My Secrets: I am Afraid

NOTE: I started writing this a couple of days following the PULSE Nightclub shooting in Orlando.
I've stopped and started writing this post countless times in the past months.  I've written it in my head another countless times, but whenever I sit to actually put words on paper, I panic and stop.
So this fustercluck of thoughts and ideas has been swirling in my brain for months and I think now I finally have to force myself to have the courage or stupidity to actually write it and get it out there..
Either that, or it's the drugs talking.  
Content Advisory: sexual assault, self-harm, depression, anxiety.


I sit staring at the computer.  Searching for the words.  The words swirl in my head and I visualize what I will say and how I will say it.  Every word falls perfectly, poetically into place.  In my head.
In reality, I sit and stare.
I look at Facebook.  It's filled with anger and sadness right now.  Not helping.
I look at Instagram.  It's full of pictures of hope, sadness, anger, hurting.  I feel worse.
I look at Pinterest. I look at all the crafts I will never make, all the muscles I will never build, the foods I will never cook.  I feel more unmotivated than before.
I play an online game.  I am anonymous and can disappear into it.  Hours pass.  Still haven't written anything.  Feel like a failure.

I mope around the apartment trying to feel busy, look busy so that Boyfriend doesn't ask what's wrong.  I don't have an answer.  At least not an easy answer.

I'm sad.  I'm scared.  I'm angry. I'm empty.  I don't care.

I'm conflicted.

I slept on it.  Twice.  More nights than I can remember.  I guess if you call it "sleeping."

Still so much angst.  Panic.  Pain.  Confusion.

Alcohol helps a little.  But then the anxiety envelops my drunken brain as it tries to sleep and the demons come out to dance through my deepest darkest fears.

The constant dread is like a vice on my chest.  My hands and feet sweat profusely and consistently.

I can no longer tell the difference between my anxiety and my hypoglycemia.  My body seems to be playing the shell game with all my symptoms.


My hand trembles as I stare into the all-too-familiar orange cylinder that is my medication bottle.  I absent-mindedly count how many pills I have left.  I need to find a psychiatrist on my health plan.  I feel the clock ticking.  I'm running out of time.  The panic clutches my chest.

The depression whispers,"What's the point? You'll never find a good doctor.  They all think you're a crazy drug-addict just trying to get high.  Remember clinic doctors in New York?  Remember clinic doctors in Glendale?  They all think you're faking it.  No one believes you.  Remember the neurosurgeon?  Even your mom thinks you're weak and just give up all the time.  You're not special.  You're a fraud.  The rest of your family even refuses to acknowledge your illnesses or the causes.  You're a disappointment."

The pain, the hatred, the bigotry, the violence, the injustice in our country and around the world horrifies me.  I am saddened and scared for marginalized people everywhere.  I never thought that fear would be so close to home.

Is it normal to fantasize about slitting your wrists over the anxiety of coming out?  I am so afraid.  Why am I so afraid?

The social worker asked what my support structure is like, I lied.  I said my family and friends.  But most don't know the half of what goes on in my brain.  Why did I lie?  Why am I so afraid?  So ashamed?

Why am I afraid of coming out about the depth of my mental illness?  What's the worst that could be said?
"That's not a real thing."
"We all have bad days."
"You're just not trying hard enough."
"Well, you chose a difficult path in life."

 Why am I afraid of coming out about the oddity that is what many people seem to consider my sexuality?  What's the worst they can say?
"What even is that?"
"That's not a real thing."
"But you have a boyfriend."
"What does that even mean?"
"Does your boyfriend know?"
"You just want attention."

Why am I afraid of coming out about my sexual assaults?  What hasn't already been said?
"Well, you shouldn't have been drinking."
"We all make mistakes."
"It's your word against his."
"You should be over this by now."
"Why were you walking home alone at night?"
"Well, you chose to move to that city."

If I come out about these things, what's the worst that can happen?  Comments can make me relive trauma.  Hatred and bigotry can turn into abandonment by family and friends, or worse unprovoked violence by others trying to silence my voice.

