel TV3.  The scheduling wasn’t great but at least it got there.  The programme was all about raising awareness of depression, and that has to be a great thing.  If you want to watch it, here’s the link.  It will be there for a couple of weeks.

Inside New Zealand – A Bit Mental – Special – On Demand – TV3.

Location map of Waikato River, North Island, New Zealand (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A Bit Mental is a documentary about Jimi Hunt, a New Zealand man who has struggled with depression for two years.  As part of his recovery he created a challenge for himself of travelling down New Zealand’s Waikato River… on a $8 lilo air mattress (in other words cheap!)… and in doing so raising awareness for depression.  If you’re not sure what a lilo is, that’s the yellow thing Jimi is floating on in the picture above.  Just plastic and air.  He went through 11 in the whole trip as he succumbed to punctures.

He described it as:

“a ridiculous journey to raise awareness for a super serious problem.”

For those in other parts of the world, the Waikato River is our longest river at 425 kilometres.  There is some gorgeous scenery but some very serious white water known as the Huka Falls, as well as a few hydro power stations to get through.  In other words it’s a crazy journey that no one had done before on a flimsy plastic lilo, but Jimi did it.  The link above will give you the full story.

Jimi was told by his doctor that his depression had a chemical basis, rather than psychological and so his recovery was about correcting that chemical balance.  I admit I was slightly concerned when he commented that he wasn’t bad enough to need medication.  It was one of those things that just didn’t sit right with me.  Maybe because I was ‘bad enough’ to need medication.  Was he saying that because I needed depression I was much worse?  To me, I was just different.  I decided to drop the issue in my head, maybe I was seeing things that weren’t there (it happens often!).

Back to Jimi’s recovery, he was challenged by his doctor to get some exercise, get fit and set some goals.  And so Lilo The Waikato was born with his aim to raise awareness for depression and funds for Lifeline (a 24 hour telephone counselling line).

The Huka Falls, Waikato, New Zealand (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The thing I really liked was that along the journey Jimi set himself up so that he had to ask for help, something which he recognised as key to his recovery, and something that he took a while to learn.  He had to ask for accommodation (the journey took about two weeks) and meals.  He had to ask for the occasional tow.

It was a practical reminder of how asking for help is so important when struggling with depression, and mental illness.  I guess it rang home to me because it is something that I recognise I have struggled with at different parts of my mental illness journey.  Some parts would have been so much easier, and less painful had I asked for help at the time.  Jimi recognised it as something that would have made a big difference to his recovery too.

What Jimi did was pretty amazing.  You wouldn’t get too many people who would take on such a challenge, let alone while raising awareness for mental illness.  And what’s more, there were many people (including more than 20,000 Facebook followers who encouraged, supported and followed his journey).

All this got me wondering, as I watched the programme, what awareness and support could be raised for other mental illnesses?  There is no official hierarchy of mental illnesses, but I’m inclined to think that depression is a little more ‘acceptable’ to the general public than other mental illnesses.  So what if there was a person with say, Schizophrenia or Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) who could raise this kind of acceptance?  Would it work?  Would the general public just say “s/he’s crazy”?

No doubt plenty of people said that Jimi was crazy.  It’s certainly not something that I would choose to do.  But people got behind him and supported his cause.  It would be great to see more people backing a greater awareness of all mental illness.

Currently there is a woman, Annie Chapman, who is walking the length of the North Island – using the Te Araroa Trail (1600 kilometres), here in New Zealand to raise awareness of the need for better treatment options for those with mental illnesses.  It’s a completely different undertaking being a protest walk (known here as a hikoi) with community meetings along the way.  What interests me is that her Facebook followers amount to under 200.

Why is there such a difference in support?  I guess there are a lot of reasons, but I wonder whether the need to ask for help when you’re battling depression is more acceptable somehow to the public than the nitty-gritty of treatment options for all mental illness.  I don’t know, and perhaps I’m not being fair, but it does raise the question of what is acceptable to the public and what is too much?

