Bitches Be Cray

LOL. I'm bitches. If the title made you think I was going to throw a bunch of shade, and that excited you, I'm so very sorry.

I haven't been super open about my mental health issues in recent memory, in part because I'm currently a trauma therapist who spends her days helping other people with their mental health issues, especially trauma related issues. And maybe, at least in the context of my career choice, I get into this bullshit line of thinking that it makes me weak or a less skilled therapist, even though I actually fucking know better. If anything, maybe I should be more open about my experience as a mental health professional and someone who has mental health issues. It's actually not that uncommon for therapists to see therapists.


I'm diagnosed with Bipolar Type 2, PTSD (a product of being a rape survivor in my case), and Generalized Anxiety, for which I take prescription medication. I'm also a survivor of my own suicide attempt (June of 2010). I sometimes get referred to as "high functioning" because my symptoms are usually well managed, and I can generally do what I need to do in my life without obvious impairment, but I personally hate that term. The opposite of that would be "low functioning," which you can't say without sounding insulting. I also don't like the implied value judgments. If I can be productive, which is pretty over-valued in this capitalist society, what are "low functioning" people, like some of my clients, who are on government benefits and/or being supported of by people who love them? Useless fucking garbage? If that's how you see it, you're an ableist prick, but congratulations! You can unlearn that if you want to, and not be an ableist prick for life. Not all disabilities are visible, but they are all valid. I don't want to be your inspiration porn, and I don't want people with more obvious impairment to be further stigmatized because you think they're "lazy," "dangerous," or "faking it" to game the system. I am inherently no better than the person on disability because their struggles with schizophrenia make it impossible to hold down a job.



Recently, I decided to check myself into inpatient psychiatric care because my depression and anxiety were getting so bad and dragging on for so long, I was bordering on suicidal, and realized my drugs weren't working properly anymore. I guess I wasn't "high functioning" then, huh? The meds have since been readjusted. Fortunately, I have a pretty decent amount of sick time, and good insurance. As is pretty typical for most people, my stay was a few days. The idea is to get people out of crisis, stabilized on any medication, and ready to go back into the world and cope. Mostly it's boring, but there are therapy groups and doctors.


Fortunately, I have a pretty great support system with my partners, family, and friends. That isn't something everyone has. My partners always have my back, and came to visit every day. I also felt really loved, and I sort of forget I'm loved sometimes, by them and by the friends who sent me messages, texts, and snail mail. I actually decided to put things like that in a visible place. Maybe it'll help me remember.


Self care is also a must. That's a good idea if you don't have mental health issues too, but that much more crucial if you do. I have to make an effort to stay on top of that and not feel selfish for it. That looks different for different people, but can be anything that isn't harmful (Getting shitfaced isn't generally something to do as self care). For me, it's taking some time to myself, reading, gaming, gardening, sometimes writing. It can be anything you enjoy that helps you wind down.



Given all the stigma still surrounding mental illness, it's no wonder a lot of people don't talk about it, despite how common it actually is. Too many people still think those suffering from mental illness are violent, abusive, dangerous people. The reality is people suffering from these issues are far more likely to be on the receiving end of violence than be the ones committing violent acts. Everyone on the right AND the left loves to cry mental illness when some piece of shit goes on a shooting spree, but I rarely hear an actual, official diagnosis. The primary issue isn't "mental illness," and it isn't simply the existence of guns, either. The issue is toxic masculinity and who has easy access to guns. Maybe you've noticed the rarity of female shooters? Women aren't immune to mental illness, yet it almost never happens. Most of these men also tend to have known histories of misogyny, bigotry, and often domestic violence. Being a sexist, abusive pig isn't a mental illness in and of itself. It's a fucking character flaw. Domestic abusers shouldn't have easy access to guns. As a culture, we also need to stop raising our boys to bottle up their emotions until some of them inevitably pop, all because they're being told any expression of emotion other than anger is a sign of weakness.



This political climate certainly doesn't help matters, with me or anyone who sees it for what it is. To say having a shitty government directly causes mental illness on it's own would be a little ridiculous, but watching the world burn in this dumpster fire can certainly exacerbate any issues, and trauma can and does certainly happen in a climate where gun violence, racist violence, rampant hate speech, and climate change related catastrophes are on the rise. If seeing children in cages in the concentration camps at the border doesn't horrify you, you're probably a shitty person. If you personally have children of your own, and it still doesn't horrify you, my best guess is you're a psychopath, but I'm not here to diagnose my followers. Watching the aspiring dictator and his administration alienate us from the whole world (accept other dictators, who he seems extremely comfortable with) and anyone who doesn't look like their ideal version of America, fuck over LGBTQ+ people every chance they get, fuck over poor people every chance they get, strip environmental protections as though we have some sort of backup planet to go to, moving to criminalize protests, and constantly gaslighting the whole fucking country while he's at it, it's really no wonder anyone with the ability to empathize might be dealing with increased anxiety and depression right now. It affects me. It affects quite a few people I know. And it affects my clients.


As long as we collectively keep viewing people with mental illness as dangerous, faking it, or useless, it's going to continue to be difficult for people who need help to admit they need help, access that help, and be able to speak their full truths. In some ways, we have to "come out" if we want to speak our truths and be openly our full, authentic selves. It's not so different from coming out as queer or trans, and none of that should be so daunting in a supposedly modern, evolved society, where practically anyone can hop on the internet, spend a little while educating themselves about the experiences of people who are different from them, unlearn the biases they have, maybe even talk to someone they know who is comfortable educating (It's highly unlikely that you DON'T know anyone at all who suffers from a mental health issues, but if you have shitty, uninformed opinions about such things, they might not tell you about it), and stop contributing to the stigma surrounding mental illness and so many other natural variations that exist among humans.