I am afraid.

I don't want to be afraid anymore.  I don't want to be silent anymore.

My name is Jess.
  I struggle daily with chronic mental illnesses.

My name is Jess.
I am a pansexual woman in a loving heterosexual relationship.

My name is Jess.
I am a rape survivor.  I am a sexual assault survivor.

I'm sure it will come as no shock that I voted for Hillary Clinton in the presidential election.

I voted for her because she addressed my needs as an American citizen over the other candidates. She offered a plan on tackling the abhorrent mental health system in our country.  She supported women's rights/healthcare.  She supported the LGBT+ community. She was against the anti-Islam rhetoric.
 She wasn't my first choice, she wasn't even my second choice.  She sure as hell wasn't perfect, but I voted for her, and I wanted to believe so badly that that glass ceiling could be broken this year.

I don't hold hate in my heart for those who voted otherwise.  I want so badly to believe that people who voted for the man that is now our President-Elect, voted because of the same reasons I did, and not with hatred in their heart for me, or a specific group of people.  I truly want our country to work together to lift up those who need a little boost so that we may all be truly equal under our laws and within our society.  I want America to be the beautiful, peaceful, melting pot we were always told it was.  The place where everyone regardless of race, religion, skin color, gender, sexuality, or economic status is safe and has the same opportunities for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.  I want to hope again.  But... I am afraid.

I am hurting right now.  Like nearly half this nation, I am going through a grieving process.  It feels like fiery bricks are in my gut weighing down my soul.  I am afraid.  I am afraid that hateful ideas will continue to poison our country and divide us further.  Turning family members against each other, furthering isolating all of us.  I'm afraid we will destroy our environment.  I'm afraid we will destroy each other.  I'm afraid we will continue to suppress, and harm, and kill our already marginalized citizens.  I'm afraid we will refuse to learn from our mistakes.  I'm afraid we will forever be stuck in the gummed up wheels of our divided people and fractured governmental body until there is violence.

I am afraid.  I am afraid for my safety.  I am afraid for my health.  I am afraid for my rights.  I am afraid for my friends.

I know there is much work to be done in our country and that we need to work together to make the future better and brighter for everyone.  But most of all, I'm afraid that nothing I do will make any difference for the good of this world and the people in it.

My name is Jess.
I am a woman.  I am not my illness.  I am a survivor.  I am afraid.

I am afraid.  But I am still here.

Snail Sex and the Doom Cloud

Last week, the Doom Cloud returned.  It was not at its worst, but was still very disruptive, as it has always  been.  I documented as much as I could.  If nothing else, I hope this video helps people like me, and reminds them you are not alone.

 

Dear Me

I wrote a letter to my 14 year-old self.

Making this video was very healing for me. I hope it can help anyone else who has ever felt broken or "wired wrong."

Words

I've been away from the writing desk for a time and I've missed it.  I've had some ups and some downs as of late, but right now I need to write.  Writing seems to be the only thing that can calm the swirling tornado of words in my brain.  Writing helps quiet the demons.  

You know the demons.  The demons that whisper quietly at you from the dark recesses of your brain.  They start small and soft, hissing at you that you're not good enough, that you'll never be good enough...whatever "good enough" means.  Slowly, (so slowly you almost don't notice) the voices grow louder and louder.  There comes a point where the voices grow so loud you can't distinguish your own thoughts from their incessant taunting. The taunting that constantly rings in your ears until desperation sets in and you can think of nothing but making them stop.

We lost a dear someone to those demons this week.  

I've deliberately avoided a lot of social media this week.  I can't take it.  It's too triggering.  But in stepping away from the screen, I've had a chance to reflect on my own feelings instead of the "hive mind" that can develop when a high profile tragedy occurs and everyone and their fucking goldfish puts in their two cents.