What I do know is that what these two people, and probably others I haven’t heard about, are doing is fantastic.  Whatever is done to make mental illness easier to talk about, and more widely acceptable has to be great.

♦

“One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.” 

―    Friedrich Nietzsche

Related sites

• Lilo the Waikato (facebook.com)
• http://www.depression.org.nz/
• http://www.beatingtheblues.co.nz/
• http://www.thelowdown.co.nz/
• http://www.lifeline.org.nz/
• Hikoi for healthy choices in Mental Health (facebook.com)

Healing Takes Time

‘Healing of the Paralytic’                      Image credit: Wikipedia.com

In a random moment, of completely unrelated thought, it occurred to me that it is exactly twenty years since I packed up all my possessions, put most of them into storage, rented out what I considered my modest, dream home that I’d only bought a year earlier…  and shifted cities, from Wellington to Auckland (8 hours north).  Twenty years!  Wow!  No one could have predicted was what to follow next.

The reason this is significant to me is that this shift spelt the end of the trauma I experienced from being stalked (you can read more about that in Stalked… But Still Hiding Some Of Me).  The journey wasn’t over, but I was finally doing something people had advised me to do for years.

Leave town.  The reason it took me so long to leave town was that I am stubborn, very stubborn.  And I didn’t want the two stalkers to win.  I felt that if they drove me from the city where I loved living, and away from my friends and family, then they would have won somehow.  I resisted what seemed like the easy option for a long time… until it simply got too much, and I couldn’t take living my life in hiding and a kind of raised alertness anymore.

What I had no awareness of at that time, but now completely understand, is that when the trauma ends, the journey is only just beginning.  I beg to disagree with people who might tell you that now it’s over you can simply get on with living.  It’s finished.

Actually it’s not.  It’s simply a corner I had turned towards recovery.  But the journey would continue to be just as painful for a long time to come.

When I no longer had to keep looking over my shoulder to see if they were there watching, I could relax (actually I had to learn how to stop looking over my shoulder).  And when I relaxed, that’s when the fear struck home.  For nearly 14 years I had lived with the reality, but I couldn’t afford to let myself feel fear.  I couldn’t for many reasons.  Partly I had to remain alert of danger all the time.  Somehow I had to tell myself that I could cope with this, because if I didn’t I would crash, and be vulnerable, not just to the pain, but to the stalkers themselves.  It was a risk I couldn’t take.  It would destroy me.

Now that I was away from the stalkers, it was safe to let my guard down… and weep.  Actually even then it took a while to happen.

I was in a new city, with a great new job.  I was catching up with old friends and making new ones.  For 10 months I was great, and then sickness (Glandular Fever or infectious mononucleosis) struck and then, because I was vulnerable, my mental health completely fell apart. The defenses I had built up over so long could no longer carry me.

I had to think long and hard before writing this post.  The last thing I want to do is discourage others who are fighting their own battles.  Twenty years is a heck of a long time.  I know.  I lived it.  But I think we need to be realistic too.  And to know that taking time is okay.

After all the damage that may have been inflicted on us in a variety of means of abuse, perhaps over a long time, it is going to take time to heal.  The damage probably wasn’t done overnight, and we’re not going to heal overnight.  Just because the abuse (of any kind) is over does not mean the pain comes to an end.  Actually for me, it was only just beginning.

I hasten to add that I haven’t spent 20 years continually trying to get over this, and actually it was about four years before anyone started to use the words Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).  What could be seen was Depression and Anorexia, but unfortunately no one stopped to pay attention to the trauma I had faced for so long.  And actually I was pretty much too traumatised to be able to talk about it.

When a therapist started to talk in terms of trauma, I knew I had finally found someone who ‘got it’.  That was a life changing event, if ever I had one.  This man understood me.  Unfortunately this was in a final interview with him, as my then husband and I were on the move again (actually back to Wellington).  I never had the opportunity to speak to this man who ‘got me’ again.

For the first few years I was being treated for Depression and Anorexia, although it was continually said that I wasn’t responding to treatment, nor did I fit what was seen as classic profiles for these issues.