With Love,
Brittany

Life After Death

I'm restarting this blog, unfortunately, on a somber note. My mother died on January 10, 2018 at age 63, which is also why it took me so long to write after the chat between Kayla and I was posted.

My mother and I had a complicated relationship throughout my younger years. I was a handful to say the least, and she had an occasional tendency to become verbally abusive at times, whether it was directed at me, my sister, or an inanimate object. Any number of things could set her off. Spilled drink, a little attitude, bad day, whatever. There are many ways to be verbally abusive, some subtle, some blatant. She has an issue with explosive anger, possibly partially resulting from her own unacknowledged mental health struggles. As wrong as it is to be screaming at children hysterically over the smallest offense, she was usually very caring and supportive. We managed to stay close regardless.

My anxiety began to show up at a young age. I remember being 9 or 10 years old, and pretending to be sick because I had intrusive thoughts (common enough with anxiety disorders) that something would happen to her if I left, as if I could somehow stop anything by being there at that age. Social anxiety also showed up pretty early on. I was never really afraid of family or people I knew well, but other people were, and still sometimes are, a source of anxiety. Whether any of this relates to that complex relationship with my mother (and father, but this isn't about him) is hard to say, but it's very much possible.

In my adult life, things improved drastically. She was always one of my biggest supporters. She didn't really mind how unconventional I was and am. She was fine with the whole visibly punk/goth thing I had going on for a while. When I told her I was trans, she accepted it with minimal struggle. My polyamorous relationship with Trisha and Michelle was just seen as another interesting thing about how I live life. My partners, daughters, and her got along very well. We'd all hang out, go to dinner, watch shows on Netflix. If I needed her support, she was there.

On December 31, 2017, I was with Bae 1, Bae 2 (what I sometimes call Trisha and Michelle, respectively) and my best friend Lindsey in Dallas celebrating my birthday week, when I received a text from my mom, who was in the hospital for seemingly mild issues at the time, saying she had liver cancer, having already survived breast cancer.

The first couple times I visited she seemed alright, but then she picked up pneumonia. After a few days of that, I got a call on January 6 from someone who was visiting and from her doctors saying she was moved to intensive care, to come as quickly as I could, and asking about her DNR (Do Not Resuscitate order). When I got there and met up with her boyfriend, she was conscious, but her vitals were all over the place, and she had a breathing mask on, helping her breathe, but not doing it for her. She was confused, had always been claustrophobic, and kept trying to take it off despite us telling her not to every few seconds. They finally put the mitten things on her hands so she couldn't grab the mask. That made it worse. This went on for several hours. She was panicking constantly, making her vitals even worse. I've never seen someone I care about suffer like that. Finally after about 7 hours in the hospital with her, she was on the right anxiety medication to be calm with fairly stable, though not ideal, vitals. That was the last time I saw her properly conscious. Knowing what was coming, I brought the tablet in to watch the one episode of Broadchurch we hadn't seen on January 9, even though I knew she couldn't perceive it, and I'm totally not usually that sentimental. That was her last night alive. The next day my sister made it into town. We decided to put her on comfort care, since she was obviously not going to wake up, and never wanted sustained life support (I don't want that either). All that means is they stopped the breathing machine and drips, and gave her morphine so she wouldn't be in pain. She died 15 minutes later, peacefully. Fortunately, it was nothing like January 6.

At the beginning of the time-frame above, there seemed to be some hope. Cancer appeared to be discovered early (turned out it was stage 4). She was lucid when I called and visited her. When they moved her to intensive care, they called, obviously thinking she was about to die. When, I went up there and met up with her boyfriend, she was so confused, and panicking non-stop for hours, I stayed until 2 or 3 hours after she became stable. It stuck with me. I had barely been eating anyway because I tend not to eat when stressed. I was also dehydrated, and began having panic attacks of my own anytime the phone rang, thinking it was her doctors. With no other history of hallucinations, I'd hear the phone ring even when it wasn't. All of those things resulted in me going to the hospital, thankfully only for about a day. My depression and anxiety are usually "high functioning," and I can usually remain super rational to the point of coming across as cold. When I can't, it's an event. Those icy layers break. My anxiety spikes. I get depressed and can't motivate myself enough to do anything. Those were the first panic attacks I've had in years.

It's still hard. Losing a close loved one is difficult, and losing a parent is even more difficult. Grief takes time, but it gradually gets better. Fortunately I have a great support system. My partners, daughters, friends, father, sister, and aunt (mother's older sister, who stayed at my house for a few days while she was here) helped a lot. My partners have been really affectionate, and everyone has been there for me when needed, and been willing to give me space when needed. My mom donated some of her body to science, which I sort of find comfort in. I'm all about science, also a donor, and maybe a little good can be done after death that way. I have an urn above the fireplace, along with another meant to go to my sister next time my dad goes to visit her in the southwest, and a box for my aunt to scatter up north. My mom's boyfriend, who has another dog of his own, also asked if I wanted her dog, Bo. I said yes. He's kind of goofy and entertaining. He joins 2 other dogs and 2 cats, but stands out because of his personality, and seems as happy being part of this family as the others. Maybe it's kind of a silver lining that I get to take over the love and care of this dog she loved so much.