So, right now, I won't be a 2-cent goldfish.  I will say that I'm very sad.  I'm also amazed that a person could have such a "spark of madness," such a gloriously infectious personality that he can make people who never met him feel like they just lost their best friend when he leaves this world.  
If you're battling those demons or if the media shit-sation this week has let slip the dogs of war inside your brain like it has mine, I want you to know you are not alone.  Today I am winning my battle because I'm sitting here writing this.  You are winning your battle today too because you're reading this.  There is hope for us. There is help.  I know sometimes the scariest part is asking for it.  
Please use these resources if you need them.  You are worth it.  You are important.


National Suicide Prevention

Didi Hirsch Suicide Prevention

HopeLine

Thank you, Robin for making the world a better place by being a part of it.  

Dealing With Trolls

I've had a rough couple of days lately. I mostly blame The Hunger Games trilogy. I just finished Mockingjay last night. That book seriously screwed up my sleep patterns last week. I would stay awake reading it and then when I could finally settle down at night enough to sleep I would have Hunger Games nightmares. When my sleep patterns get thrown off, I get cranky and my depression threatens to take over in my brain. I feel so much better now that I finished the series, though. Whew. I got a great night's sleep last night, and now I feel like I can think clearly about real life now that I'm not obsessing and stressing over what's going to happen in the books. And yes, I realize I am late to that party, we have Barnes and Noble to thank for not having the box set delivered eons ago when I ordered it.

I think this all goes back to the wiring in my brain that makes me become stuck on an idea or a thought or a word or a song until I get some sort of closure or cleansing of it. So the lack of sleep, my obsession with The Hunger Games, and my depression that seemed as though it were bubbling just under the surface all have made me feel extra sensitive, especially when I received my first troll comment on a YouTube video I posted. However, last night after finishing the book and watching a VidCon video of Felicia Day and Wil Wheaton talking about trolls, I was able to just let it go. I feel even better today after I got a good night's sleep. It feels so free to just let it go! Breathe in the good air and let out the bad. I know that letting go of stuff can be so difficult sometimes, but I feel much better today now that I have.




Thanks Wil and Felicia. This is why I love you!

Overcoming Post PAX Depression

As we all exhale a deep sad sigh whilst trudging back to the daily grind that is "real life," the joyful high we all felt among our own kind for 3 days has started to dissipate and now Post-PAX Depression (PPD) has set in.  What is a nerd to do?  The Monday after PAX is like the day after Christmas: everyone goes home from their holiday travels with lots of great memories, warm fuzzies, shwag, and exhaustion. They also probably go home with a case of the blues-the sadness that creeps in after the excitement dies down and you realize you have to go back to boring daily life.  As someone who is already prone to bouts of clinical depression PPD can be especially tough on me, so I've complied a list of suggestions for coping with PPD.

-Pictures/Videos
If you took pictures or video, go through them in chronological order and remember all the awesomeness you witnessed and/or took part in. Or got to sites like G4, Flickr, The Escapist or any of your favorite nerd-lebrities who may have uploaded goodies. Relive the memories for a moment and maybe stumble upon stuff you missed.

-Don't Despair
PAX is popular.  It's not going anywhere, it will be there next year. Also, if you missed something you were dying to see, it's ok.  No one can see or do everything that every con has to offer.  It's not possible, and you are not Superman/girl, and that's ok. That's the beauty of the internets, you can see stuff you missed.

-Your Routine is Your Friend
It may not sound like it, but the sooner you get back into your daily routine, the better you'll start to feel post PAX. I, too must return to my crappy desk-monkey job that I am working hard to abandon. But, keep looking at the road ahead, keep working towards your goals in life. 

-Try Something New
Two words: Beta Codes. Everyone got these at PAX, go play a new game! You'll feel good.

-Water, Vitamins, Sleep, 
If you spent time inside a big convention hall with thousands of strangers and erratic temperature changes, then you most likely came home with a case of the PAX Plague. Feeling sick while coming down from the high of PAX can make you feel even worse.  Treat yourself right: get plenty of rest, drink LOTS of water (clear pee is happy pee), pop some vitamin C, and make a small change in your diet-get some leafy greens in your body if you don't already eat your veggies regularly (convention food doesn't make anyone feel good.)