Cover of A Path Through the Sea

About six months into my treatment, my eldest brother who has always been great at supplying me with books to read, sent me one about Depression.  A Path Through the Sea by Lillian V. Grissen.  It was a very good account of the author’s journey through Depression, and was the first book I read which was a personal account.  It is written from a Christian perspective –  she was a missionary – and if that’s your thing you might find it interesting.  I did at the time.But I was also completely mortified by her account.  She was depressed for two years!  At the time, I had been unwell, and being treated for depression for six months. The thought of two years of this was completely beyond me.  I just ‘knew’ I couldn’t do two years of this hell.

You can probably guess why I mention it.  Because it is now 20 years on.  What more can I say, without depressing every reader?

I took this opportunity of realising the anniversary to ask myself what impact the trauma I experienced was still having on my life.  The first thought was that I still am somewhat scared of the dark and I still clip my bedroom curtains closed at night, so that they can’t fall back leaving a gap.  My cat used to jump up on the window sill during the night and move the curtains. In the morning I would find a gap and be terrified that someone had been watching me through the window as I slept.  I know it’s a little odd, but I can cope with needing to do that still.  If I continue to need to do it all my life, so be it.

What disturbs me much more is the realisation that in spite of all the therapy and healing, every connection with another human being has me (usually unconsciously now) fearing that the result of knowing that person will be more stalking.  Basically I view everyone as a potential stalker.  It’s one of the reasons I married my ex-husband (18 years ago).  As it was, when we divorced some years later, he proved me wrong by not going on to stalk me.  It was only then that I could breathe peacefully.

I hate that I still fear the result of a relationship (of any kind) will be more stalking.  I feel angry that after all this time, it still has such a big impact on me.  I feel angry at the men whose actions taught me react in this way.

That said, I know that being angry isn’t going to help at this point.  I have done the angry thing and I don’t believe it’s what I need right now.  That trauma happened across a lot of years and I built up defenses to protect myself for very good reasons.   Some might say “get over it” but that won’t help me either.  What I need is to be gentle with myself.  What I need is to give myself time.  What I need is to say “it’s okay“.

I’m not saying that healing needs to take 20+ years after significant on-going trauma, and I’m not convinced that it needed to take me 20+ years.  It’s just that for a large chunk of that time I was on a self-destruct mode that really didn’t allow for healing to take place.  There were other things going on too, and there are for most of us.

What I am saying is that healing takes time.  When we’ve been hurt over a sustained period of time, the pain won’t be over when the trauma stops.  It takes time.  I’m no psychologist to be able to say explain some psychological theory.   I just know it doesn’t happen overnight, and I believe it’s important that I be gentle on myself and give myself whatever time it takes.  Hopefully those around me can give me that time too.

♦

“And I felt like my heart had been so thoroughly and irreparably broken that there could be no real joy again, that at best there might eventually be a little contentment. Everyone wanted me to get help and rejoin life, pick up the pieces and move on, and I tried to, I wanted to, but I just had to lie in the mud with my arms wrapped around myself, eyes closed, grieving, until I didn’t have to anymore.” 

―    Anne Lamott,    Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son’s First Year

Related articles

• Stalked… But Still Hiding Some Of Me (infinitesadnessorhope.wordpress.com)
• What Love Isn’t (infinitesadnessorhope.wordpress.com)
• EMOTIONAL TRAUMA? Time DOES heal. FACT! (arockystrokerecovery.com)
• Warrior Heart (peacesparklejoy.wordpress.com)

Foraging In Dark Places

Yes, you’d be quite right if you came to the conclusion that I had been missing in action.  I have been doing what all good kiwi do, in order to stay alive.  Hide from anything alleged to be a predator.

Image credit: whakaangi.co.nz
.

This is a kiwi.  (A kiwi is not a piece of fruit, that is a kiwifruit).  Outside of captivity the kiwi is actually pretty hard to find.  They are nocturnal and prefer foraging in the undergrowth, keeping out of the path of their predators.  That long beak helps them in this foraging process.  While it might look strange, sometimes I wish I had a beak like that, so that I could forage away, safely out of harms way, and manage to turn over the good from the bad in the undergrowth.

I might not have the beak I would like but I have been foraging in the undergrowth myself.  It’s a good place to stay safe, keep out of trouble, and reflect.  Sometimes it gets a bit dark and lonely, but then bumping into other friendly birds in the undergrowth could provide for some companionship without risking the broad light of day.  My good friend Ruby and I seem to cross paths in the undergrowth a bit.  And I like that, although both of us seem in positions where we are unable to be of much help to each other beyond recognition of each other’s pain.  While I would never wish pain on Ruby, it is sometimes nice to know that I am not alone in this.

Okay, so what does all this mean, you’re no doubt wondering?

On a literal sense my eyes are now giving me trouble courtesy of Graves’ Disease.  It seems even more likely now that this little number is returning from remission, and it does not please me.   At this stage there is no treatment for my eyes available (until get gets worse and might require surgery).  The worst of it is pain behind the eyes.  The only relief I can get is a dark room with my eyes closed.  It helps a bit for the time I am there, but it does  mean very little gets done.

But it is the figurative darkness that disturbs me most.  I can’t think straight (it’s taken me all day to write this because five minutes at a time is a marathon),  I don’t want to think, I don’t want my feelings.  I don’t want anyone to ask me how I am.  I just want to sleep.  All this spells one thing to me:

D-E-P-R-E-S-S-I-O-N

Perhaps I mistakenly thought that when my medication got sorted out a few weeks ago, that I would be back to me.  The problem though (I think) is that I have been dealing with some very difficult and uncomfortable feelings in therapy lately.  Actually it’s more like a long running saga, but maybe I’m getting some where.  The problem is that it hurts like hell.

I regularly tell other people that feelings are just feelings, neither good nor bad.  And it’s true.  I know it is.  It’s just really hard to practise what I preach when I don’t like those feelings.  I’m trying not to judge myself based on those feelings but I find myself feeling guilty, ashamed and just generally not a very nice person.  I’m quite sure if you knew the substance of those feelings you wouldn’t like me either.

I apologise for not being able to go into the details but I set some rules for myself when I started blogging (using my real name).  There are some things I am simply not able to discuss here because of the impact that could have on other people.

But I don’t think the details really matter.  What this is about it finding a way to do what I tell others to do.  Feelings are just feelings.  They are just are.  But do I accept that when I find myself completely mortified by some feelings, let alone the intensity of them?

I think I did what any self-respecting kiwi does.  Scurry for the undergrowth and hide from predators.  Otherwise those predators (perhaps my judgments on my feelings) will whip my sorry arse.  For US readers read “ass”).  Hmm.

Meanwhile I would like to thank my friend Kevin for coming out looking for this missing kiwi.  I think I needed that.  Thank you Kevin.  I’m not sure how long I was planning on staying there.  And a big thank you to Frank for holding my hand in the dark.

And now I’ve been in day light too long, my eyes are hurting again,  and it’s time to find my darkened room again.

Hope is the feeling that the feeling you have
isn’t permanent.

 - Joan Kerr

Self-Stigma… Am I My Own Worst Enemy?

A discussion with someone recently about the stigma of mental illness as I have personally experienced it, has led me to do some soul searching.   I think both of us eventually came to the same conclusion… that perhaps self-stigma has been the biggest issue for me.  That’s not to say that I haven’t suffered at the hands of the cultural distaste of anything  related to mental illness, or that institutional stigma hasn’t affected me.  There have been times when social stigma has hurt, and often the result has been damaged, if not ended relationships.  But I realise that I have consistently applied self-stigma to myself for as long as I have had a mental illness, actually probably longer and that may have prevented me from getting the help I needed earlier.

The Mental Health Foundation of New Zealand, in their document Fighting Shadows suggest that self, or internalized stigma is:

“…internalised feelings of guilt, shame, inferiority, and the wish for secrecy experienced by those who live with a mental illness…  Self-stigma is a belief in negative stereotypes about a group to which one belongs and the application of those beliefs to oneself, thereby undermining one’s self-efficacy.” 