-Keep in Touch
E-mail, Facebook, Twitter, blogs, forums, XBOX Live, PSN, Mii Plaza, etc-they are all your tools to stay in contact with all of your new friends/connections.  Use them, but don't abuse them (nobody likes a facehugger...or do they?) Remember, you are not alone in your feelings.

How else do you battle the post-PAX blues?

PAX Day 3 and Post-PAX Depression

The final day of PAX East is always a little sad, but for me it was even sadder this year because we couldn't get 3 day passes. Here's my final installment of PAX East 2012 Chirpstory.
(Here if you can't view it below)

I want to give a huge shout-out to all the folks I met at PAX East who let me interview them on camera, you guys all rock my world! The videos are in the works.
Major Thanks:
Cassandra
Elizabeth
Evan
Garrett
Handelabra Studio
Jeremy Handel
Laura
Lukewarm Media
Margaret
Michelle
Misty
Popcannibal
Rana McAnear
Ravelry
Sarah
Sarah the Enforcer
Simone
Steve
Susan Arendt
Thoseguys
Thunder Tech
And thanks to the countless people and cosplayers who let me take their pictures! PAX East was a blast! 

P.S You can now find me on Giant Bomb!
P.P.S Videos coming soon, I promise.

The Doom Cloud Returns ~UPDATED~



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It always does, doesn't it?  No warning. No polite knock at your door. Sometimes there's a trigger, ya know...sometimes life just kicks you in the balls and the doom cloud slowly creeps in. But most of the time, it's just a violent trip on the sidewalk of life and no one is waiting there when you fall. No one, except the cloud.  You get lost in it. In the haze. Trying to grasp at anything that might deaden the pain, the emptiness, the guilt.  You want to reach out for help, but you don't know where to start.  And even if you did, there's that ugly gravely voice that points at you and says, "Why bother? You're not worth helping."  That voice feels like it resides in the depths of your soul, and it points its loathsome judging finger up at you, pinning you down, reminding you of your worthlessness, your uselessness, your shame.

I say it's time we break that motherfucking finger.

We are worth helping. We have no reason to feel shame. Mental illness is not anyone's fault, and there is no reason the stigma surrounding it should still exist in modern times. Let's conquer the doom cloud, even if it is only one small step at a time.

If you understand anything I just said, please keep fighting, I know so well how hard it is, but the only way we win is if we keep fighting. We are not alone.

If you, or someone you care about needs help, I hope you'll direct them here.

Or here:

The Depression Blog 
Fighting the Darkness
National Alliance on Mental Illness

Psych Central

How to help

More How to help

National Institute for Mental Health

Silver Ribbon Coalition
iFred 
Don't ask Siri for help

Doom Cloud (Updated)

Do you have a doom cloud? You know, that sneaky demon seed in the back of your brain that starts as a small little voice telling you that the world is scary and awful and that you're stuck in a swirling drain of failure that you'll never emerge from. Then it grows and grows until it consumes your entire head and then your entire body in a torrent of dread and despair slowly weighing you down day after day until you feel like you'll suffocate under the pressure of it all. To top it all off the doom cloud rains on you a constant barrage of awful thoughts, feelings, and mental horror shows inside your brain until you feel like you want to pry open your own skull with a claw hammer just so you can dig the bad images and thoughts out of there, like cutting out a cancer.
The helpless hopeless feeling the doom cloud wraps you up in feels like cling wrap squeezing you tighter and tighter until you want to implode, then you can dissolve and melt away and flow carelessly down the swirling drain into the sterile darkness.
A Liminal Perspective illustrated it all quite well:
I want to get angry at the doom cloud. I want to cry about it. I want to want to scream and throw punches and smash breakable items with a baseball bat. But I don't. I can't. The doom cloud has sucked all my feelings away. I just feel blank. Blank and empty and irritable like I'm trying to function on not-enough-sleep. It's like a hangover without the booze. Crankiness and blinding fear swirl around in my brain, fed only by this fucking cloud and my new-found ability to not be able filter any outside audible stimuli. I can hear EVERYTHING! Finger nails scratching a scalp, 4 conversations in various areas of the office, the copier spitting out papers. I just want to sprawl out on the floor in a quiet room and just be there forever.