(Watson and Corrigan, 2001)

My guess is that what this means is that I internally hold negative ideas about mental illness, which I apply to myself (and that if I was applying those ideas to others then it would be social stigma).  That’s the understanding I’m going to use for now, and I have to say I feel less than comfortable with this thought.  Regular readers know that I have discussed the issue of stigma regularly.  It is something that I feel very strongly about, and wanting to fight it, is the reason behind a lot of the things I do. 

What I need to understand is why I have those stereotypes and why I apply them to myself.  I don’t pretend to think I’m going to satisfactorily answer that for myself here, but it’s a good place to start. 

My mother always used to tell me that I was my own worst enemy.  I’m not sure exactly what she meant by that, as Mum and I have never been known to have the sort of conversations that might see that answered.  Reality was more that the statement was made and that was the end of the conversation.  No doubt both of us were contributors to that.

I can remember when I was first diagnosed with depression, one of my most common thoughts was:

“I can accept anyone else having depression

but I can’t accept it in myself.”

Somehow I thought I was immune.  It would never happen to me.  I was 28 at the time and right through my life I had been surrounded by people with mental illnesses.  A lot of that exposure came through my father’s job which extended to having church people in and out of our home.  At high school, I was friends with a girl who had Anorexia.  We were never close, but she was the only person I was aware of in a school of one thousand girls who had a mental illness.  No doubt there were others, but it wasn’t something ever discussed.

When I left school I went straight into a job where I was working closely with a lot of people with mental illness and addiction issues.  Actually I gained a reputation in the office for being one of the few staff who could handle the particularly difficult clients, and so I was often assigned clients that no one else wanted to handle.  I enjoyed working with these people, and other staff couldn’t quite understand that.

Then I got to 28 and discovered I was sitting in a psychiatrist’s office talking about my failing mental health.  Straightaway I could accept it for anyone else, but not for me.  Things like that didn’t happen to me.

I think that all these people with mental illnesses, who surrounded me from a young age, were also a step removed from me.  They weren’t my family, and they weren’t my personal friends.  Mostly they were clients of my father’s or later, my own clients.  It’s almost like it wasn’t personal so it couldn’t affect me personally.  By that time I had a number of friends who had mental illnesses, and again that was perfectly okay.  I could accept their illness and often did a lot to support them.  But that was them, not me.

Why was it okay for them,

but not for me?

At this point I admit that I am guessing.  I don’t understand why I set one rule for others but another for myself.  Why could I have compassion for others, but be angry at myself for what I see as weakness?

What springs to mind is the first person whose mental illness had a direct effect on my wellbeing.  I was only 14 when I became the target of a stalker who had schizophrenia.  He was one of my father’s clients.  Dad would welcome him to our home because he wanted to help the guy.  The problem was that my father didn’t realise what danger he was putting me in.  When I left home at 18, the man followed me, as he did every time I shifted trying to keep one step ahead of him for the next 14 years.

I was literally afraid of this man.  He threatened me ,but never lay a hand on me.  But the damage he did to my mind in that time, along with other things happening in my life, was huge.  Actually it was only nine months after I finally felt I was free from him (by shifting cities) that I was being diagnosed with my own mental illness.  I’m sure that’s not simply a coincidence.

The man was regularly in and out of the local psychiatric hospital because of his illness, usually because he had taken himself off his medication.  The times he was in hospital were the best times for me.  Sometimes I got phone calls or letters, but mostly I was free while he was behind a locked door.

It make senses to me then why the last thing I would want would be to be diagnosed myself, as I might end up in hospital with him.  Even figuratively a diagnosis would put me in the same camp as him.  If I was the same as him, then somehow I was in more danger.

The second thing that comes to mine is that on several occasions I tried to talk to his mental health workers, to help get them to help me be safe from him.  Actually each time I tried I had the Privacy Act quoted at me, and they wouldn’t even listen to me.  I didn’t want information about him.  I wanted them to know what he was doing.  But the mental health system was not interested in the harm he was causing me.  Again it would make sense why I wouldn’t want to diagnosed myself, because clearly (to me anyway) the system was not interested in helping or protecting me.

What you’ve just read is me thinking out loud.  Obviously there is no audio link with this post but I’ll leave you to imagine that I have been tossing ideas with you.  This self stigma hindered me from getting help from medical services but even when I began to accept that actually it was okay for me to have a mental illness, I perhaps unconsciously  used the stigma to make it hard for myself to get other types of help.  There was a lot of help at university for people with disabilities, including mental illness, but I struggled to seek it out because I didn’t look sick.  It was me that put that barrier up, no one else.

Considering self stigma is not an easy one.  I am a little embarrassed, but I wonder how many others might struggle, unknowingly even, with our own attitudes that prevent us getting the help and support we need.  It doesn’t take away the problem of the stigma we get from other sources, but I’m realising that I have to start with myself.  How can I expect others not to stigmatize me when I do it to myself?

“Never forget that once upon a time, in an unguarded moment, you recognized yourself as a friend.” 

―    Elizabeth Gilbert

Related articles

• Fighting Shadows: Self-Stigma and Mental Illness (mentalhealth.org.nz)
• Demolishing Stigma (infinitesadnessorhope.wordpress.com)
• Stigma (Passions Profile Challenge #6) (infinitesadnessorhope.wordpress.com)
• Mad, Bad or Just Different (infinitesadnessorhope.wordpress.com)
• Remove the stigma (thehindu.com)
• Dear “Experts” (prideinmadness.wordpress.com)

Is There a Sign On My Back?

I am seriously wondering if someone (who doesn’t like me) has, unknown to me, stuck a sign on my back saying “pick on me” this week.  Mysteriously, each time I change my clothes, I still seem to have the sign plastered there for all to see.  Having spent time with my brother this morning, I sent him a text a few hours ago to ask whether he noticed the sign.  So far he hasn’t responded.  I’m not exactly sure what conclusion I should draw from that.

Some weeks seem just determined to make things hard, and this week has  achieved that for me in so many ways.  I thought bad things were meant to happen in three’s, but so far I’ve counted six.  Here’s a run down (and I promise it’s the short version):

1.  My trial to come off lithium failed (as I told you in Ten Years Later, And I Have My Answer).  You’ll be pleased to know that I am back on the original dose.  Just waiting for it to kick in.

Actually the day after my psychiatrist told me to start the lithium again immediately, my GP (General Practitioner who handles day to day medical issues) objected, and wanted me to wait another week “just to be sure”.  Basically I quoted my last post at him and explained why waiting wouldn’t be a good idea…  and then I ignored him.  Meanwhile as I wait for the lithium to kick back in, I have all the usual symptoms of depression.  It’s a few years since I was last depressed.  I hate that it is back.

2.  The implication of my inability to get off lithium now means that I can not get medication to treat my fibromyalgia (the whole point in trying to come off).

3.  A further implication of my inability to get off lithium is that I can not get adequate pain medication for fibro symptoms that can not be treated.  All I can use is paracetemol (an over-the counter analgesic) and a very limited amount of codeine.  Neither of these do anything for the worst problem, which is nerve pain.

4.  An implication of my inability to get adequate pain medication takes a blow at my intention to use  extra medication so that I could deal with the extra pain caused when I try to giving up smoking again.  (See  Unseen).  Actually my GP denied any knowledge of this issue, and had no willingness to hear me on the issue of pain caused my nicotine withdrawal.  He basically told me to “toughen up and try again“.  I can’t say I was too impressed by his lack of compassion, empathy and helpfulness.

5.  Totally unrelated to  numbers one to four, I saw my endocrinologist yesterday for a routine check-up for my auto-immune condition Graves’ Disease.  This has been in remission for about 10 months now, and I half hoped that he would discharge me from his care and send me on my way (on the understanding that the disease could come out of remission at any time.).  What he told me instead is that it looks very likely that the disease is coming out of remission.  It’s a wait and see game now.  More blood tests in a couple of months to draw a definite conclusion, and a reminder of what to do if acute symptoms return in the meantime..