There are times, in my murkiest moments that I wonder if maybe being temporarily institutionalized would benefit me...Wow, it's really scary to actually see that written down. I've never said it out loud to anyone. But then I argue with myself that people who need to be institutionalized don't usually wonder if they should be institutionalized, right? Then my social anxiety kicks in and fills me with even more self-doubt when I realize that committing myself would require me actually going to a hospital and trying to convince them that I'm crazy enough to need one of their beds for several days. To explain how much that is not going to happen, I will explain this: I'm afraid of getting ill or hurt, not because I would be getting ill or hurt but because I'm afraid of all the ambulance/hospital people staring at me and judging me then rejecting me for not being hurt or ill enough to treat with top-notch care. Am I fucking neurotic or what?

The worst part is having to go to work like this. My office is the kind of corporate atmosphere where people will still come in even if they're barfing up a lung, so my calling in sick due to a bad mental health day would be scoffed at. Every time the phone rings at my desk, I have to take several deep breaths and force myself to answer it at all, yet alone be all perky and bubbly-like so that maybe the person on the other end will maybe choose to not yell at me or be unnecessarily douchey.

No. The worst part is feeling completely and utterly alone and not having anyone I can talk to who understands this feeling. I feel surrounded, yet alone. I know that I'm not alone, though, thanks to some brave peeps out there who understand and remind me that I am, in fact, NOT alone in my suffering. Thank you for your emotional bravery. Maybe one day I'll be brave enough to share this too.
Thank you to:
Allie Brosh, Jenny Lawson, Chris Hardwick, thanks for keeping me laughing.
At the end of the day, sometimes the cloud dissipates and I can see and feel and think clearly again.
P.S I promise I'm going to a psychiatrist next week.
To counter-act all that sad, here's a piggie:
Thank you Cuteoverload.com for my daily squeeeeeeeeeee!
UPDATE: 2/27/12-I am going to the psychiatrist this afternoon and I am flipping out!!! But, I promise I'm going to push through it and go to my appointment.
 Update: 2/27/12- Holy shit! I got anti-anxiety drugs! Weeeeeeeeee!

Update: 2/28/12- I went to the psychiatrist last night, she was very low-key and I felt comfortable with her, unfortunately, she doesn't do talk therapy, which is something I think I could benefit from and I know I need to start long-term therapy sooner rather than later, and she agreed that I would do well to seek out a therapist. She wrote me a script and I got it filled last night. On my way to work today after reading an article about malfunctioning elevators (probably not the best idea for someone with an elevator phobia) I started freaking out inside. I tried to comfort myself by reminding myself to breathe and that I had a little tablet to take in case. This just got me more anxious. I'd never taken an anti-anxiety before and the thought of starting another drug freaked me out even more. Oh irony, you cheeky bastard. I sucked it up, popped my clonazepam and climbed in the scary elevator of doom in my building. Shaking like a leaf and trying to breathe and not pass out, I survived the elevator ride up nine floors to my office. After a small emotional breakdown, I got settled at my desk, and that bad boy pill kicked the fuck in. I have never been so high in my entire life! Well, I've never been high at all, not counting the morphine drip I had when I was in the ICU 12 years ago after spinal surgery. I freaked out my poor co-worker a bit being high and very uncoordinated (more so than usual) for about 2 hours, and then I settled down and felt really sleepy for the rest of the day.

Update: 2/29/12-I'm not supposed to take my new meds every day since there is a dependency risk, but after yesterday I almost don't want to take it again, that was crazy! Crazy, and a little awesome. Good news: my anxiety appears to be under control today. Bad news: the doom cloud is taking its sweet-ass time dissipating.

Balls.