Grave’s affects a number of areas in the body, but the biggest impact is on the thyroid gland (producing a pretty serious condition  called thyrotoxicosis), the eyes ( I won’t tell you what it does to the eyes simply because the thought of it turns my stomach), and speeding up the heart rate beyond healthy.  It’s not a pleasant condition to have, nor is the treatment particularly appealing for this ‘nuclear-free’ kiwi.  More about that if, and when it happens.

6.  Just when I get to Friday and really think I’ve had enough… today the Pain Management Clinic, a public health service designed to help me find alternatives for pain management has refused to see me.  Apparently I am simply not a priority, to the extent that they haven’t even put me on a waiting list.  Being unable to get off lithium, this referral was essential, but it seems it’s not to be.

So what do you think?  Is it reasonable to conclude that sign is on my back?  Are my stars just not aligned this week?  Is it one of those weeks when I should never have got out of bed? Hmm.

Image credit: farm4.flickr.com/3140/3103360425

What do I choose?

•

Despair or Hope?

I’ve been struggling to do much reading this week, finding it too difficult to concentrate even on a short blog post.  I manage the first couple of paragraphs and then drift off.  It’s a symptom of depression.  One thing that I did manage to read, made me stop and think.  Hope Is A Choice.  Actually, if you’ve got the time, and the concentration, there is a lot written on this premise.  I’m inclined to think it’s true, that for me hope is a choice.

Hope is an easy word to say, and I know I use it a lot in my writing, but actually it’s pretty hard to practise, especially when times are tough, and there is a ‘pick on me’ badge on my back.  Actually there had been a fair amount of despair going on here in the last few days.  All these health (including my mental health) issues I’m dealing with are chronic, with little to no hope for complete recovery.

When I said in my last post that I had proven to myself that lithium kept me out of prison and out of a grave, I wasn’t kidding.  That’s the reality, especially if I choose to go down the road of despair.

One of the extra difficulties I’ve faced this week is what Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) adds to this scenario.   BPD enables me to split too easily between my emotions.  What that means is that one minute I can be happy and full of hope, sure that all this will work out.  But shortly after I can be completely depressed, despairing, withdrawn and without hope.

Actually it is this reason that has stopped me from posting this week.  If I post when I’m feeling good, you will get one impression which might be quite different from what reality is.  That has consequences for you, as the reader, trying to understand but it also has a habit of kicking back at me.  It’s hard to explain but I’m sure fellow BPD sufferers know the issue well.

What I really need to say is that this week has been really hard, and it’s not over yet.  I have some practical issues that I am going to have to try to resolve, but as yet I don’t know how I will do that, and frankly it doesn’t seem like I have a lot of support from the medical fraternity.

Sometimes this week, I have seen very little hope.  Other times,  I have had to go back to borrowing hope (see Borrowed Hope).  I felt disappointed to have to do that, but it was necessary because I had lost sight of my own hope.

As for now?  Deep inside I have a sense that this will work out, that my health can be revived and that hope does exist for me.  Although I’m not sure how it will look.  Sometimes I have to look a long way to find that sense of hope and in the meantime I guess I’m suspending judgement.  I’m not choosing despair.  No matter how bad I feel, I refuse to go back down that road again.  I can’t afford to do that to myself.

“to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you’ve held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.” 

―    Ellen Bass

Related articles

• Ten Years Later, And I Have My Answer (infinitesadnessorhope.wordpress.com)
• Unseen (infinitesadnessorhope.wordpress.com)
• Borrowed Hope (infinitesadnessorhope.wordpress.com)
• Hope Is A Four Letter Word I Use Now (infinitesadnessorhope.wordpress.com)
• The Anatomy Of Hope [BLOG] (positivelypositive.com)
• The Second Coming of Hope (positivelypositive.com)
• Finding Hope & Acceptance (livingwithcfs.com)